🌕 Chapter One: The Garden Fell on Me (And I Kept Going)

How Moonlight & Muckboots Took Root

I wasn’t planning on disappearing. But then summer hit like a brick — and not just the heat. A tree fell, right into the middle of my main garden. My carefully planned chaos collapsed into actual chaos.

I wish I could say I handled it gracefully. That I regrouped, replanted, and found deeper meaning in the mulch. But no. I shut down, walked away, and tried really hard to not feel like a failure.

I was lost in a sea of self-despair — floating somewhere between exhaustion and self-sabotage. Every time I thought about getting back into the garden, that little voice would whisper, “Why bother?”

The things that once grounded me suddenly felt heavy. The garden, the camera, the plans — all of it sat there waiting, and I couldn’t bring myself to pick any of it up. It’s strange how something you love can turn into a reminder of everything you think you’ve failed at.

I felt like the weeds were physically engulfing me — like I was being slowly swallowed up by all the things I hadn’t done, hadn’t fixed, hadn’t figured out. I couldn’t breathe, but on the outside? I was all smiles. Big hopes. Bigger dreams.

Sunrise and Sunset in the gardens

Meanwhile, I was wilting just like my garden. The heatwave scorched everything — including my motivation. And when that tree came down on the one space I had poured my whole heart into, it felt like confirmation: You failed. You can’t keep this going.

So I did what any emotionally exhausted, over-fried gardener would do — I sulked. I procrastinated. I told myself I was “resting,” but really I was hiding. I spent hours watching Jasko and Exploring with Angelo on YouTube, wandering through haunted forests by proxy — dreaming of being out in nature again, but too scared to actually go.

In my head, I had convinced myself that if I even touched the garden, the universe would implode. I know… dramatic. But that’s where I was — stuck somewhere between wanting to disappear and wanting to start over.

Eventually, survival instincts took over — because wilting or not, bills still show up. I started chasing contract work again, slipping back into the world of tech I had once run from.

I’ve got the skills. I can break down complex systems, solve the puzzles, fix the messes — and for a while, it was a relief. Something I could control. Something that didn’t depend on weather, weeds, or falling trees.

But the corporate girly life? That was never meant for me. I don’t want fluorescent lights and performance reviews. I want a space I can breathe in. One I choose. Not one that was chosen for me — or one I was forced into because the world says that’s where “success” lives.

I like tech. I’m even good at it. But there comes a point where all the pixels start to blur, and the only answer is to go outside and touch grass. Real grass. With dirt. And bugs. And whatever plant decided to show up uninvited but still refused to leave.

The turning point wasn’t magical. There was no divine sign, no glittering fairy dust descending from the clouds, no motivational lightning bolt. Just a heavy realization, sitting in my chest like wet soil:

I can self-sabotage anywhere.

Even in tech — the one space I know like the back of my hand — I started to feel like a failure. And that’s when it hit me: it’s not the job. It’s not the garden. It’s not the weather.

It’s me. I’m the common denominator.

I was standing in my own way, stuck in my head, waiting for something to change without me having to move. But the truth is… I may not want to do the things — the writing, the gardening, the creating — but the things still need to be done.

So I started moving. Not gracefully. Not consistently. But honestly.

And that’s what this is — a new beginning, rooted in nothing fancy. Just the simple, stubborn act of trying again.

If you’re here, reading this, maybe you’ve felt it too — the burnout, the doubt, the wondering if it’s all too much.

I don’t have a perfect plan. I don’t even know what the next season looks like. But I do know this:

Life doesn’t stop just because we’re tired. And healing doesn’t wait for us to feel ready.

So here I am — one foot in the muck, one eye on the moon — trying again. Planting the story. Watering the roots.

And maybe, just maybe… something beautiful will grow.