When Nature Speaks
How do we find calm when life feels overwhelming? These past few weeks have held some big, heavy feelings, and as a therapist, I need ways to release them gently, so I have the capacity to hold what needs to be held.
Nature has always been my grounding place. It lets me breathe again. It speaks in a language I don’t always have words for.
This week, in a moment when I needed it most, I found myself at the Auckland Winter Gardens. I haven’t been there for years, but something in me knew to go. As I wandered through the paths, I was met with textures, colours, and aromas that felt like a candy shop for my senses. I watched others experiencing the same quiet wonder - each of us pausing, softening, noticing.
As I slowed myself enough to really look, the smallest details began to reveal themselves differently - not just as plants, but as quiet reflections of feeling, each one holding a story my body recognised before my mind did.
Defence & Protection
The prickly cacti felt defensive, angry, perhaps protecting a soul that has been hurt or betrayed. Its armour keeping everything at a distance. Some cacti stretched long, reaching out; others stayed compact and contained. Some covered in fine prickles, others in thick, unforgiving spikes. Each one expressing a different kind of protection.
The rough, woody base of a palm wrapped protectively around new growth, reminding me that some of us have had to survive in harsher conditions, where the world feels less safe.
An aggressive decarya stood nearby - complex, sharp angles, thorns, don’t come near. A presence shaped by storms, boundaries grown from necessity.
Calm & Restoration
The lily pads floated gently on the surface of the pond - still, silent, bathing in the sun, absorbing moisture from below. Relaxed. Open. Calm. A reminder of what it feels like when the nervous system finally settles.
Overwhelm, Exhaustion & Stress
And there, juxtaposed against the calmness of the lily pad, a plant submerged beneath the surface - drowning, tired, reaching for light it couldn’t quite touch. Overwhelmed by life, still trying to survive, but with so little energy left.
Tangled branches wrapped tightly around trellis - complex, strangulating, suffocating, tight, intense, with no release. A visual echo of those moments when life feels constricted, when pressures close in from all directions.
A hoya plant curled its leaves tightly inward - anxious, unsure, tight, retreating. A reminder of how our bodies sometimes respond when the world feels too loud or too much.
Cycles, Awakening & Becoming
A fern hanging, each frond like a small step, a ladder into the unknown. An invitation forward - gentle, steady, patient - reminding me that growth often happens one tiny leaf at a time.
The unfurling kiokio fern, its leaves slightly resistant, unsure, awakening. New life emerging slowly, cautiously.
A rex begonia with silvery leaves spiraling outward, a quiet metaphor for the cyclical nature of life. Growing, expanding, returning. A reminder that we are always in motion, even when it feels like we’re looping back to places we’ve already been.
Fragility & Vulnerability
Violet leaves, so detailed and intricate, delicate in a way that made me think of human skin up close - fragile, textured, deserving of care.
A maidenhair fern with tiny leaves held by fine, delicate stems responded to even the slightest shift in wind - reactive, sensitive, moving instinctively with its surroundings. A reminder of how some of us feel everything, even the smallest change.
The delicate flowers of the fairy primrose danced lightly, unaware of their surrounds - white, unstained, innocent. A softness untouched by the world’s noise.
Joy & Spontaneous Fun
Calathea leaves shimmered with water sliding down their surface like a tiny waterslide - playful, adventurous, full of movement and delight.
The croton plant, vibrant and full of colour, invited spontaneous creativity and joy. A reminder that even in hard weeks, bursts of brightness still exist.
The pavonia multiflora bursting with celebration - like fireworks brightening a dark sky, bringing joy, wonder, marvel, and magic.
Comfort, Warmth & Love
Clusters of fluffy lavender‑coloured flowers adorned the ageratum - gentle, soft to touch, a gentle place to land.
A brown spiderwort caught my eye through my lens, tiny purple hairs adorning its deep green leaves. Like a velvety fur blanket - cosy warmth, a warm hug.
The sweet scent of daphne drifted toward me - a flower close to my heart. My grandfather used to give it to my grandmother, a small gesture of love he offered often and quietly. Grounding. Reassuring. Loving. Gentle. Connection.
Temptation & Caution
The angel’s trumpet hung like a beautiful gown, dancing and twirling. Inviting yet highly poisonous. Temptation in floral form - beauty and danger intertwined.
Support & Interdependence
A rhipsalis adorned the sky like a magical curtain, beckoning me inward. Tiny flowers dotted carefully throughout. As I learnt more about this intriguing delight, I discovered it grows on other plants - not parasitic, but companioning. A reminder that some of us crave independence, and others simply need a little extra support to thrive.
The pink amaranthus draped softly, like something you could hold in your hands when you need grounding - and let go of again when you’re ready. Fluffy, nurturing, comforting. A gentle companion for a moment and then released.
Another calathea variety, patterned like a pixel grid, felt like the embodiment of routine and structure - the quiet reassurance of order when life feels chaotic.
I looked down and saw a ground cover of many plants, interacting, existing, helping, together. Community in its truest form - each plant offering something to the next, weaving a living tapestry of support.
Closing Reflection
Nature has a way of speaking to us in moments when words fall short. It mirrors our tenderness, our overwhelm, our boundaries, our longing, our exhaustion, our hope. It invites us to slow down, to notice, to breathe. It reminds us that every emotion has a place, every season has a rhythm, and every one of us - like every plant - is shaped by what we’ve lived through.
In the gardens, I found a quiet kind of companionship. A reminder that even in overwhelming weeks, there are places where we can soften, where we can be held, where we can return to ourselves gently.
And sometimes, that is enough.
x Rebecca Iona
Registered Clinical Creative Arts Therapist
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