By Alison
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”
– Rumi
Healing in a Garden of Pain
This summer marked a new chapter—one I didn’t choose but had no choice but to face.
I had just finished renovating the interior of our house in Ohio. Moved all of our possessions from North Carolina and sold that home. It was the last thing tying me to that chapter of my life—at least for now. While living there, I always dreamed of having a garden. I imagined picking vegetables, bringing them straight into the kitchen, and cooking a delicious, fresh meal—true farm-to-table style.
When I had children, that desire grew even stronger. I wanted to teach them how to tend a garden: how to water it, pick from it, and eventually cook with what we grew together. Part of me hoped that, by involving them early, they might develop a love for vegetables much sooner than I did. There’s something incredibly grounding about getting your hands dirty—pulling weeds, laying mulch, landscaping. Nature has always had a calming effect on me. It’s my therapy.
So that first summer in the house, I was determined to build raised garden beds in the backyard. I had the design, the size, and the perfect placement all planned out. I was practically planning this all winter long including when to plant my vegetables and which vegetables could co-exist. I even envisioned an herb garden right outside the kitchen—fresh rosemary, thyme, basil—just a few steps away from my cutting board. I was ready. Or at least, I thought I was.
Grief, Blood, and Dirt
But what happened during the construction was something I could never have prepared for. The beds were large—two were 8ft by 4ft, and one was 6ft by 3ft, made from alloy steel. I’m 5'6", and honestly, they had the advantage. I was building them by the garage and carrying half of each bed at a time to their final spot. While hauling one side, I somehow swiped the back of my right ankle. Even now, I get a sick feeling remembering it. Blood immediately gushed from the wound.
I didn’t have my phone on me—I left it inside because it was a hot day, and I didn’t want it to overheat. When I tried to stand up, I fell back down. So, I crawled, inch by inch, into the house to grab my phone and call 911.
When the paramedics arrived, I was lying on the floor with my leg elevated and loosely wrapped. The bleeding had slowed down by then, but one of them said, “We just followed the trail of blood.” My driveway and the garage looked like something out of a horror movie with a trail of blood leading into my house.
I spent two nights in the hospital and had immediate surgery to reattach my Achilles tendon. Several pins were put in place. Strangely, I felt no pain through any of it. The paramedics told me it was likely because I had sliced through the tendon completely. But part of me wonders if it was the medications I was already on—the ones that were meant to numb a different kind of pain.
In the Stillness
What struck me hardest wasn’t the injury itself—it was that this was the first time I had ever stayed in a hospital without my husband. And with that realization came a painful truth: there would be many more “firsts” without him. Many moments I would have to hold myself up because he no longer could.
Recovery was long and hard. Four months total. Three of them non-weight-bearing. Then came months of physical therapy. But during those early weeks, I experienced something I hadn’t in over a year since he died—I was still. Awake. Alone. Quiet. I finally had space to reflect and breathe.
My children were still very young—just 4, 3, and 19 months. Thankfully, I still had daycare during the day, but at night, they were with me. Navigating single parenting while immobile was incredibly difficult—baths, feeding, stairs—but my children showed me so much patience. I was determined to do it myself. Not because I had to, but because I wanted them to know I would be there, even when it felt impossible.
Trying to Hold On
There was one moment I’ll never forget. I had been trying to use crutches. I’m coordinated… but not that coordinated. I slipped and fell backward in the bathroom, hitting my head hard on the ceramic floor. I just lay there and cried. I wasn’t just crying about the fall—I was crying about everything that had happened. Everything that had been taken from me.
I remember yelling, “What the hell did I do wrong to deserve this?” I couldn’t understand how life had turned out this way – husband dies from suicide, trying to raise three remarkable children, and now this, slicing my Achilles tendon. I had lived morally. I had followed what I believed to be my purpose. I trusted God and always held on to faith. So why this?
Raising Beds and Raising Myself
I still don’t have all the answers. But that summer taught me something important: healing isn’t linear, and strength doesn’t always look like standing tall. Sometimes, it’s crawling across the floor. Sometimes, it’s making it up and down the stairs when you’re not sure you can. Sometimes, it’s simply breathing. It’s crying on a bathroom floor, screaming at the sky, and still waking up the next day to keep going.
I’m still learning how to live without him. Still learning how to be both mother and father. Still learning how to pick up the pieces of a life I never imagined would break the way it did. But I’m here. Still building my garden. Still dreaming. Still believing that something beautiful can grow from even the deepest pain.
This is my third growing season. And I’ve learned so much—about myself, about resilience, and about my faith. Sometimes, life forces us to slow down so we can truly pause, rest, and reflect. To come to peace with the path we’re on. Every path holds a lesson. But you have to be willing to sit with it, to listen, and to learn.
Add comment
Comments