Weeds

Living on 200 acres of Australian bushland is still a bit wild to me. I grew up in the Netherlands with a tiny garden. This is… not that.

This land has been through a lot in a short time. Taken, logged, cleared, farmed — animals and plants brought in that never should’ve been here. When we moved here five years ago, we started seeing what that looks like on the ground. We sometimes try to picture how it might have been when First Nations people cared for it, but honestly — we can’t.

It took a while to understand what our role was. What the land needed from us.

One thing was obvious: weeds. Years of them. Plants that don’t belong slowly taking over, pushing out native species.

So we started. Weeding. Nothing glamorous. Blackberry. Prickly pear. Fireweed. Fleabane. We just kept going, bit by bit.

A few years in, the change is unmistakable. Once the weeds were cleared native plants started returning in force. They didn’t need much from us — just space.

That’s the part that stuck with me.

Not the weeds themselves — the way they quietly take territory when no one’s watching.

In a life, it’s the same. Distraction. Avoidance. Keeping yourself occupied. Old patterns that start feeling normal — until you realise they’re in the way, shaping what you see, what you choose, and how you show up.

The work is noticing it early. And doing the small, unglamorous thing — again and again.

Make a little space, and something steadier emerges.
Not all at once. Just over time.

Updated; First published December 2025