🌙 The Garden Chair Chronicles

 Entry One: Why the Garden Feels Like the Only Place I Can Breathe

Some people journal.

Some people scream into a pillow.

Me? I sit in the garden at 2am like a sleep-deprived cryptid, chain-thinking into the wind.

Welcome to The Garden Chair Chronicles — a little late-night chaos, unpacked under the stars with a blanket that smells like fabric softener and a garden chair that now knows all my secrets.

This is where the loud thoughts go.

Sometimes they’re deep and healing.

Sometimes they’re mildly unhinged.

Sometimes I rewrite my whole life story with one breath and then forget it by morning because: ADHD.

Right now, I’m living with chronic pain.

And no, I don’t mean the "had a long day" kind — I mean the kind that wakes you up at night, steals your hobbies, and makes you second-guess whether you’re still you.

Spoiler: I am.

I'm still Zoe.

Still a mum. Still a wife. Still creative, messy, sweary, tired, loving, and full of way too many feelings and half-finished crochet projects.

I just come with mobility aids now. And prescription meds. And a resting face that says, “Don’t ask me to carry the laundry basket unless you want me to cry and throw hands.”

But I refuse to let this pain turn me into a ghost of myself.

I’m not fading. I’m evolving.

Slower, softer, maybe a bit more sarcastic — but still here.

I didn’t mean to turn this into a series, but honestly, I needed somewhere to put all the things that rattle around in my head at night. And if even one person reads this and goes “oh thank god, it’s not just me,” then that’s reason enough to keep writing.

🌙 So. Why the Garden?

It’s 1am.

The sky’s doing that weird blue-black fade, and the wind smells like moorland and damp grass and maybe one neighbour’s BBQ that’s still going.

And here I am.

Blanket-wrapped. Hair a mess. Pain in my back, legs, everything. But finally breathing. Not well, not deeply, but enough.

Inside the house? That’s where the noise lives.

The “did you reply to that email?”

The “what are we having for tea tomorrow?”

The mountain of laundry that might actually be sentient at this point.

Out here?

It’s just air. Space. Peace. No questions. No roles to play. No pretending I’m fine.

Sometimes I bring my crochet. Not to be productive — God no. I’ve abandoned more projects than I’ve finished this year. I just like the way the hook moves when my hands need something to do that isn’t doomscrolling or anxiety fidgeting.

Other times, like tonight, I just sit. Let the thoughts wander. Let the ache in my body be. Let the wind hold the things I can’t. And somehow, that’s when the clarity creeps in.

Not the dramatic “fix your life” kind.

Just small truths.

The kind you whisper to yourself when no one else is watching.

Like:

You don’t need to be “productive” to be valuable.

You don’t need to be okay to be you.

And maybe — just maybe — surviving the day is enough.

So here I am. 1am. Wrapped in a blanket like a sleepy garden witch, aching head to toe, but still me.

And no — I’m not okay right now.

But I’m going to be.

Not because everything is fine, but because I’m still showing up. I’m still here.

Still Zoe.

And that? That’s more than enough for tonight.

More nights will come. More thoughts. More unravellings.

You don’t have to catch them all.

Just meet me here when you can.

Until next time…