There’s something about being a woman at mid-life that demands solitude, don't you think?

Time away from the demands of our responsibilities as mother, wife, daughter, sister, wage-earner, caretaker of all the beating hearts and things to be done.

Time to discover who we are and what we're all about underneath all of those things. What we want to let go of and shed as we move into our third chapters.

Time.

And space.

Virginia Woolfe referred to the necessity to have a ‘room of one’s own’ as a woman.

I have been lucky enough to make that happen with a small office in the village where I can work, paint, snooze, daydream, write, read and dance (yes, I do all of these things there) with no chance of anyone walking in on me.

But before I had my room, the garden became that space for me in January 2020 as the pandemic began to unfold. My little plastic greenhouse became my ‘room of one’s own’ – luckily I have teenagers who are by definition allergic to daylight and fresh air so I could spend time in quiet and contemplation as I sowed my seeds and did that thing where you mutter quietly to your baby seedlings.

That 'room' has, and continues to help me cope with my children’s difficulties in coming back out into life after lockdown. It has helped with my own diagnosis with autism and my journey through the rages of menopause. The death of my mum and the illness of my dad. My own existential crises.

There are many reasons why gardens call to the hearts of women - I hope to explore more of those stories this year.

For me, growing flowers has never been just about the seeds.