Welcome

Imagine waking up one morning, the familiar buzz of your alarm absent for the first time in decades, and feeling like the ground has shifted beneath you. The roles that once defined you—the long hours in a demanding job, the daily rhythm of family life, the sense of purpose from providing and achieving—suddenly vanish, leaving a quiet void that’s both freeing and frightening.

 

If you’re over 40 and navigating retirement, an empty nest, or the raw reinvention after a drastic change in life, you know this ache all too well. It’s okay to admit it feels disorienting, even scary. You have permission to pause, to grieve what was, without rushing to “fix” yourself. For us, retirement wasn’t a seamless sunset chapter; it was a season of unraveling. But in that unraveling, we found a gentle path back to ourselves through therapeutic garden design—a slow, anti-hustle practice that invited hope without demanding perfection. Let me share our story, vulnerabilities and all, in the hope it gives you permission to begin your own quiet rebuilding.
 

Our journey is woven through two decades of grueling work in Spokane's  garden and nursery business, followed by nearly twenty years as educators in remote Alaska. Frankie and I started in Spokane, where we continued a garden and landscape company that our family began decades ago. Those years were relentless: hauling heavy bags of soil, designing installations under tight deadlines, managing inventory through economic swings, and battling the Pacific Northwest’s unpredictable weather. It was physically demanding, emotionally taxing, and far from the romantic image of gardening. We poured everything into it, but eventually, the toll became unsustainable. We walked away from the business—a heartbreaking decision that felt like letting go of a piece of our identity—and went back to school to become certified teachers. That pivot was our way of seeking something more sustainable, a chance to nurture minds rather than just landscapes.
 

From there, we headed to Alaska, serving in isolated villages like Saint Michael, Wales, and Little Diomede. I started working as a high school language arts teacher (9th-12th) which expanded to include 6th-8th language arts, 6th- 8th social studies, and 9th-12th history). Frank began his new journey teaching 8th through 12th science, and immediately inherited the athletic director, and numerous tormenting coaching positions - all in culturally rich but challenging environments. Frankie advanced to principal, guiding entire schools through the unique hardships of education in a remote locations; Covid, with frozen pipes and no water; and the return of cultural traditions and practices (drumming, eskimo dancing, cultural awareness classes).

 

The work was profound, but the winters were brutal—months of darkness, isolation, and relentless cold that tested our spirits. Each year, we’d emerge from that long freeze and fly home to Spokane for the summers, where the garden became our sanctuary. Those precious two months were for rejuvenating, healing from the isolation we’d endured. I’d sink my hands into the soil, tending plots that burst with color after the Alaskan monochrome while Frankie tackled the seemingly impossible job of yard cleanup after 10 months of neglect. It wasn’t hustle; it was survival, a quiet permission to restore what the winters had worn away.
 

Even in Alaska’s classrooms, the seeds of therapeutic garden design took root. To combat the endless nights, I’d set up small pots on windowsills—simple, forgiving plants like pothos or snake plants that served as beacons of hope. They were reminders of the hopeful summers waiting back in Spokane, green lifelines in the gray. The kids loved them too; we’d talk about how a little care could make something thrive in the toughest conditions. Little did I know, those windowsill gardens were planting the foundation for my own healing. We still do them today—creative indoor setups that bring life to any space, no matter the season or location.
 

When retirement finally arrived, after all those years of teaching and leading, it felt like stepping off a cliff. I was in my 60s, Frankie a bit older, and our Spokane Valley home suddenly felt too still. No more coaching young minds through their breakthroughs, no principal duties to structure the day. The empty nest from earlier years echoed louder, and the cumulative exhaustion from Alaska’s demands caught up. I felt unmoored, questioning my identity: Who was I without the classroom, the business, or the relentless give-and-take of those roles? Frankie shared the vulnerability; we both grieved the structure we’d clung to, wondering if we’d ever feel purposeful again.
 

In that tender space, therapeutic garden design became my unexpected anchor—not the high-stakes landscaping of our Spokane business days, but a softer, more introspective approach. It deepened during those summer returns from Alaska, where the garden was my place to decompress and rebuild after months of isolation. I’d start small, almost apologetically, with pots on the porch or windowsill vignettes that mirrored the ones I’d created in Alaskan classrooms. No grand plans; just permission to play with soil and seeds. As our grandchildren grew, this practice evolved into something even more joyful and whimsical. We’d spend lazy afternoons building fairy gardens together—tiny enchanted worlds in old containers, with miniature doors hidden under ferns, twig bridges over pebble streams, and colorful yard art stakes painted with hopeful sayings like “Grow Through What You Go Through.” These weren’t elaborate projects; they were low-pressure, laughter-filled sessions that invited wonder. Watching the grandkids’ imaginations bloom reminded me of the magic in simple creation. Frankie would join, his steady hand helping shape their wild ideas into gentle realities. Those moments weren’t about productivity; they were about connection, healing the parts of me worn by years of grueling work and remote winters.
 

Through these experiences, I learned profound lessons that transformed my post-retirement identity. First, identity isn’t lost in transition; it’s waiting to be rediscovered in small, familiar acts. Those summer gardens in Spokane taught me to embrace rejuvenation without force—after Alaska’s isolation, the act of planting was a quiet reclaiming. You don’t have to reinvent yourself overnight; give yourself permission to start with what you know, like a windowsill pot that echoes hopeful seasons ahead. Second, vulnerability is the richest soil for growth. Admitting I felt adrift didn’t weaken me; it opened space for whimsy and play. Incorporating fairy gardens and art with the grandkids showed me that healing can be light-hearted, not heavy. It’s anti-hustle: no deadlines, just the joy of creating something magical from everyday bits. Third, consistency in small rituals builds resilience. My classroom windowsills in Alaska proved that even in darkness, a green reminder can sustain you. We still nurture indoor plants today—creative setups that bring serenity to any room, proving growth is possible anywhere, anytime.
 

Whether you’re in the thick of retirement’s uncertainty, staring at empty rooms once filled with children’s laughter, or piecing together a new life after divorce—these lessons apply in tender, practical ways. Start by acknowledging your struggle without judgment; you have permission to feel unmoored. Then, try therapeutic garden design as a low-stakes entry point. Begin with one forgiving plant on a windowsill—no yard required. Let it be your mirror: as it grows, so can you. Incorporate whimsy if it calls to you—perhaps a fairy garden corner that invites play, even if it’s just for yourself, or creative time with loved ones like grandkids to spark joy without hustle. Apply what I learned: embrace small acts like summer rejuvenation rituals, reflect vulnerably through journal prompts tied to your garden, and trust the slow unfold. In Spokane’s gardens, I’ve seen how a simple pot or enchanted stake can symbolize life’s flows, reminding you that healing isn’t a race. It’s hopeful, step-by-step renewal, rooting you in who you’re becoming.
 

If this resonates, I invite you to try it yourself with our free guide, “Your First Therapeutic Garden Space: A Beginner’s Guide for Those Navigating Life Transitions.” Frankie and I created it as a gentle companion, packed with easy rituals, plant picks, and prompts to start small. Download it at www.leah-frankie.com—no strings, just permission to begin. Let your identity bloom, one leaf at a time. 

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Te