A personal story of heart health, slowing down, and growing peace
I never expected that a quiet family vacation in Vermont would become a turning point in my understanding of health—both physical and emotional. We had planned the trip as a reset, a chance to reconnect with nature and each other. Vermont has always felt like a place where the world slows down a little: winding roads, crisp air, and mountains that seem to exhale for you when you forget to breathe. But on that trip, in the middle of what should have been a low-key birthday celebration dinner, my life took an unexpected turn.
It started with a wave of dizziness—nothing alarming at first, just a faint lightness in my head. I brushed it off, assuming I hadn’t eaten enough or was in need of more water. As we began to leave the restaurant the room started to spin, the noise levels from various conversations were fading in and out of my consciousness. I asked my husband to help me walk out because I wasn’t sure if I could make it to the door. I vaguely remember taking a step outside, within moments I fainted.
According to my family my lips were blue and my face turned grey. Staff and guests reacted instantly, their worry unmistakable. They called the ambulance and I was taken to the nearest emergency room, a small, calm hospital tucked between rolling hills and quiet roads. The ER team took my symptoms seriously, running tests, monitoring my heart rhythm, asking about my medical history. They reassured me that I was stable enough to leave once the results came in, but they encouraged me—gently yet firmly—to follow up with a cardiologist when I returned home. Their tone told me more than their words did: something wasn’t adding up.
Back home, I kept replaying that moment in Vermont: the sudden dizziness, the fainting, the fear in my family’s faces. I made the appointments. I did the tests. And then during an appointment—a follow-up that shifted everything. My cardiologist explained that I had a bicuspid aortic valve, meaning the valve that controls blood flow from my heart to the rest of my body has two leaflets instead of the standard three. It was congenital, something I had been born with but never knew about.
Suddenly, all the subtle signs I had dismissed began to click into place: the fatigue I chalked up to stress, the occasional shortness of breath during tasks that shouldn’t have winded me, the lightheadedness I always ignored. Even the emotional heaviness—those moments when my body felt “off” and I couldn’t quite explain why—now made sense.
The diagnosis forced me into a new relationship with my health. I realized how easy it is to overlook what our bodies try to tell us. We push through tiredness. We minimize symptoms. We assume we’re fine because we’re busy, or stressed, or “just getting older.” But fainting outside of that restaurant in Vermont was my wake-up call. It taught me that health isn’t something we can take for granted—not our physical health, and certainly not our mental health.
Daily life changed, slowly but noticeably. I learned the do’s and don’ts of living with a heart condition: do listen closely to your body; do keep up with regular cardiology appointments; do honor your energy levels; do move your body gently and intentionally. And also, don’t push through fatigue; don’t ignore dizziness or chest sensations; don’t minimize the importance of rest.
But the part I didn’t expect was how intertwined my physical and mental health would become. Receiving a diagnosis—any diagnosis—comes with an emotional weight that doesn’t show up on test results. There’s fear, uncertainty, frustration, and even grief for the sense of invincibility you once had. I needed a place to process all of that.
That place became my greenhouse.
It wasn’t something I planned. One late afternoon, after a long appointment with more tests and more instructions, I wandered into the greenhouse looking for quiet. The moment I stepped inside, I felt my breath shift—the kind of slow, deep exhale you don’t realize you’ve been holding back. The air was warm, earthy, grounding. The soft smell of soil, the gentle rustling of leaves, the filtered light through the glass… it all felt like an invitation to pause.
What I didn’t know then—but understand now—is that gardening has a direct effect on the nervous system. The act of placing your hands in soil, of touching plants, of kneeling on the earth, activates the parasympathetic nervous system—the part responsible for calming your body, lowering your heart rate, and soothing your mind. Soil even contains a natural bacteria, Mycobacterium vaccae, known to stimulate serotonin production. In simpler terms: the earth itself can help lift your mood.
Gardening became more than a hobby. It became therapy.
Every morning, I’d walk into the greenhouse before the world had a chance to rush me. My heart felt steadier there, as if the plants knew how to hold space for me. Watering seedlings became a ritual of gentleness. Planting new growth reminded me that healing isn’t instantaneous—it’s slow, nurturing work. Watching something sprout from the soil taught me patience. And tending to each leaf and stem taught me presence.
When anxiety crept in—questions about the future, about my heart, about what might change next—I found that working with plants softened those fears. Pulling weeds mirrored removing negative thoughts. Repotting plants mirrored giving myself room to grow. Even the repetitive movements—digging, watering, pruning—quieted the mental noise that often came with medical uncertainty.
The greenhouse also taught me balance. There were days I wanted to push myself physically, to prove that I was still strong. But gardening reminded me that everything has a season. Plants don’t bloom year-round, and neither do we. Rest is as essential as growth. Stillness is as important as movement.
And perhaps most profoundly, gardening taught me to check in with myself—to ask how my body feels today, how my heart feels, how my mind feels. That kind of self-awareness is something we often overlook, especially when life gets busy or overwhelming. But keeping up with your health means more than completing the physical checkups. It means acknowledging your emotional landscape too.
If this journey has taught me anything, it’s the importance of listening—to your symptoms, to your intuition, to your body’s quiet requests for rest. If you ever notice changes in your breathing, unexplained fatigue, dizziness, chest flutters, or a fainting spell like mine, don’t wait. Seek help. There is strength in taking care of yourself.
And if you find yourself emotionally overwhelmed, consider stepping into nature. Touch the soil. Plant something small. Let your nervous system settle in the presence of green, growing things. Let yourself slow down long enough to truly breathe.
Healing—like gardening—is a practice of patience, attention, and love. And both are worth tending every single day.