Debbie Crouch on How "Nature and Creativity Led Me Home to Myself"

In a world that spins too quickly, I found myself yearning for something slower—something quieter. Not just the kind of silence that dulls the outside world, but the deep, steady stillness that soothes what stirs inside. I wasn’t chasing a grand fix. I was simply looking for a place to breathe. To feel. To remember who I was before everything became so noisy.

I found it in a garden.
And I found it through creativity.

There’s something timeless about the way my hands instinctively reach for color when words won’t come. There’s comfort in the way nature moves—unhurried, undemanding. As I spent time outside, I began to notice the small things: the shift of light through branches, the rhythm of birdsong, the gentle hush between breezes. Nature was holding space for me, patiently, all along.

"I remember arriving in the garden feeling lost," someone shared. She also said, "I didn’t know what I needed. But I picked up a pencil and drew a leaf—just a leaf. And in that moment, I felt present. I felt like I belonged."

That simple act was more than calming. It was transformative. Little by little, I began using creativity to check in with myself. A scribble became a release. A painted shape became a way to say, “This is where I am.” A page became a private landscape of truth.

I wasn’t trying to create anything big. I was just being honest—with myself, and eventually with others. But when I started to share, something surprising happened. Others nodded and said, “I feel that way too.” And suddenly, I wasn’t alone.

I began gathering with others—sometimes with pens, sometimes with paint, sometimes with just silence and soil. None of us came to be fixed. We came to feel. To express. To rest. I let the garden guide me. I let art speak when words were too much.

“You don’t have to be good at it,” someone else said. “You just have to be willing. Let the paper hold what you can’t say. Let the wind carry it. Let yourself soften.”

I journaled in the sunlight. I sketched under trees. I made marks that meant something—grief, joy, questions, healing. And slowly, I began to open up, like a blossom in spring.

And through it all, I began to understand something important:
Nature never demands perfection.
It welcomes the wild, the weathered, the unfinished.
And through creativity, I learned to welcome myself in the same way.

"The garden reminded me that I didn’t need to bloom all the time. It taught me how to rest. How to root," another person shared. 

These gentle discoveries are what I carry with me. Whether I’m cutting out scraps for collage or breathing beside a tree, it all comes from this tender place of learning how to be with myself. Of remembering that falling apart isn’t the end—it’s sometimes how the light gets in.

I share this not because I have all the answers. But because I’ve learned how powerful it can be to slow down. To look around. To create—not for approval, but for connection. With the earth. With others. And most importantly, with my own heart.

Maybe that’s how I begin to come home—
Leaf by leaf, line by line.
Softly, patiently, with grace.