For years I had coveted having an allotment. I pictured myself being practical and resourceful, growing vegetables and cycling home with them in my wicker basket. I imagined pickling produce like my grandmother had done and becoming outdoorsy and calm – not the hot mess I usually felt. An allotment, I believed, would make me a better person with a better life.
In London it felt impossible, but when I moved back to Shrewsbury during the pandemic, I finally got one. Newly diagnosed with ADHD, I became hyperfocused on my new hobby. But beneath the enthusiasm, I was struggling to keep on top of everything that needed to be done. I found it hard to motivate myself to do the mundane tasks, such as digging up weeds, and was frustrated by all the pests that ruined my efforts. Harvesting overwhelmed me: everything was ready at once and often went to waste.
The following year, I got pregnant and experienced bad morning sickness. The plot became even wilder than the year before: bindweed took over. Even though I was struggling, pregnancy only made the dream feel more important. I envisaged being an earth mother who wore her baby in a sling while picking vegetables for dinner.
Instead, the plot quickly turned into a source of stress. It got worse when the baby arrived and I was too tired to do much. Bringing her was sometimes lovely, but often she screamed to be held – and you can’t get much done holding a baby, sling or not. I felt frustrated. I saw other young families do it, so why couldn’t I cope? I trudged on, but a year into motherhood, I finally gave up my plot. After a warning from the allotment society telling me I needed to tidy it up or I’d lose it, I vowed to make a final push but soon admitted defeat and decided to bow out.
At first, I was heartbroken, but I realised I wasn’t upset about the plot – but about the fact that I wasn’t who I thought I was. Having an allotment was tied up with my identity. I’d wanted so badly to be a different kind of person – one of those serene wellness types I saw on Instagram, effortlessly cooking their homegrown veg in immaculate kitchens.
Losing the allotment meant letting go of that fantasy but it also meant I was released from the constant shame that came with not living up to it. In reality, I’m someone who can’t even keep houseplants alive and that’s OK. Allotments are an important part of a community, but we can’t all be Monty Don.
It felt so freeing to give up the idea that I had to be someone else to be a good mum and to finally be OK with who I really am. Since then I’ve been so much gentler with myself. I also have more time, more headspace and I no longer feel guilty for not using my spare time to be “productive”. I allow myself to sit on the sofa and enjoy a cuppa, and I’ve started reading fiction again. I’ve also spent more time in my much-neglected back garden, chasing my daughter around.
In a culture obsessed with overachieving and self-improvement, and which celebrates seemingly perfect mothers, I found self-acceptance in my messy life, my imperfect approach to parenthood – and the fact my fingers most certainly aren’t green.