When Joy Feels Heavy: Letting Go Without Guilt

Spring has sprung in the Adirondacks!

There’s a rhythm I’ve followed for years. As the snow begins to melt and the sun stretches longer into the evening, I know it’s time.

Time to pull on my gloves and head out into the yard. Time to rake away the layers of winter. Time to touch the earth again and begin the quiet, meditative work of bringing my gardens back to life.

Since 2017, this has been more than a task - it’s been a calling. I’ve created multiple gardens that frame our home like a love letter to spring. I’ve transplanted trees from the woods to line the driveway, carved out flower beds with my own two hands, and filled them with color and intention. Every rock placed, every edge trimmed, every flower chosen with care. It wasn’t just gardening - it was art. Therapy. A way of being in the world.

I took joy in it. Real joy. The kind that comes from working hard at something you love.

But this year, as the snow melted and the familiar cues returned, something inside me felt different.

It was subtle at first. A hesitation. A pause. I’d glance out the window and notice the leaves that needed clearing, the beds waiting for their turn, and instead of my usual itch to get started, there was… silence, maybe even a sense of frustration.

I told myself it was just the weather. Or the long winter. Or the fact that I’d been working more, that my plate was full. But beneath all those excuses, I knew the truth: I didn’t want to do it.

And not because I didn’t care. But because I was tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

I walked around the house slowly one morning, as the sun warmed me up, scanning the gardens I had once built with such fire. I stopped beside the biggest birch tree, one of the first I planted here, and something in me softened. I didn’t have the same spark I used to. And it hurt to admit that to myself.

The guilt rolled in quickly. This is supposed to be what I love. This is my joy. My escape. My thing.

So why didn’t I want to do it?

I wrestled with it for days. Maybe longer. It felt almost like betrayal - to let go of something that had been such a part of me. But the truth wouldn’t stop whispering: you don’t have to carry it all this year.

And so I did something I’ve never done before. I called someone else. I asked for help.

Even as I made the call, I felt myself bracing for disappointment. I imagined walking outside and seeing the work done - not by me - and feeling like something was missing. That maybe the soul of it would be gone.

But when the work was finished, and I stepped outside to see the gardens cleaned, mulched, and edged, the emotion that rose in me wasn’t disappointment.

It was relief.

It was the feeling of being held. Of knowing something still got done beautifully, even if I didn’t do it all myself.

I walked the perimeter of the house, slowly, taking it in. And as I reached the front steps, I felt the lump rise in my throat. I hadn’t lost anything. I had gained something I hadn’t even realized I needed: space.

Space to breathe. Space to rest. Space to evolve.

Because sometimes joy isn’t in the doing. Sometimes, joy is in the letting go.

I didn’t stop being the woman who loves to garden. I didn’t give up on what I built. I simply made room for a different version of myself to exist this year - one who knows her limits and honors them. One who doesn’t measure her worth by how much she can take on. One who allows herself to be supported.

And maybe next year, I’ll be back out there, digging and planting and trimming with my whole heart.

But if not… that’s okay too.

Because the love I poured into this place doesn’t live in the doing. It lives in the being. In the roots. In the choice to create a life that is both beautiful and sustainable.

And in that moment, standing on the sunny porch, watching the birds move through the garden I didn’t have to do alone, I knew I hadn’t lost anything at all.

I had simply made room to grow in a new direction.

What are you carrying right now that might need to be released, reshaped, or reimagined?

Cheers! LeeAnne