**Scene 1** Bobette With a Pickaxe at Dusk

I was standing there, watching my comadre, Liliana, swing a pickaxe at the ground like it owed her money. “Lil, you don’t play,” I said, half in awe. She didn’t even look up.

“Yeah, well, it’s man work, but we gotta do it.”

That moment has been lodged in my mind ever since. Because that’s exactly what it feels like being a woman who gardens, landscapes, and maintains her own yard in the South. There’s the work, and then there’s the commentary. The assumptions. The surprise.

Apparently, a woman like me isn’t supposed to do this kind of work. But here I am, sweaty, sun-kissed, covered in soil and choosing to do it anyway.

Hailing from Roatán, Honduras, Liliana’s got that get-it-done Caribbean spirit. One time I went to her house and she was casually building a full bar made of wood in her garage. That’s when I started referring to her, affectionately, as Bobette the Builder.

She had come down from New York last fall for a quick visit, it was her first time at The Safe House. She and my goddaughter stayed the weekend, and I figured we’d do a little yard work: plant some seeds, clear a few weeds, maybe mulch a bed or two. But once Liliana got going, the plans expanded. We realigned trees, cleared brush, and by dusk, we were planting palms in the front yard. The ground was stubborn; dry, sandy, compacted. But she was more stubborn. That soil was no match for her and that pickaxe.

When she said, “It’s man work, but we gotta do it,” in her thick Honduran accent, it wasn’t just a throwaway line. It was a reminder that women–especially the Black and Caribbean women I’ve admired and been raised by my whole life–have always done what needs to be done. With or without fanfare.

**Scene 2** No Match For the Garbageman

It was mid-July, endless Florida summer heat in 2023. I’d started working on my front yard garden patch and hauled hundreds of pounds of sod I removed the day before. No help from a forklift or any professional landscaping apparatus. Just me, a manual sod-kicker cutter, a wheelbarrow, and a mission.

The next morning, the garbage man came out of the truck to grab the sod-filled trash bags. I saw him from my window and ran out to apologize in advance for any strain it might cause.

“I know you didn’t move all this by yourself! Your old man got you out here doing that??” I laughed.

“My old man? I am the old man.”

He chuckled and said, “Next time call me and I’ll come do this for you.”

Then he drove off. And I stood there, arms crossed, questioning if I’d just dug myself further into some Strong Independent Woman archetype or if I was simply doing what needed to be done. Either way, the trash was out and the beginnings of my front yard bed looked good.

**Scene 3** The Drive-By Husband Inquirer

I was harvesting cassava in the side yard, minding my business, when a beat-up 4x4 slowed down on the corner. I was prepared to just ignore what I was sure would be a catcall.

“You don’t look like you know what you’re doing there. Where yo’ husband at?” he asked, half-hanging out the window and leering with a hint of genuine perplexity.

I gestured with a loose wave and smiled and continued to do my work. Until he said something else that caused me to say, “Excuse me??”

“A woman like you ain’t got no business messing in the dirt. Go on back inside now Miss Lady.”

I didn’t answer. It took everything in me to not be mouthy back to him, I decided it wasn’t worth the vibe kill. I just let him have his solo conversation while I proceeded to cut the cassava stalk with my cutlass and pull up a root with one hand, eyeing it like a trophy. At which point, he drove off, back into whatever century he came from.

I’m still getting used to gardening and landscaping in public. It exposes me… draws curiosity. Oftentimes, I receive it as awe with a hint of judgment.

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**Scene 4** The Budding Gardener Next Door

He’s a cool guy. We’re the same age and among the few people in our neighborhood that aren’t either in retirement or on their second or third kid. He loves gardening but says his dad won’t let him plant in their backyard. “When I get my own place, I’m tryna get on your level,” he tells me.

He’s always offering to help. “If you ever need a hand, just let me know.”

And yet, I never took him up on it. (At least not until very recently… more on that next time). Not because I don’t trust him. Not because I don’t need help. But because I’ve grown comfortable in solitude and self-sufficiency. And if I’m being really honest, I lowkey pride myself in being the mystery woman on the corner lot.

Which is its own story that I’ll have to tell you next time…

Somewhere in all this is a future letter I’ve been writing to my Dad. The man who first taught me how to do “man work” without ever calling it that. The one whose doting approval and pride in what I have accomplished at The Safe House was the most important validation I sought in my life so far. That letter is still forming, but I think he’ll feel it between the lines here.

This edition of Garden Gossip isn’t about martyrdom, proving something to men or rejecting help. It’s about looking back at these little moments and interactions that have solidified my view of myself and the work that I’m doing as truly divine. It’s about claiming every inch of this land as mine by leaving my mark in the most natural way possible. Whether in door knocker earrings or overalls—or, on the right day, both. The beauty is in the duality. The divinity is in the doing and I’ve never felt more like myself than I have in this state.

Tea in the Garden:

What to Wear While Gardening

Wear whatever you want!!...

Disclaimer: I’m honestly not in position to give advice here because I go against the grain when it comes to garden attire. I should probably take more precautions when I’m braving the raw and rural South Florida landscape…

Please, do take precaution against hidden and unassuming predators in the garden. Here’s some advice I struggle to follow:

• Wear elbow length gloves to protect yourself against sharp or poisonous foliage. It only took a year of harvesting lemongrass, once with my bare hands and other times with regular gloves to realize even the slightest contact caused my skin to itch.

• Avoid going barefoot in the garden and if you’re going to wear open shoes like Crocs or slides, wear socks. I’ve discovered entire fire ant infestations in my yard just by walking on unassuming little sand hills. Save yourself the uncomfortable week-long ant bite itch and wear practical shoes, my dears.

• Wear sunscreen of course (and reapply!). For those extra long days in the garden, consider wearing light long sleeves or covering your arms with a UV glove. My preference is an oversized men’s button up shirt thrifted from the local Goodwill.

If it’s your garden, then you get to choose the uniform—make it enjoyable!

— with love,

Jess

Hello Friend,

I have been trying to find the words to summarize the first half of this year. But it’s been difficult to put into the eloquent words I’m used to writing in this newsletter. Instead, I chose to press record and let my thoughts flow. I love a good voice note, I have a group of friends who share a mutual love for them and our group chat is often filled with series of voice notes telling stories, breaking down our thoughts and reacting to what we’re hearing. So here it goes… give a listen to my late-night audio note from the lanai, above.

The Highlights:

• Garden Update: My vision for Draft Two of the garden is still coming together after the freeze altered its state. I’ve taken a step back, allowing the plants to regenerate themselves.

• Personal Updates: Leading the full life that I do is a balancing act. But I’m doing a good job of managing work, celebrating friends and family, maintaining a home, and appeasing my inner child.

• Creative Breakthroughs: Jess, The World Builder has re-entered the chat and she’s building and creating on another level!

  • I vibe-coded a web app. I recently joined Willa— a community for women learning AI skills— and learned how to vibe-code a website in an hour. I ended up creating something that truly blew my mind and had the pleasure of being featured in the collective’s magazine. Check it out here.

  • The Safe House app is an interactive, digital wing of my physical space. My favorite feature is the virtual garden, where you can explore the different zones and plants I’ve nurtured over time. It’s still in the very early stages (I made this last week!) so there will be more to come.

  • I’m also launching a zine. Garden Gossip, that fun mini newsletter I started sharing last year, is now getting a mini-magazine treatment and I’m so excited to release it this month. It’s been a long time coming but I think you’ll love it, stay tuned.

Much love,

Jess

Did you miss me? Because I’ve definitely been missing you.

I haven’t been publishing much, and honestly, I haven’t been home much either. I’ve been traveling back and forth to New York, living a life in transit. But something happened recently that forced me to break the silence.

If you are in the US, you know about the ridiculous Arctic blast that swept through the country. Down here at The Safe House in South Florida, we experienced something rare and disastrous: a deep freeze.

For context, a deep freeze down here is like snow in the Caribbean. It’s not normal. But the temperatures dropped below 25 degrees Farenheit, the wind howled, and the “real feel” plummeted to single digits. You even might’ve heard about the iguanas falling out of trees in Miami? It was that kind of cold. And unfortunately, my garden took the hit.

The Damage Report

I’m not going to lie to you—a part of me feels guilty. In all my transient, zipping around, my garden suffered from neglect. There were times when my Mom or my family and friends that came to visit me were the only reasons anything was getting watered or weeded the past year.

So when I came back home to this deep freeze, it too me a few days to mentally prepare myself to assess the garden. It was a disaster.

• The Mango Trees: They were just starting to fruit, and now they are set back entirely. I doubt I’ll get fruit this year.

• The Coconut Trees: Went into deep shock and nearly started a fire they were so dry this week.

• The Moringa, Soursop, Avocado Trees: Scrawny, struggling, and very confused about where they are right now.

• The Traveller’s Palms: My babies. The ones I grew from seed and fought the Sandhill Cranes for? They are also in shock, their leaves brown and battered.

• The Clusias: My brand new hedge that I had installed this same time last year ($$$), completely dried up. But they are likely to come back vigorously if the temps stay warm.

Only the Lychee tree and the Gardenias seem to be holding on, perhaps used to a little adversity. But looking around, it felt like the garden had completely died. You can see for yourself in the pictures.

In the midst of all this, I realized something a little painful.

For the last year, I spent so much time apologizing for my garden. I would look at its wild, overgrowths and say, “I know this looks crazy right now,” or “I know the neighbors probably can’t stand this.” I was so focused on what I wanted to “fix” or “spruce up” that I failed to honor what was right in front of me.

It was wild. But it was also green. It was lush. It was alive.

I remember one of my favorite plant lovers on IG, @BloomandPlume once saying, “Don’t talk ish on my garden. My garden is beautiful, it is exactly how I want it.” I would repeat that often when I felt myself talking down on my intentional little jungle. I spent so much time waiting for it to be “perfect” that I didn’t take the photoshoots I wanted to take. I didn’t always capture the stills. I didn’t build the vision I had in my head because I was waiting for a future version of the garden that—thanks to this freeze—will never exist. At least, not in the way I thought.

So the lesson here is: This was just Draft One.

This freeze was a harsh teacher, but a necessary one. God laughed at my perfectly curated plans and reminded me that rebirth is not optional. So I’m choosing to see this decimated landscape not as a failure, but as Draft One.

I put so much love and care into that first draft. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. With Mother Nature hitting delete on that version, I not have to start rewriting it.

If you are holding back on something—a creative project, a decision, a joy—because it doesn’t look “clean” or “perfect” yet, please hear me: Do not wait.

Do the thing wild. Create it as it comes to you. Take the picture when it’s messy. Enjoy what you have while you have it, because a cold snap can change everything overnight.

My garden is going to require a lot of heavy lifting to come back. It’s going to be a long haul. But spring is coming, and the regeneration will happen.

I’m ready for Draft Two.

Talk to me. Tell me about a moment in your life where something was wiped clean? How did you handle the process of starting over?

Stay warm and lovely,

Jess

It’s been yet another long stretch since we’ve caught up. You know, I have a tendency to sit on things and sometimes I let them marinate for too long; losing the plot. The questions I’ve been pondering are too vital for solo engagement, and I know I’m not alone in asking them. This all started on a plane ride back from NYC almost two years ago with a thought that hasn’t left me:

So many of the neighborhoods we call home are fundamentally designed not to feed us.

A recent visit back home in Staten Island helped me realize that maybe lived experience is enough to engage with that question. Maybe it’s always been enough.

I grew up on the North Shore of Staten Island, in a steep-sloped neighborhood facing a passage bay off the Hudson River. From our house, you could see the water—sort of. The view was filtered through the industrial sprawl: a salt storage and distribution depot, enormous barges squeezing through the harbor, and, eventually, a marble tile warehouse built behind our backyard. Salt mountains piled high on the docks as winter approached. As a kid, I never really noticed the size of the ships. As an adult, one stacked to the brim with containers passed so close that the rumble shook me awake.

On our block stood craftsman-style, multi-family homes with small backyards and trees but no room for sprawling gardens. On the other block: Richmond Terrace Apartments, a NYCHA housing complex long neglected by the city. Eventually, the neglect appeared strategic—clearing the path for future “luxury” waterfront development. You could tell by all the newer apartment buildings going up on the adjacent blocks.

When we hear the term "food desert," we’re not always thinking about places like this. According to the USDA, a food desert is defined by two main things: low-income (a poverty rate of 20% or more, or median family income below 80% of the area median) and low-access (where at least 500 people or 33% of residents live more than a mile from a supermarket—10 miles in rural areas).

The closest supermarket to us was a Western Beef on Bay Street, nearly two miles away. If you had a car, it was a quick trip. If you didn’t, it meant a 30-minute bus ride with a transfer—assuming you caught the bus on time and didn’t have kids or carts in tow.

We were lucky. My parents would remind me of this whenever I got bratty. We had cars, the fridge, pantry and deep freezer remained stocked. But many people's daily shopping happened at the corner stores—two at the bottom of the hill and a meat market up on Jersey Street among a small strip of laundromats and shops. When I was younger, there was a small farmer’s market by the salt depot. My mom and I used to shop there for produce. It closed almost a decade ago. Today, there’s a modest plant nursery selling flowers, shrubs and lawn ornaments in the parking lot across the street.

It Isn’t a Food Desert, It’s a Design Flaw

For years, I convinced myself I couldn’t speak about food access because I’m not a policy expert. But that’s not true. I’ve lived it. I’ve mapped the landscape of scarcity, block by block. I’ve asked questions I still don’t have answers to.

Like: Why were there no community gardens in my hood?

Or: What does it mean that the U.S. was built more to feed machines than to feed people?

If you look closely, that pattern is everywhere. From the cotton gin to the assembly line to the processed food economy… it’s all been about efficiency over nourishment. I’m not discounting ingenuity and innovation; but our system is inherently flawed. I’ve identified salad greens growing wildly on the side of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway (BQE) and yet somehow, the best we can do to feed people here is ultra-processed foods trickling down a massive supply chain to the neighborhood “Quick Stop.”

Even now, living in a southern suburb with a yard of my own, I’m still technically in a food desert. There are no walkable grocery stores nearby (and for at least 6 months, walking in scorching heat is unfathomable). But I have a backyard that’s slowly turning into its own kind of corner store; fruit trees, herbs, leafy greens, all stitched together with care and curiosity. And I’m willing to share my surplus and abundance.

I fully recognize that having land and the time to cultivate it is a luxury—that should be the standard. When I realize how easily certain foods grow on their own, or how resilient a small patch of earth can be, it makes me angry. It highlights the vast, strategic gap between those who can access sustenance with respect and ease, and those who cannot. The system has vilified the latter group for so long that we often fail to recognize how precarious our own food access is.

It makes me wonder: What if everyone had the means to grow their own food or at least access it with dignity? What would our neighborhoods look like if gardens were as common as Quick Stops? These are the questions I’m still sitting with, and I know I’m not alone. If you’re up for sharing, I’d love to know:

What comes to mind for you when you think about food security where you live? What memories or realities shape the way you eat?

Much love ~ Jess

Yesterday, I shared a video in the subscriber chat with a snippet of what I’ve been up to and where my mind has been. You can check it out here, and leave a comment in the thread if you’re tuned in and ready for more from Letters From the Safe House.

Today, I’m revisiting a piece I wrote nearly two years ago:

You can read that old piece for free this month, it’s been one of my most popular newsletters to date. I almost republished it outright, but as I reread it, I realized I’ve crossed into a new chapter of that story. So instead, I’m sharing this note– a small update from the other side.

“Releasing the notion that I have to create for others and embracing the truth that I create for myself was the biggest change I learned to make in my inner artist dialogue.”

That shift is what made it possible to write Garden Gossip and gain the courage to create soul-bearing work. To perform. To share freely. To stop flinching at the idea of being witnessed.

And now, I’m watching the women around me step into their own spotlight, too.

The other week, I showed up dutifully to watch my sister-friend Jade sign copies of her debut novel at the Black Romance Book Festival in Atlanta. I remember when she was contemplating whether to publish under her real name. Now she’s out in the world, fully seen, embraced, and celebrated. Seeing readers show up to her table with copies of her book they had traveled with to get signed, filled me with such pride and honor to bear witness to this evolution of my girl. If you’re looking for a slow, simmering summertime read, I highly recommend that you check out A Month of Sundays. As I said in the original post:

“It’s a joy to watch others conquer their inner critic, a preview of the freedom that’s on the other side of your fears.”

I believe I’m in my harvest season.

Not because everything is perfect, but because the seeds I planted; in the garden, in my art and in myself are bearing fruit. And I want to savor it. Share it. Let it be enough.

I hope you enjoy what’s coming next, especially Garden Gossip No. 3, which drops June 19. This one’s called “Man Work.” It’s a written cinematic story from the frontlines of yard work, gender roles, and Southern nosiness. I promise it’ll make you laugh, nod, and maybe even go dig something up yourself. See you soon ;)

Thanks for reading, always.

With love,

Jess 🌿

P.S. Before I go… remember the giveaway I mentioned on my birthday (forgive me)? Well, I’ve made good on that promise and five of you esteemed friends have received a six-month paid subscription to Letters From the Safe House. To Muna, Scarlet, Christa, Asia, and Sage—THANK YOU for reading and being with me on this journey. Your support means everything.

When I was around 8 years old, my parents inherited the house we lived in. We moved from the one-bedroom apartment they were renting downstairs to the three-bedroom upstairs. I remember all the construction that went on. On any given weekend, my Dad would be working on different rooms in our pre-war, two-family house. I remember the ever-present smell of paint and wood grinding. My favorites were the trips to the furniture and home improvement stores; rubbing my hands all over carpet samples, collecting paint swatches like Pokemon cards and daydreaming on pretty princess bedroom sets.

When it came to the art in the house, it seemed to just show up. My Mom was into cottage-style decor at the time. Paintings of dark-skinned subjects or quaint seaside landscapes decorated the walls alongside family portraits over time. And there’s one art piece that I’ve come to deeply appreciate…

The following reflection comes from a voice recording I made on August 9th, 2024. I revisited it recently and edited it as a letter to myself for my birthday, I hope you enjoy it.

Imagine this: you're 12 years old. You have your own girly pink bedroom and an extra living room (your own playroom, honestly) complete with a TV where you watch endless hours of Disney Channel and a computer where you play The Sims. Your hobbies had you in a constant state of world-building. There's ample space for your toys, an old plaid tweed couch that doubles as a pullout bed for the many sleepovers you have with friends and cousins. The walls are an eggshell white, the crown molding painted a deep burgundy, and in that room, there’s a large image hanging on the wall.

A Black woman. Beautiful. Slender dressed in all-white. Kneeling near a white picket fence, pausing to smell the flowers.

You don’t give the painting much thought in the way that an adult might study art, but you notice that most of the paintings in your home feature people with skin the color of yours. Women in soft, romantic moments existing in what appears to be bliss. They remind you of the way your mom gets ready to go to parties with your dad, or how you imagine life might be if you were a princess. And, in many ways, you are.

Then, you grow up. You spend less time at home, more time at the mall, at friends’ houses. When you are home, you’re in your room where the walls are filled with Word Up! and Teen Vogue magazine pages. Now you’re always on your laptop or your cell phone, no longer paying much attention to that extra space where she hangs. Years pass, and after college, you return home. This time, you choose another bedroom; downstairs, blank, untouched. You cover its walls with your own art, filling the space with things that speak to you now.

Once again, you leave. You move in with someone. You decorate, but not with the same images. And when that chapter ends, you return home once more, bringing the remnants of your old apartment with you. You move back into that room…the one with the lady in her garden. You add your own art, but you don’t take her down. Something about her just belongs there.

Then you leave home again—this time, for good. You buy your own home. You decide, like your mother, to fill it with beautiful images of Black women, capturing the essence of life the way you always saw it growing up. Your walls reflect joy, rest, and abundance. And then, you step outside. You look at your empty yard and decide this too should be art. You start to garden. You plan for the flowers that will bloom, the colors that will fill the space, and one day, as you work in the soil, you see yourself. Just like her.

A woman kneeling in her garden. Taking time to smell the flowers, to admire each delicate petal. And suddenly, it all connects.

You think of your grandmother, who had a garden of her own, full of remedies you’re still discovering. You think of your mother, who, though not a gardener herself, always kept a little tuintje; a small corner of green. You think of the images she chose to fill your childhood home. The way she manifested a life for herself, which then manifested a life for you. You think of how you became a princess after all.

You feel grateful—to your mother, for choosing that image. To your younger self, for keeping it. To your mind, for remembering it. And to God, for revealing to you that perhaps you were seeing yourself all along.

💌 A Birthday Gift from Me to You (Well, Five of You!)

To celebrate turning 33 and the soft, sacred growth this year brings, I’m gifting 5 subscriptions to Letters From The Safe House.

If there’s someone you know who’d love this space, or if you’ve been quietly waiting for the right moment to go deeper, this is your sign. 💫

To enter:

Reply to this email or drop a comment below letting me know who you’d like to gift a subscription to (even if it’s yourself!). I’ll pick 5 names next week.

Here’s to growing this garden together!

Cheers / Proost,

Jess

To tell you the truth, I fumbled the launch a bit, but everything happens for a reason, and now here we are…

Welcome to my freestyle, behind-the-scenes view of my creative mind! Let me tell you the story of how I stumbled into creative genius with the cover idea for Garden Gossip, a concept that has been almost two years in the making.

Read more

I’ve been away from my garden for the whole month, embracing winter in New York and Holland. I just returned from celebrating my big sister’s birthday—resting and rejuvenating my soul in the way only time with family can. Of course, everyone overseas was asking the same thing:

“What’s going on over there [in the U.S.]? What are you guys going to do??”

I never have a good answer. My brain does this thing where it just escapes to my garden, like a TV short-circuiting and flipping to another channel. Away from the noise. I close my eyes and suddenly, I’m there:

I can smell the sweet blooms on the mango trees.
I can hear the hummingbirds buzzing around the wildflowers.
I can see the little cocoplums swelling on their branches.

Those cocoplums have been on my mind a lot lately, I’m wishing for a harvest this Spring.

The Cocoplum’s Journey (And My Own)

Last year, I planted cocoplum in a DIY attempt to start a privacy hedge. I wanted something low-maintenance and native. I thought I was making the right choice, but nature had other plans.

The hedge has grown, but not without struggle. Weevils moved in last fall. The plants weren’t as flood-tolerant as I’d hoped. They held on, but they weren’t thriving. So, I decided to do two things:

1. Plant a hardier species, the clusia.

2. Get professional help installing the full hedge.

I had assumed native meant naturally resilient, that because cocoplum belonged here, it would flourish here. But the more I learned, the more I started questioning what "native" really means.

Because here’s the thing: cocoplum isn’t just native to Florida. It thrives in the Caribbean, Mexico, South America, and West to Central Africa. When I planted it, I wasn’t just growing a hedge. I was unknowingly planting a piece of home for someone else.

A Plant that Bridges Generations

My Uncle Nathan, the patriarch of my mom’s side of the family, grew up in Sint Maarten, where cocoplums were abundant.

When I told him about my hedge last year, I could hear his face light up over the phone. “You have cocoplum?! I’ve been trying to find one that’s ready to fruit, but I can’t get it anywhere.”

That moment unlocked something, a nostalgia I hadn’t expected.

From then on, whenever we talked, he’d ask, “Did you find me a cocoplum yet?” It became our little side quest. I was to search Facebook Marketplace like I had for my own plants, determined to find one for him. But I waited. A little out of procrastination, but mainly out of care. I wanted to see how mine held up through the brutal summer heat before I passed one along.

When the blossoming season finally came, I brought him the cocoplum shrubs, dug up from my own garden. A piece of home. And perhaps a symbol of a root still finding its way in unfamiliar soil, decades later.

That’s when it hit me:

Maybe native plants aren’t just about where they come from, but about who they belong to.

What Does It Mean to Be Native?

According to the USDA, a native plant is one that “evolved and occurs naturally in a region prior to European settlement.”

But what does that really mean? Native to whom? Native to when?

Cocoplum thrives in St. Maarten just as well as it does in Florida. I imagine all the ancestors, from Africa to the Americas, who cultivated deep relationships with these plants, shaping ecosystems in ways we still benefit from today. How many rituals and cures were rooted in these same branches?

And now, here it is; in my garden. A plant that has traveled across islands and continents, carrying stories across generations, bridging memory with the present.

That cocoplum has managed to thrive in so many places, across so many landscapes.
Much like people, it adapts.
Much like people, it finds a way to belong.

And maybe, that’s the lesson I need right now.

A Rooted Way Forward

As a somewhat third-culture kid, I’ve spent my whole life navigating that tension—of belonging everywhere and nowhere at once.

In today’s world, where citizenship, birthright, and even the idea of home feel precarious, I find myself looking to nature for answers.

And my garden reminds me:
Belonging isn’t about borders; it’s about relationships. It’s about tending to what holds you. It’s about caring for the land and letting it care for you in return.

That feels like something I can root myself in.

And that’s the ethic I’m carrying forward. Not just in my garden, but in the way I care for others, too.

🌺 A HUGE Thank You! 🌺

I want to take a moment to celebrate a milestone: my very first paid subscriber! To that reader (you know who you are!), thank you for believing in this space. Every paid subscription fuels the stories I share here, and I’m beyond grateful.

If you’ve been enjoying Letters from The Safe House and want to support its growth, you can join as a paid subscriber here.

Spotted in the Library 📚

This month, I was featured in a virtual library of Black Substack writers!

Shoutout to for keeping The Cookout Library, a virtual compilation of Black Writers on Substack. If you’re looking for incredible voices across storytelling, culture, and beyond, check out the full library here. It’s an honor to be listed among so many talented writers.

Now, before I go, let’s talk about what’s on deck for the next month…

ICYMI: The Goss is HOT 🌿🗣️🔥

If you missed the latest tea from Garden Gossip 🌿🗣️ … you missed a story! (Think unexpected houseguest. Middle of the night. Heart pounding.) No spoilers, but let’s just say, I was fighting for my life.

📖 Catch up on “Jess vs. The Bedroom Bully” (Paid Subscribers Only)

📸 And if you haven’t seen the latest cover… trust me, it’s a moment.

But here’s where things get even juicier…

I’m taking you behind the scenes in March to show exactly how I bring Garden Gossip 🌿🗣️ to life!

🎬 The first BTS drop lands on March 5. Paid subscribers, get ready.

If you’ve been thinking about subscribing, now’s the time. You’ll get instant access to all the Goss.

Subscribe now

✨ Something Special is Coming in March ✨

I have something extra special planned for my birthday, Aries season! It’s something personal. I’ll be revisiting something from my childhood that, in many ways, foreshadowed the life I’m living now.

More on that soon. But for now, I’ll leave you with a question I posed in the subscriber chat.

What’s a plant that means something to you?

Reply, send a comment, join the chat, whatever you prefer. Tell me, I’d love to hear.

Much love,

Jess

Jess vs. The Bedroom Bully

I have no clue how the frog got inside my bedroom. Most nights, I hear the faint pitter-patter of tiny amphibians against my windows, but this time was different. It wasn’t outside, it was inside. First, a thud against my dresser. Then, the unmistakable sound of my drawer handle flicking. Something was in the room with me.

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An Unwanted Bedmate

I still wasn’t sure what it was until I heard a thump against my comforter. Nope. Absolutely not. One thing was clear: I was not safe.

I don’t regularly share my king-sized bed and I wasn’t about to start with an uninvited guest. Covers—flung. Bed—abandoned. I sprinted to turn on the light, only to realize I could hardly see a thing. This would be the one night I don’t fall asleep with my contacts in!

But I did hear another thump against the carpet and noticed a flesh-colored object on the floor heading towards my bathroom. A few moments later, I heard the clank of likely face products and perfume bottles getting knocked all over my bathroom counter. The Bully, whatever it was, was marking its territory.

Fleeing the Scene: A Crisis Deferred

I was too tired to catch the intruder and too traumatized to get back in bed. So, I did what any rational person would do: grabbed my phone, slammed the door shut (lights on, obviously), and retreated to the couch. It was already after 11 p.m., so this situation was effectively deemed a “tomorrow problem.”

I’m very proud of how I handled this situation. With the exception of a few squeamish “Eek!”s, I was adept at discerning a present danger and swiftly arriving at an interim solution. I won’t lie, though… A few emotions and thoughts flashed across my mind throughout the encounter, but the main one was, “No one is coming to save you, Jess.”

The one person I might’ve called for backup had already answered a distress signal from me to help remove my hurricane shutters after Milton. He endured his share of danger on my behalf; getting pricked by a massive thorny weed near one of the windows. I decided this time I had to rely on myself.

The Morning After

The next morning, I tiptoed through my routine, brushing my teeth and showering with my head on a constant swivel. Because with my luck? That frog would wait until I was mid-scrub to make a move on me in the shower.

Thankfully, that brand of chaos missed me. I started the day with a call to Mom, opening with the news:

“Mom, I’m pretty sure I shared my bed with a frog last night, we didn’t kiss. At this point, I’m out of solutions for finding a prince.”

Being a single woman and homeowner has challenged me to overcome many fears, especially my fear of critters. Anyone who has known me for a long time knows how terrified I used to be of anything other than humans (and I’m afraid of some of us, too 😬).

But the lover girl and newly minted nature girl in me can’t help but acknowledge that these creatures live here, too. I think about the oak grove that covered the area long before my house was built and imagine how it must have felt for all the creatures to have to find or fight for a place to exist. And they play an important role in helping my garden thrive. For that, they will always have my love and respect. Though, I appreciate it most when they stay outside my house!

The Final Standoff

The showdown happened the next evening. After a quick sweep of the bathroom, I spotted the wide-eyed culprit perched on my shower bench, staring me down. It looked like a coqui frog… kind of cute, actually. The poor thing froze at the sight of me and we stared each other down while I thought about how I was going to get it out of here. My improvisation skills led me to grab a worn down Tupperware bowl and the box from my Dansk butterwarmer. Very desperate housewife of me. I covered the frog with the bowl and slid it onto the flattened box. As I speed walked to the patio door to release it back into the wild I thought to myself, “in another dimension, there’s a version of me that might’ve kept you as a pet.”

🫖 Tea in the Garden: Set Nature-Friendly Traps

When I talk about my garden, people tend to ask (with queezy faces), “But how do you deal with all the bugs and stuff??”

Step one: Acceptance. Step two: Outsmart them. In permaculture, we use trap crops; plants that either attract pests away from crops or repel them entirely. Here’s two I swear by:

• 🌼 Marigolds – The ultimate sacrificial plant! Aphids love them more than your tomatoes, strawberries, or peppers, so they’ll feast on the marigolds instead of your crops. Bonus: They also deter nematodes, snakes, and deer.

• 🟣 Society Garlic – A pretty border plant that repels insects, rabbits, snakes, snails, moles—and even your cat or dog. If your furry friend won’t stay out of the garden, this might be your secret weapon.

Got any tried-and-true pest-repelling tips? Drop them in the Subscriber Chat! Let’s swap secrets.

I hope you enjoyed this second edition of Garden Gossip! Check out behind the scenes content and latest editions of this mini-newsletter here.

What’s the wildest visitor you’ve ever had in your home or garden? Did it teach you something about love or patience?

Talk to you soon,

Jess

It’s a new year and a new moment for Letters From The Safe House. I’m so excited about what’s in store—some of which you’ll hear about in today’s newsletter. This new season has me reflecting on the threads that hold us together when everything else is spinning. For me, that answer is community. In 2025, I’m leaning all the way into it—sharing more about my roots, my family, and the stories that shaped me in hopes they resonate with you, too.

One thing I’m grateful for in my family and community upbringing is the endless laughter and peculiar stories we all have from over the years. I’ve shared a few stories before if you’d like to dive into the archives and read them:

A Song for the Opening Credits (In 2025)

There’s a song recently that spoke to me, and depending on how much time you spend online, you’ve probably come across Bad Bunny’s latest song (thank you, TikTok - RIP… kinda??). “DtMF” was the last song to blow up on TikTok, and to me, it served as an outro to the last moments before the “ban.”

Listening to “DtMF " brought back tender memories of my feelings about home: life in NYC, Aruba, my Nana, and my overall identity and heritage, which I’ve been trying to make sense of my whole life.

I enjoy reggaeton music, but I’ve never listened to a full album. I’m glad I gave Bad Bunny’s “Debi Tirar Mas Fotos” a complete playthrough. Every song on the album purposefully conveys a sense of time and place about the Puerto Rican experience on and beyond the island—a true dedication to his home.

For me, “DtMF” represents the beauty of music, the feeling of understanding a language you don’t yet speak or an instrument you love but cannot yet play. I would say that’s exactly how I’ve come to relate to my Caribbean heritage as a first-gen American kid; music fills the gap you feel in your heart when you’re longing for a sense of home… a place you know with every ounce of your DNA but cannot fully claim. Like Benito, I wish I had taken more photos.

Have you listened to “DtMF”? What feelings did it bring up for you?

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Open Now: Subscriber Chats (All Subscribers)

Something I’m intent on leveraging more this year is Subscriber Chats. If you’re hanging out on the Substack app, you can now join free-form discussions with me and other readers—no matter your subscription tier. Think of it as our cozy online hangout, like sitting on the lanai at The Safe House, where we can trade garden tips, gush about inspiration on our Pinterest boards, or chat about life’s unexpected curveballs. Community thrives when we all speak up—so come be a part of it, whether you’re gardening from a small studio or dreaming of owning a sprawling farm one day.

Coming Soon: Garden Gossip 🗣️🌿 (Paid Subscribers Only)

Mark your calendars for February—I’m bringing back Garden Gossip! If you caught the “Birds vs. Palms vs. Jess” edition last year, you know the tea was piping hot (quite literally, since it involved Florida’s blazing sun and mischievous cranes). That post is now tucked away in the Safe House archives, exclusively for paid subscribers and it’s just a sip of what’s to come. People loved it for the offbeat humor and the surprisingly relatable battle between me and my feathered friends.

This next edition is shaping up to be even juicier! Think garden secrets, uninvited critters, a few unexpected twists, and a healthy dose of my dark-humored inner monologue. You won’t want to miss it.

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I am so excited for this coming year for Letters from The Safe House! There are so many new pieces to share with you, some in different formats too like audio, video, more poetry and prose. But more importantly, I plan to speak to you more in my language, and I hope you choose to do the same. Speak to me in your language, I’ll be all ears, no translation is needed.

What does it mean to you to “speak your own language,” and how do you share it with others? Let’s discuss it in the Subscriber Chats or wherever you feel most at home.

Much love,

Jess

We’re in the dazed and confused part of the winter season here in South Florida, where one day brings 80-degree sunshine, and the next drops us into 45-degree nights. On those colder evenings, I’ve taken to tucking my soursop tree under a blanket to keep them warm. As a New Yorker, you’d think I’d be used to this, but like my soursop tree, I have hot island blood coursing through my veins and am sensitive to cold snaps. I’m sure my neighbors find me a bit zany, carefully arranging the blanket over my baby tree while wearing a puffy winter jacket as if I’m in the Northeast.

New here? Get to know me through these dispatches…

1. For wise words as you go into the new year, read: Didn’t Ya Know You Have Everything You Need?

2. For the latest update on my garden, read: Healing My Climate Anxiety Through Gardening

3. For some background on how I got here, read: My Gardening Journey Started Long Before I Sowed My First Seeds

Letting Go

I hope you’re preparing for the New Year in whatever way suits you best. Every year, I engage in a handful of rituals that help me reset: deep cleaning my space, setting and planning goals, or simply spending time with family and friends. This year, I’m doing all of the above, plus one more practice I’ve grown to cherish: the intimate art of letting go.

Ever since I turned thirty, I’ve been doing an internal audit of all I hold onto—mentally, physically, and spiritually. It’s my way of stepping into each new year feeling lighter and freer. In just two years of this practice, I’ve shed so much mental weight that now I mostly focus on the little burdens I pick up along the way.

Which brings me to the news I want to share: Today, I finally dug up and threw away the Honey Tangerine tree I planted almost two years ago. It’s been a small weight silently growing in volume in the background—to the point of literally becoming dead weight. Queue Solange’s “Cranes in the Sky.”

The Little Honey Tangerine Guild That Could

My side yard garden is where the Honey Tangerine tree stood. It was one of the first four trees I planted, and thinking back to the day I purchased it, I remember feeling overwhelmed at the Jack & The Beanstalk nursery. My friend and I had gone together; she’d done all her research and had a clear plan for her garden, while I was just thrilled to have a yard of my own. I had a vision of a tropical paradise and let my imagination run wild as we walked through rows of plants with tags that promised sweet, tangy, and bitter flavors.

$475 later, I was on my way to becoming a tropical gardener! When the trees arrived, I randomly selected spots for each one—no plan, just vibes (a rookie mistake I’ll never make again). The Carrie Mango became my prized specimen at the front corner, the Honey Tangerine near my office window for its fragrant blooms, the Avocado tree not far off, and the Julie Mango in front of my bedroom window to remind me of home.

In hindsight, the Honey Tangerine was awkwardly placed, but it was the guild I poured the most attention into. That first season, tiny lime-like rounds appeared on its branches, and pollinators flocked to its flowers. But something wasn’t quite right. The leaves turned from bright green to yellow, some branches dried out, and the tree seemed… off.

Perhaps it was my amateur gardening or my overly ambitious guild building. I’d planted it with lemongrass, Mexican sunflowers, and chaya, thinking I was doing next-level permaculture. In reality, I was overcrowding the space. I eventually moved those plants elsewhere, but by the second harvest season, the tree’s blight had worsened. To make matters worse, monstrous caterpillars moved in, devouring what little greenery remained.

After consulting a master gardener, I learned the tree likely had citrus greening, a disease that reduces yields and eventually kills the tree. She recommended treating it with imidacloprid, a synthetic insecticide applied every 90 days. I did one application but couldn’t bring myself to continue. I wanted to be an organic gardener; using this solution felt like a betrayal of my principles.

By late spring, I made a last-ditch effort, planting milkweed and nasturtiums around the tree to lure pests away, but the scorching Florida summer killed those crops before they could take effect. It was time to accept the truth: my Honey Tangerine tree wasn’t meant to be in my garden.

Removing it stayed on my to-do list for over six months. Every time I admired my garden, the tree stood there as a reminder of what could have been. In my procrastination, I imagined countless replacements for the space—banana trees, a wildflower patch, maybe an herb spiral. But I could never decide.

Finally, today, I dug it up. The task was quick, but the release was profound. The “mental cloud” of this tree—joy, anticipation, anxiety, dread—simply cannot follow me into 2025.

Clearer Skies Ahead

In the Honey Tangerine’s place, I’ve transplanted three pineapple plants from my backyard, creating a new patch. Based on what I’ve learned about growing citrus here in South Florida, I’ve let go of the dream of fresh, organic Florida citrus from my garden. Come next summer, I’ll hopefully be enjoying a sugarloaf pineapple instead.

As I look at my new pineapple patch, I’m reminded that every ending holds the seed of a new beginning.

What are you ready to let go of to make space for your verdant future?

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Wishing you a happy New Year and a prosperous 2025!

With love,

Jess

If you’re new here, welcome to Letters from The Safe House, a newsletter about life lately; gardening, mindfulness and divine encounters down at The Safe House.

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A Year of Reflection

One year and two months ago, I started this newsletter, unsure of what I was aiming to do - I just knew that I needed to write and release what was on my heart. I’d made a major life change while simultaneously grieving the loss of my loved ones, the end of a relationship and coming back to myself after a prolonged period of burnout. I found myself embarking on a somewhat delayed pandemic garden, unearthing a hobby that opened up a brand new wellspring of inspiration for me. So much inspiration that it overwhelmed me and I became a bit paralyzed (hence my absence)!

Letters from The Safe House is more than a newsletter to me, it’s a sandbox for my creativity and a launchpad for so many great things I plan to contribute to society. Mark my words as I say that.

What many don’t tell you about creating - in my case, writing, particularly writing about myself - is that you are facing yourself head-on every time you create. James Baldwin put it aptly in the quote I shared above — it’s a constant lesson in humility. It requires vulnerability, a willingness to share without shame and a responsibility to speak truth to power. Tough work!

And I did that often like when I talked about how I struggled with ‘being seen’ or when I shared a poem I had written in the garden after having not written or shared poetry in years. Even telling my stories about my family and community—like my personal favorite about hosting Thanksgiving to impress my 8-year-old cousin—requires a level of bravery I struggled to embrace.

In his speech, The Artist’s Struggle for Integrity, Baldwin goes on to say, “But if I find that hard to do — and I have a weapon which most people don’t have — then one must understand how hard it is for almost anybody else to do it at all.”

There were times when I sent this newsletter to you tearfully and times when I was brimming with joy. But each time I clicked ‘publish’ I did so with a knowing that someone, somewhere was finding value in my words. Like , who shared that I inspired her to return to her garden in her post, Victimhood and Blaming: Lessons on losing my garden. That’s the peace and reward of letting go of your ego and sharing your creation with others; it opens up another portal in the universe for connection.

For that I am deeply grateful, thank you for being a friend of Letters from The Safe House.

An announcement and call to action

Starting December 1st, Letters from The Safe House will have a paid subscription.

As a free subscriber, you’ll continue to receive my occasional posts and they’ll be accessible for 2 weeks before going behind the paywall. Access to my archive of over 20 posts from the past year will be for subscribers only.

I’m firmly committed to doing the consistent yet sometimes difficult work of facing myself each time I come to you. There’s never been a more important time than now to get serious about our art. The call is coming from inside the house!

I’ll continue building on what I’ve shared with you over the past year. In exchange, I ask that you consider giving your paid support to encourage me to keep going. You’ll also help me pay for new tools to make the experience of Letters from The Safe House even more enjoyable (new formats to come!). Here’s what you can expect as a paid subscriber of Letters from The Safe House:

• Monthly posts, with the occasional subscriber-only dispatch

• Access to my full archive (20+ posts)

• Join community discussions in the comments

• Join monthly subscriber-only Substack Chats (New!)

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To those who pledged their support, thank you so much for showing your love for my little newsletter! I’m finally ready to take the leap of faith!

Next month, I’m sharing an essay on throwing away my tangerine tree and why I think it should matter to you. It’s complicated but I think you’ll enjoy it!

Notes on my life lately… 

• Honestly, it was too hot to garden this summer! South Florida had sustained temperatures of over 90 degrees for months on end until Hurricane Milton hit. I’m grateful that The Safe House remained safe from the storm.

• I did get a small harvest this summer, lots of papayas, some cassava and a few herbs from the garden. This season, I’m focusing on building up the core food forest/side garden - planting beans, some cover crops and another tree or two. I’m excited to start up Substack Chats this week, join me if you want to hear more about what I’m planting or come learn a thing or two!

• Overall, I’m maintaining my peace these days. I’d like to offer up this recording of James Baldwin’s speech I referenced here. I hope it gives you food for thought or, for my fellow artists, fire in your belly!

Drought conditions are easing up but ongoing high temperatures remain a concern. We’re starting to get some rain now that hurricane season has begun. Last weekend there was an inch of rain and my garden was thankful for it. On other days, the rain evaporated before it could even hit the ground, it was so hot. Still, the garden prevails.

I love telling you about the weather. It’s the only form of small talk I enjoy because it’s oddly unifying. Whether I’m grumbling about the heat with my neighbor or exchanging forecasts with a friend on another coast, our common ground is that we’re all experiencing the effects of nature. I’ve found weather reporting to be the best way to keep ourselves honest about what’s happening to the Earth’s climate.

Have you noticed any changes in the weather patterns in your area?

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New here? Check out my top dispatches…

1. For some background on how I got here, read: My Gardening Journey Started Long Before I Sowed My First Seeds

2. For fellow creators and artists who struggle with putting themselves out there, read: Overcoming the Fear of Being Been

3. For storytelling, poetry and soothing words about how nature mirrors life, read: Rooted In Renewal | Lessons from the Mexican Sunflower

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Gardening Through Climate Chaos

Drought, sudden deluges of rain, even cold spells… For native South Floridians, it’s all par for the course of living in a tropical zone. But there’s no denial from anyone that there’s something abnormal about the weather of the last few years. The headlines about increasing deadly heatwaves from Miami to India spell grave danger yet reassure us that we’re not alone in this crisis.

I’ve always had a heightened awareness of climate. After all, I am a child of Al Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth” era and grew up during the rise of mass media publicizing every major natural disaster across the world. I used to live in fear of nature and felt hopeless about positive climate change. At one point, my weather anxiety got so bad that I stopped reading the news all together and avoided weather forecasts like the plague. I carried some of that anxiety with me even when I moved to Florida (yes, I know.), earlier this year I shared a story about the day I overcame it.

But gardening forces you to accept and work with your environment. Hands in the dirt, I release my worries and fears.

When I go through my camera roll and see how my garden has grown throughout the changing seasons, I’m always mind-blown! Everyday nature shows me the greatest lessons in resilience and the magic of adapting to our environment. My plants have been through a lot, be it poor treatment from me or harsh weather conditions, yet they still find a way to thrive. Here are my favorite “then vs. nows”:

Then Vs. Now: Papaya Tree

I got these papaya trees from a neighbor last June and they were 3-4ft tall. One of them is still struggling in the grow bag but the other I planted in Island #1 and it's thriving as you can see. As for the snake plants in that first photo, I had to quickly remove them from the ground and put them in pots. I didn’t realize that they are invasive.

Then Vs. Now: Carrie Mango Tree

I’m most proud of how my mango trees are growing. Last year I had three mangoes come in (they were delicious!) and the tree was less than 3ft tall. Today, it’s over 5.5ft, almost as tall as me! It bore a ton of fruits this year but unfortunately, the birds got to them before I could. It’s prime growing season for mangoes though so I’m expecting the tree to reach at least another 2ft by September.

To date, I have over 12 species of fruit-bearing trees planted in the yard and countless small shrubs, herbs and ornamental plants. Thinking back to last year when I started planning my garden; I took on a lot and acquired more than I could handle for a beginner. Now, I’m going back to focusing on the basics.

This season is going towards making some corrections and getting back to my garden's foundational needs: building my food forest. I’ll have a solid top layer with all my fruit trees and as their canopies grow, I can start to focus on the understory and ground layers of the forest. Making it beautiful is important but the primary purpose is to have a self-sufficient garden that gets me closer to becoming food secure.

In a world where extreme weather threatens our access to food, it’s crucial that we learn to care for the land and adapt our diets. I’m going to keep saying this because I truly have faith that there’s a verdant future on the other side of this!

Other notes on my life lately… 

• My parents are visiting The Safe House and I’m so happy to have them here! My lanai was starting to look like a mad scientist’s laboratory and the first Mom did when she got here was clean it up. She said she was just making it comfortable for her to stay because it’s her favorite space in the house, ha!

• As you saw above, Island #1 has new inhabitants! 3 Banana trees for the start of a little grove, pineapples (Maui Gold, straight from Hawaii, yearly work-anniversary presents from my job) and rosemary bush starts for ground cover.

• I waited two hours in 90 degrees and a mile-long line of cars to get a free avocado tree courtesy of The City Port St Lucie. It was well worth it and I won’t wait too long to get it in the ground!

  

The night after I published last week’s dispatch, it finally rained! It wasn’t a full soak but enough for the grass to grow back and plants to perk up again. Unfortunately, drought conditions persist and there is low confidence that rain will return in the next 10 days.

Thank you for tuning into this weather report. Remember, at The Safe House, nothing is a coincidence, everything is divine! Up next is, “Didn’t Ya Know” by Erykah Badu.

On Drought & Dry Periods

I know the weather in St. Lucie County may not captivate you but there is much to be said about the symbolism of drought. We all experience it in some form, whether a literal lack of rain in our gardens or a spiritual dryness in our hearts.

If you've been missing my dispatches, here's the honest truth: I've been navigating a personal drought, both physically (forgive me, neglected garden!) and spiritually.

Badu’s visuals for “Didn’t Ya Know,” resonate deeply with me. In the video, she circles a barren desert, searching for sustenance. This circular motion mirrors our behavior during dry spells - we desperately chase anything that resembles relief, often exacerbating the situation. Drought breeds a sense of lack, confusion and distraction. Acknowledging this is where salvation is found.

Lessons From My Personal Drought

Inspired by "Didn't Ya Know," I've unearthed some valuable lessons from my own dry period:

I. Less is More

“I’m trying to decide / Which way to go / Think I made a wrong turn back there somewhere.”

Last year, I overloaded my garden with ambitious plans. I lost sight of its true purpose: sustenance and healing. It’s about having what I need first and not being confused by the beauty that comes after. I got caught up in the aesthetics of a perfect garden, taking away from the joy in the process.

II. Redefining "Alone"

“Stopped to watch my emotions sway”

I avoid talking about my love life here, it’s personal but it’s not a novel experience. Selfishly, I want my dispatches to be one less space on the internet talking about the woes of dating (though they do make for good storytime). In recent months, the feeling of being alone has weighed heavily on me. However, this period of reflection revealed an abundance of blessings I often take for granted: basic needs met, financial security, a supportive community, and love from friends and family. While I still desire romantic love, right now, I just "need" someone to help me dig holes and plant things. Do I need a relationship for that?

III. Finding My Own Oasis

“So when I stumble off the path / I know my heart will guide me back”

Think of this drought as a metaphorical desert I'm traversing. My thirst is for love and beauty, but the search for salvation led me astray, chasing mirages in the form of new relationships and a flawless garden. Every date felt like a potential savior, but these weren't grounded in reality. It's just me in this desert, yet not alone or without guidance. The rose-colored glasses I wear for my garden sometimes blind me to the reality that the garden needs my care first - just like I need to tend to myself before I can flourish.

So yes, as I said last week: “There's a verdant future on the other side of this drought.” I just need to water myself first to reach my full potential.

I’d love to hear your thoughts about these lessons in the comments. I’m also curious to hear from you on the following:

• What song resonates with you during challenging times? Share it with the community!

• What personal droughts have you navigated? How did you find your way back to fertile ground?

• Do you define 'alone' differently than society’s expectations? How do you find fulfillment in your own company?

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Lovingly,

Jess

P.S. I’m back home in New York City this week. Last night, I made a rest stop at “The Gas Station,” a metaphoric name for a place and community of beloved family and friends that refuel me spiritually. I always come away with a renewed sense of purpose and much wisdom, some of which inspired today’s dispatch. You know who you are, thank you so much for receiving me <3.

It’s spring, the season I’ve been waiting for and yet, I won’t be telling you about all the wondering blooms and harvests in the Safe House Garden. Spring on the Treasure Coast is like an early summer with high temperatures and drought. We haven’t had substantial rainfall in over 20 days and have already had 90-degree averages in a week.

My plants are alive by the grace of a watering schedule I’m managing to keep up, plus the kitchen scraps I haphazardly dump in the ground. The grass and the ground beneath it are extremely dry. So dry that the sand, dirt and rocks in the ground start to clump together like sediment, making for tired shoulders and arms when digging.

It may be tough to garden during this season but I can’t be upset with Nature, she goes through cycles just as we humans do. Coming out of winter, I may not look how I want or feel as bright as the sunshine during this time of year. but we’re works in progress. This is our grace period. I’ve been working on speaking more kindly to myself and giving myself more grace. By extension, I lend the same grace to my garden — bearing witness to the subtle shifts and unfolding as it awakens from winter.

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Training the Keen Eye

In a previous dispatch, I mentioned the role of foresight and vision when building a garden. You have to be able to see 5, 10, 15, or 25 years into the future when planning your garden layouts; considering the growth rates of different trees and plants + sun and moisture requirements for each. I didn’t think as much about that when I planted my first trees (and now I’ll have to move one). With mistakes that could cost a lot of money down the line, I knew I needed to train my sense of foresight and get really in touch with my environment.

My training consists of taking long walks through my garden or sitting on my lanai simply taking in my surroundings. Depending on your perspective, that probably sounds boring or bourgeois but that’s exactly what I do; practice keen observance.

Many evenings, I find myself sitting on the lanai, listening to music, and if I’m not reading I’m writing. When I sit out here long enough, I observe the little changes in every day, hour, minute.

One day, you notice that the papaya tree leaves grow in their own nursery - at the top of the stem, the tinier new leaves are growing protected in a cocoon of the older larger leaves. Each leaf fans out horizontally along the trunk until it dies and falls away, decaying back into the soil. I marvel at this little act of resilience from the papaya tree and am glad to see it up close for now. When it grows some 15 feet high in the next few years, I won’t have access to this show.

Another day, when the sun is setting, I notice how the little lizards scale the walls to follow the sun’s shadow; like living sundials. In a few years, when the foliage in Island #1 grows dense, the lizards will find their way back outside, no longer hiding from the heat in my lanai. I’d much rather them chase each other in the yard.

In being observant of my environment, I can relax, and enter a state of ease and flow that eventually leads to daydreaming. I don’t have to click my heels twice to visit this space, only close my eyes and follow the sound of the wind to time hop to my Safe House Garden DreamSpace.

In sitting still, I find myself being transported into what feels like another dimension but is really an advanced timeline — one where my garden is fully actualized. While sitting still, I imagine walking through various areas of the garden, inspecting its growth, identifying new species that appear on their own and picking fresh fruit from the trees as I tour along.

Then, when I open my eyes, I can’t find my pen faster; wishlists are created and layout ideas are sketched. On the dreamiest of days, I end up out here for hours researching what, how and where to plant my new inspiration. Over time, these small observations I’ve been making give way to a vision of a lush paradise that I can’t unsee. The vision is like a lens filter that I hold up on the days when the crunchy grass and wilted leaves blot excitement.

There’s a verdant future on the other side of this drought.

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A lot has been going on, largely good, and I’m looking forward to getting back to sharing my journey with you.

Multiple friends have reminded me, “Jess you’re doing A LOT.” I keep this in mind when I get frustrated with myself for not consistently having all cylinders going. Maintaining a house, a garden, a newsletter, a social life and my inner life all while working a full-time job is a recipe for fatigue. I took the last month to ground myself, enjoy my birthday and realign with my priorities for this season. Letters From the Safe House remains one of them.

I’m coming back with more love to share from my home and garden. Everything is blooming beautifully! There are so many projects I want to take on this Spring but I’m pacing myself, regardless, I’ll update you on the progress with things like my Food Forest, as well as sharing my ideas and plans for areas like my Moon Garden, Herb Spiral or Butterfly Habitat. More to come!

Thank you for being patient with me and continue to read, comment and share. I appreciate you, always and I’ll talk to you soon.

xoxo - Jess

You may be wondering how I landed on this name for my house or this newsletter. It’s not the most original name one could come up with, but considering the feeling that consumes me when I cross the threshold. Safe was the only word that seemed to fit.

Earlier this year, I talked about my relationship with water and mentioned an experience I had dealing with my first storm since moving. Today, I want to expand on that moment and share the divine occurrence that solidified the word “Safe” in “The Safe House.”

I hope you enjoy this recollection of a memory that holds so much meaning to me. Your support of this growing newsletter is what keeps me going.

Ritual

Perhaps you say a prayer, wear symbols of protection, light a candle with intention, spray a blessed liquid, smudge…

We do these rituals to imbue us with a sense of ‘alright-ness’ when we move towards the unknown.

The unknown could be anything! Any step we take throughout the day where we don’t know exactly how things will happen is a step into life’s mystery…

The first thing I did when I closed on my house — a huge step into unknowingness — was set up a little altar by a front window. It was a rudimentary set up of curio and keepsakes on a strip of burlap that I found myself carrying with me wherever I traveled for the past year.

A tealight candle, an aquamarine carved angel, a small box of sage and palo santo, a small libations bowl, a framed photograph of my grandmother, one of her turbans and a dried flower I saved from her homegoing.

As I laid everything out, the smell of palo santo coating all of the items hit my nostrils, grounding me in the moment. As I lit the small tea light candle, I prayed for blessings on my new home and protection over the space in my absence. Nana was my witness to this request.

It would be one month before I returned to my new home and officially began on my journey as a Florida resident. On my return, the house was indeed safe and intact. But there was a bigger purpose unfolding behind the scenes.

What do you do to feel protected or to give yourself a sense of safety before stepping into unknown territory?

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Perceived Danger

It was about two months into my move, South Florida had spoiled me with minimal rain (drought, truthfully) and clear, dancing skies from the day I touched down. It was only a matter of time before I encountered the rainstorms people cautioned me about, “But are you ready for the hurricanes??”

One evening, without warning, the skies opened up with intense rain, lightning, and even some hail. I didn’t have cable so I was scanning for news of what was going on. The weather app simply said, “Heavy rain expected until midnight.” Judging by the way the rain quickly filled up the canal around my house, this storm had the potential to be damaging (at least that’s how it felt).

Anxiety started to set in as I thought about every bad scenario that could happen… like the house flooding, a sinkhole forming in my yard, the roof getting struck by lightning and the stress of having to put in an insurance claim… I thought about how sixteen months before this storm, my garden-level apartment in Astoria flooded during a crazy flash flood episode in NYC.

With this storm, the lightning was frequent, striking and excessively loud. I thought, anything could happen and I felt unprepared and unfit for it all; no substantial emergency gear or evacuation plan to rely on in the event of things going bad.

With building anxiety, I called a few people; my mom, who tried to keep me from panicking, Kay’s mom, who assured me it was a regular rainstorm, and finally, my younger cousin Ziah (who lives in Tampa - a different climate) and we spoke for over an hour about everything else besides rain! It was a welcome break from my catastrophizing, however, each call reminded me that this was something I had to go through on my own.

As the storm went on into the night, and no amount of TV could calm me, I decided to just go to bed. I drew the blackout curtains in my bedroom, took melatonin and knocked out. Resting with the acceptance that I had no control over the weather — whatever happens will happen and I’d deal with it the next day.

Divine Encounter

The next morning, I woke up and drew the curtains with slight apprehension, curious to see what the damage would be. I was relieved to see that, of course, nothing much had happened. The water in the canal was already receding and none of it was in or even close to the interior of my home. The biggest assessment was that I needed to install gutters to keep that waterfall from causing issues in the future. I went about my day.

While on a work call, I heard what sounded like an aggressive knock near the front of my house. I looked towards the door and saw a silhouette that turned out to be a crane knocking on its beak on the door (yes, those cranes!). I laughed it off with my coworker - everyone knew about these birds by then - though I was thrown off that it came by the door, they are usually milling around in the yard looking for grubs.

An hour later, I heard the knocking again. This time, it was coming from my office/sunroom where I saw the crane again, knocking fervently at the window. How peculiar, that the area it was knocking on was also pointed right where I had the photo of Nana in the window.

The bird and I made eye contact in what felt like a staring contest. The other two cranes in the family stopped their pecking and looked up in our direction as well. An acknowledgment. When the message was understood and our gazes fell, they gently ambled away.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I stood there, the encounter etched into my memory. It was a powerful reminder: even in the face of fear, I was surrounded by unseen forces, by love, and by an unwavering sense of belonging. And that, more than anything, is what makes this house my "Safe House."

What do you think; coincidence or a divine intervention?

What signs have you received in your recent memory that reminded you that you are protected?

Carnival’s Lingering Euphoria

The remnants of back-to-back weekends in Miami's vibrant energy faded as I touched down in Aruba for the 70th Carnival celebrations. As the plane touched down, I felt the familiar warmth of home and waited for the sweet waft of sea breeze to hit my nose with childlike anticipation. This homecoming served a dual purpose: a joyous reunion fueled by Carnival festivities and the quiet reflection of my Nana's memory.

My zus1, Saskia, kept the glow of Carnival 69 on her face throughout the whole year and I knew I needed to get in on the action. What began as a loose plan between us to meet up (after two years apart) and catch a vibe, turned into travel planning across at least three WhatsApp groups for a multigenerational meetup. We needed a spreadsheet to coordinate all the arrivals — Sas, my aunt and my cousin coming in from the Netherlands the U.S. crew coming in from NYC and FL… all the connecting flights!

At one point there were ten of us boarding in Nana’s three-bedroom / two-bathroom home in San Nicolas, across beds, couches, and recliners. The full house matched the fullness of my heart being surrounded by family. Between the catching up and the laughter, sleep had long evaded us — not to mention the partying and jumping up on di road for a week straight.

Every day we would wake up and feel the carnival spirit in the air beckoning us to join in the revelry — from the vibrant costumes and daily parades in the streets to the little jumpups around town. On any given day, at Nana’s central location in The Village, we’d hear music pulsating in the distance, the sound of caiso brass bands and soca music carrying through the wind and into the house in surround sound.

I can still hear Mical Teja’s Road March playing from every truck, “no place like hoooome, hooome, hooome.” Kicking off 2024 with this trip, was the fuel I needed to power through the year ahead. We danced, cried, shared stories, and forged memories that would last a lifetime. The rule is, “what happens at Nana's House stays at Nana's House,” but trust me, the laughter still echoes in my soul.

Remembering with Love and Laughter

The spirit of carnival is as much about remembrance as it is about celebration and joy. Stepping back into Nana's house in San Nicolas (the original "Safe House'“) brought a mix of emotions. It had been two years since her passing, and her absence was a palpable void.

The house felt different, yet familiar. I imagined her sitting in her recliner by the door, watching the world go by, contentment resting on her face as she reveled in her lineage surrounding her. Her reactions to our outfits, her playful jabs about our comings and goings – they were all missing. But in the warmth that still lingered, in the way the walls held onto her voice, I knew she was overjoyed to have us all together.

One evening, we came home to ground-shaking, ear-numbing dembow playing from someone parked in the mini lot next door testing out their chuchero. Heat-exhausted faces around the house turned to full-on grimaces. I thought about how Nana would’ve reacted to this disturbance and my mind went to a book I saw on her bedstand called, “How to Survive in the 21st Century.” I would ask her if the book prepared her for this and share a brief moment of laughter with her.

Leaving Aruba and heading to my next home in NYC, I carried two distinct yet intertwined experiences: the vibrant energy of Carnival and the quiet reflection at Nana's house. It was a reminder that home is not just a place, but a tapestry woven with threads of joy, remembrance, and the enduring love that transcends loss. We missed Nana’s spirit, her wisdom, her sense of humor. But in sharing stories, laughter, and tears, we kept her memory alive. In honoring tradition, we connected with our past and paved the way for future generations. Carnival was for the ancestors, and Nana was surely at the forefront of that celebration.

I’m exploring home this month and have many more reflections to come. What does 'home' mean to you? Share your thoughts in the comments!

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I’ve been feeling creative these days and today I’m switching things up a little bit. I’ve been meaning to tell you about some frequent visitors in my garden and thought I would try chronicling it as if it were the hot gossip of the week.

Lately, I’ve been inspired by a few Substackers like , and who have been encouraging writers to push the boundaries of their creativity and try their hand at writing fiction.

Fun fact: I used to write fiction as a teen. It started as avid lurking on 00’s boy band message boards and reading fanfiction (back then, we crushed hard on everyone in Seventeen or Word Up! magazine via AllStar FanFic on MSN… what a time to be alive!). Then, around late middle school to high school, I channeled my teen angst into my own fictional stories. Thankfully, none have seen the light of day.

I haven’t written fiction since then but thanks to the writing community here, I’ve felt inspired to make another attempt. I’m looking forward to sharing some of the work with you in the future. For now, I hope you enjoy today’s story. It is a true tale, albeit exaggerated for added effect!

The more I write this newsletter, the more comfortable I become with sharing more of my world with you. As always, I’m so grateful for your support and appreciate all the kind messages — like this one from a dear friend 🥰:

While I plan to keep Letters From The Safe House as accessible as possible and free to read, I would love to know if you find this newsletter worth paying for. If you like what you’ve been reading so far and want to show some love, you can pledge to become a paid subscriber. You won’t be charged until I turn on payments.

Until then, you’ll continue to freely read Letters From The Safe House as you wish. Meanwhile, I get the validation of knowing that I have readers who feel my work is worthy of a paid subscription. At this moment, that’s all the motivation I need to keep writing. ✨

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🌿🗣️ Garden Gossip: Birds vs. Palms vs. Jess

Welcome to Garden Gossip, a dispatch where I share all the latest dirt on the goings-on in my garden. Today’s short story is about my ongoing battle between my heirloom Traveller's palm plants and a family of Sandhill Cranes that frequent my yard. You may recall me mentioning them in my January Garden Update.

As you may know, I left NYC to start a new life in the tropical suburbs in a home I bought and named "The Safe House." I'm part of a trending cohort of women referred to as "rich aunties"; single, child-less, wanderlust, with a mysterious estimate of discretionary spending - most of which I spend on plants and landscaping (#plantparenthood🪴).

Honestly, my inner life is quite a mystery to most people, but my garden is one thing that everyone hears me talk about — ad nauseam. Even if you’re not into gardening, there’s some thrill and drama to be found in this chronicling of my outdoor misadventures.

Picture this: I'm tending to my vibrant, slow-growing Traveller's palms, nurtured from tiny heirloom seeds. These palms take their sweet time, but when they flourish, it's sheer beauty. So, I'm in it for the long haul.

But here's where our story takes an unexpected twist. As summer heated up, a family of three Sandhill Cranes decided that my garden was their personal buffet. They eyed my Traveller's palm seeds like gourmet treats and, I kid you not, they tossed the leaves back and forth like a game of catch. The disrespect! Can you believe it? They were having a field day while I was having a meltdown!

@themagicaljjoMy backyard is a NatGeo scene #gardentok #nature #birdsoftiktok #southflorida #worldenvironmentday

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A Feral and Unhinged Tale of Heartbreak, Perfectionism, and Family Dynamics

I’m obsessed with these birds! I even talk to my mom about them and their mischievous antics often. The last time I reported one of their crimes to her she said, "Okay, so what else is going on with you besides the birds and your plants?"

Nothing, absolutely nothing, Mom. This is my life now; waging war against a family of Sandhill Cranes and writing about it for my own hubris.

I started with ~30 traveller’s palm seeds that took two months to germinate. I told you about those beautiful palms that fan out in massive broad leaves.

The first crime happened early on when the plants were still rooting themselves, I had already lost quite a few to the intense heat that week in July. But the greatest heartbreak was waking up one morning to see that not only had the heat won, but the birds did too. I was down by 8 plants.

The second time they came to munch was when I decided to plant them in individual pots and sat them in a kiddie pool to stay moist while I was away during the endless summer heatwave. This was a no0b move on my part since it hadn’t occurred to me that I’d essentially laid out a buffet for them to feast (plus, all you can drink!). 18 left.

The third strike, was when I had truly had enough. I put all the plants I had left in a large, elevated urn and topped it with a plastic trellis I had sitting around. You know, with the naive hope that a few tall, plastic stakes would keep the savages away.

I remember being in a meeting with someone that day and hearing rustling outside my patio. I turned around to see the cranes stabbing their beaks into my little grow pots. You can imagine my dilemma at that moment; pause the meeting for an “emergency” which I really couldn’t do much about or continue while trying hard not to think about the devastation outside my door.

What would you have done?

All that to say, I am now left with a solid 5 palms and another 3 hanging on for dear life. 🤦🏾‍♀️

However, in the midst of this debacle, I've started to see the birds as a metaphor for my own life. I'm a *recovering* perfectionist, working against my instinct to try and have control of everything. But the birds are a reminder that nature is unpredictable. You can't control everything, and sometimes you just have to let go and rock with it.

In my heart, I see the birds as a part of my family. Despite this smear campaign against them, I do enjoy having them around and have sweeter stories to tell of our encounters. They remind me that it's okay to let go and enjoy the moment, even when they are playing tag with the fragments of my precious plants.

So, yeah, I'm over these birds and their disrespect. 🙄 But I have so much love for them at the same time.

My Latest Solution

By this time, it's gotten to the point where I'm starting to think that these birds are trolling me. They know how much I love my traveller's palms, and they're just trying to get a rise out of me!

Well, actually, I’ve since come to realize that they are just searching for food; they love to eat tubers and grubs. I’ll gladly let them feast on those disgusting nematodes but my tuberous plants like ginger and curcumas… hell naw!

Determined to find a way to protect my plants from these feathered vandals, I figured out a way to fix dem GOOD! (as one of my aunts would say). My latest solution for keeping the birds away is surrounding my traveller’s palms with my agave plants. The agave plants have sharp spikes, so step close or get pricked my feathered-kin! 😈

It’s a bit of a crude fix but so far it’s working, the birds know to avoid the stabbing tips of the agave plants. I also read that moving objects are also good bird deterrents. You won’t catch me with a rainbow pinwheel in my yard but I’m not above a fashionable moving art piece in the yard. If you come across any, please do share. I’m sure Amazon will serve me with a few ads as soon as I hit publish on this dispatch.

In the meantime, I'm learning how to coexist with the Sandhill Cranes; finding a balance between protecting my plants and respecting the wildlife that shares my space.

I'll keep you updated on my progress. In the meantime, if you have any tips for keeping birds away from plants, please send them my way!

XOXO,

Jess

I’d love to hear your thoughts and feedback on this juicy gossip. Would you like to read more? Talk soon!🌿

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Winter

It’s been dreary and unseasonably chilly in South Florida. With temperatures dipping into the 40s at night, it’s been a tough few weeks for my garden. We also had a few high wind and heavy rain storms that put a damper on any plans I had to be outside and productive in the yard. While the rest of the country may be bundled in layers, this unseasonal chill has brought a different kind of freeze to my garden – a freeze of enthusiasm.

As much as I’ve tried to escape the winter doldrums, they have found me on some days just wanting to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea and a good book. The thought of tackling another physically demanding project after the marathon I just ran to finish Island #1, the looming busyness of February, and the fear of missing critical pre-spring tasks – it all feels a bit overwhelming.

Water

I welcome the heavy rain though, it’s a sign of good fortune. Rainwater is like liquid IV for plants; they love it and you can see just how much they do by the growth that comes the next morning. It also means there’s one less chore for me to do, with the lower temperatures and frequent rain, I don’t have to water the garden myself.

However, the downside of heavy rains is the flooding and the concern it brings for how I’m managing the flow of water around my home. The city’s flood mitigation of moats and canals helps but there is work that I need to do to prevent damaging floods to my property.

I've been learning more about water management than I ever thought I would! Swales, diversion tactics, water tables – a vocabulary I couldn't have dreamed of a year ago. Now, I envision ditches, trenches, and earth sculpted to dance seamlessly with the rain around my home.

For example, we got our heaviest downpour of the season so far, last weekend. Picture me, constantly checking outside my windows to see if water is overflowing close to the entrances of my home and worried about the water tables accumulating in my yard. Some were a lot closer to my home’s foundation than I thought. I see this is going to be my priority for the year.

Last week I talked about how impressed I was at my capability to move earth. I’ll certainly be doing a lot more of that this year as I work to ease the flow of water and create a garden that can eventually water itself.

It's funny how things come full circle. A year ago, a similar rainstorm greeted me as a newbie homeowner, ignorant of gutters, foundations, and the delicate balance of water. Back then, every challenge felt like a mountain, and I learned the hard way the importance of proper drainage. It's a humbling reminder of my journey, of how much I've learned and how much more there is to discover.

Waiting

I have a special dispatch brewing, about that very experience. A tale of divine intervention that helped pave the way for the creation of this beautiful, green vision I have for my garden and even my life. Stay tuned, it's coming soon…

In the meantime, while the winter doldrums may linger, I choose to see them as a pause, a chance to catch my breath before the spring sprint. It's a time to celebrate the knowledge I've gained, the challenges I've overcome, and the exciting projects that lie ahead.

This is the story of my garden; a story of waiting, of water, and of learning to bloom even in the coldest of seasons.

Here are the prompts I’m journaling about this season. I’d love to hear your thoughts…

• Share a time when water played a powerful role in your life, either metaphorically or literally.

• Have you ever faced a period of unexpected waiting or delay in your life? How did you navigate it?

• Do you have any personal rituals or practices that help you find peace and renewal during cold or slow seasons?

Lovingly,

Jess