By the end of November, I mourned the loss of the vibrant foliage, then gladly bundled up for winter walks through the holiday light displays, when the garden stayed open late and its trees traded their leaves for twinkling, festive colors. As spring peeked through in March, I snapped dozens of photos of the sprawling daffodil fields that greeted me with golden blooms.
My love affair with the garden (and my freshman year) was cut short by the COVID pandemic in 2020. On a warm March day—the kind that makes being indoors feel sacrilege—we were told to pack up for at least two weeks away and leave campus as soon as possible. Not long after, we learned that we’d be finishing the academic year remotely.
When the mid-summer news came that Fordham planned to reopen campus for my sophomore year, I was elated. But hardly anything felt familiar about the version of college I returned to in September. None of my classes were meeting in person. The dining hall, gym, and most other community spaces were shut down, and all social gatherings were restricted. Most parts of my day-to-day routine—meals, virtual lectures, workouts—were confined to the tiny dorm room I shared with my best friend.
Even the outdoor spaces on campus were eerie and lifeless. But the Botans still felt like a refuge: There, it seemed like even if the world had ended, it wouldn’t be terribly obvious. I found myself on the grounds nearly every day, trying to walk off the overwhelming moments, safely catch up with friends, and savor the feeling of escape from the frightening reality of the city. The Native Plant Garden—a tranquil area with a glassy pool at its center, surrounded by a footbridge and wooden benches—became my go-to spot that fall. I would sit quietly and breathe deeply, listening to the gentle flow of water, taking in the reflections of the trees as their colors warmed up for autumn, reminding me that time was still marching forward. I wouldn’t feel stuck and suffocated forever.
But my anxiety still got the best of me sometimes. When I think about those less nostalgic memories, I realize how much this outdoor space supported my mental health.
And there’s science to back up that connection. Research has found that even small increments of time spent in nature decreases both emotional and physical symptoms of stress. According to mindfulness teacher and wilderness guide Mark Coleman, who previously spoke with SELF, scientific studies are “pointing to something that we know intuitively, which is that we feel better when we’re outside.” Nooshin Razani, MD, MPH, director of the Center for Nature and Health at University of California, San Francisco, also shared a helpful perspective: “Nature doesn’t have to be big or really anything specific in order for it to feel sacred and healing. Whatever nature you have access to is the nature that you can use.”
Since graduating and moving to midtown Manhattan, my everyday environment has been filled with more urban stimulus and less green space. But the habits I formed while living next door to a flourishing nature reserve still serve me every day, including the instinct to get myself outside—no matter how badly I want to hunker down—when I feel my mood plummeting and anxiety spiking.
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