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2 weeks Ago By Grace McCarty
This article is part of SELF’s 2024 Guide to Getting Outside, an editorial package that explores the connection between nature and well-being through the lens of awe. SELF will be publishing new articles for this series throughout October. Read more here .
When I decided to attend Fordham University in the Bronx five years ago, I wasn’t exactly prioritizing access to nature. I was never particularly outdoorsy either; I had wanted to move to a big city for as long as I could remember, and was eager to dive head-first into everything New York offers. I fantasized about museum visits, shopping in Manhattan, and the restaurant scene—so when I learned that students got free access to the New York Botanical Garden, right across the street from Fordham’s campus, I wrote it off as a nice perk I might use once in a while.
I didn’t know then that ‘the Botans’ would become an emotional lifeline for me—and permanently change my philosophy on city living. My first visit was on a perfect September afternoon (crisp enough for sweatshirts but sunny enough to feel some warmth on my face). I had strolled over to the garden with three new friends from my dorm hall—a group that had banded together on our first night, and held onto each other for dear life since.
We wandered into the Everett Children’s Adventure Garden, a small trail decked out with craft tables, a puppet theater with tree stump seats, and other small delights for the bored kids of nature people. In early preparations for Halloween, the path was also populated with a cast of jack-o-lantern scarecrows. Zany faces were carved into their pumpkin heads, and their bodies were made of such knotty, warped branches that they appeared to be flailing through space—which also happened to be an exact representation of how I felt at that time.
As an 18-year-old freshman, I was exhausted, anxious, and homesick. After those first few weeks of trying to appear—and feel—older, cooler, smarter, and worthy of befriending, the corny scarecrows unlocked something dorky and beautiful in me. Fortunately, my friends followed suit.
We doubled over laughing as we posed next to the woodland characters, and related the most disheveled among them to our humbling new-student experiences: “Those two are us at 7 a.m. orientation after move-in”; “That one’s me when I saw the communal bathrooms.
” That visit was one of the first times I let my guard down in college, and felt truly connected to my new friends. It was also the first of many moments that the NYBG engulfed me with a powerful sense of relief. From then on, I was hooked.
Garden visits were cemented in my schedule: I’d walk over for a break between classes, spread a blanket on the grass for serene study sessions, and meet my friends there on Sunday mornings to recap the weekend. The walking trails also offered much-needed privacy for honest phone conversations with my family and friends back home. With each trip, my mental map of the 250-acre grounds became clearer, until I could easily find my favorite landmarks: the waterfall that rushed on as I added songs to my (now painfully nostalgic) college playlist; the rose bushes that smelled like my mom’s garden; the conservatory where we shot photos for the student fashion magazine.
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. Your brain is hard-wired to give you that fuzzy fall feeling. 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. I’ve explored the green spaces in my daily orbit—the quickest route to Central Park, the alcove with the willow trees by Pier 64, the shady benches pointing toward the Hudson River near my office building—and mentally designated them as natural stress havens.
I don’t let a work-from-home day close without a break for fresh air, even if it’s just for a few minutes. When I need to vent on the phone or to a friend, I try to take the conversation on a walk. And while I was fortunate to have access to a space as idyllic and expansive as the Botans to form these habits (and convince myself that they really do work), I know I can nurture them anywhere.
I may never live just steps away from the New York Botanical Garden again, but I know where to look for the sense of calm it instilled in me. Big cities will always feel all-consuming, but when you prioritize getting outside as a wellness essential (just like your morning protein shake, nightly meditation, or weekly yoga class) you might find that nature surrounds you—and supports you—more than you realize. Related: Awe Can Do Wonders for Your Well-Being—If You Know Where to Look for It I Didn’t Think Birding Was for Me.
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