Nature has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. As a child, I loved spending time in forests, meadows, and by rivers, so my interest in gardening developed very naturally. As a teenager, I began consciously sowing seeds and growing plants in my own garden for the first time.

A turning point came during a trip to Sweden, where I noticed that almost everyone had a small kitchen garden with herbs and simple vegetables they could harvest straight into their meals. I thought it was such a brilliant idea – having fresh, healthy produce within arm’s reach. I had a garden myself, but nothing like that existed in it, so I decided to change it.

At first, I did it entirely for myself. I never considered that it might become my profession one day. I certainly never imagined that this passion would lead to books, garden design projects, and educational work. I simply wanted to create a place that reflected my own values.

When I was sixteen or seventeen and searching for information about growing plants, most of the available resources focused heavily on chemicals and artificial fertilizers. I never related to the idea that plants could only thrive with the help of endless products and treatments.

That was when I felt a strong need to show that there was another way. That a garden could work with nature rather than against it. Over time, this belief became one of the foundations of my work and of Plant Tips (Roślinne Porady).

Every garden and every client is different, which is why the entire process always begins with a conversation and a site visit. For me, this is essential. To create a meaningful design, you need to experience the place – understand its light, topography, soil, and, above all, the people who live there.

During our first meeting, I ask clients what they want from their garden. Should it be a place for relaxation, family gatherings, ornamental planting, or perhaps growing fruits and vegetables? A garden should reflect the needs of the people who will actually use it.

I also pay close attention to what is already growing on the site. I don't believe in clearing everything away and starting from scratch. I prefer to work with what already exists. Trees, shrubs, and even self-seeded plants reveal a lot about the character of a place – its soil, moisture levels, and exposure to sunlight. My role is to build upon that potential, enhance biodiversity, and create a garden that naturally belongs within its surroundings.

The first meeting is also an opportunity to explain my design philosophy. I see a naturalistic garden as something that evolves over time. I don't create gardens based on instant results, roll-out lawns, or highly engineered solutions. My approach is rooted in nature, diversity, and long-term thinking.

Sometimes it becomes clear early on that our expectations are very different. If someone dreams of a highly formal, sterile garden and doesn't connect with my philosophy, I prefer to step away from the project. It's more honest for both sides and ensures that the final garden will genuinely serve both people and nature.

I think a lot of it stems from the way our world has changed. Cities continue to expand, replacing meadows, fields, and forests. As natural habitats disappear, wildlife is left with fewer and fewer places to live. That is why I believe every garden can become a small piece of nature, giving back some of what we have taken away.

Of course, a garden will always be a human creation. We will prune, plant, and shape it. It can never be entirely wild, but it can still support insects, birds, amphibians, and many other forms of life. If each of us contributed even a little, we could make a meaningful difference for biodiversity, which is currently declining at an alarming rate.

Another issue lies in our cultural understanding of what a garden should be. For centuries, a perfectly maintained lawn symbolized wealth and prestige. Later, especially through the idea of the American Dream, it became associated with success and prosperity. That image remains deeply rooted in our minds, even though few people question where it actually comes from.

From a practical perspective, however, it makes little sense. A meadow can be just as suitable for relaxing, having a picnic, or playing with children. I'm not opposed to open recreational spaces; it's simply a question of balance. A garden can serve people while remaining a living ecosystem, rather than becoming a monoculture of grass mown every week.

For me, the most beautiful gardens are those that remind us we are part of nature, not its owners.

I feel that many of our gardening habits are driven more by tradition than by actual needs. When we visit a forest, a meadow, or a lake, we don't need a perfectly manicured lawn to relax, have a meal, or spend time with our families. Yet in our own gardens, we often consider it indispensable.

I don't think people act this way out of bad intentions. We simply rarely stop to ask ourselves why we maintain our gardens in a particular way. We do many things because "that's just how it's done." I hope my books and educational work encourage people to look at gardens differently and ask themselves whether they truly need a perfect lawn.

Maintaining one requires enormous amounts of time, energy, and water. Around the world, unimaginable quantities of water are used simply to keep lawns lush and green throughout the season. In an era of climate change, it is difficult to see that as a sustainable approach.

Fortunately, attitudes are gradually changing. More people are talking about reducing mowing, and many cities now allow grass to grow taller or establish flowering meadows instead. Such vegetation retains water more effectively, filters pollutants, and, most importantly, provides habitat for pollinators and other organisms.

I hope that over time we will stop seeing a perfectly mown lawn as the symbol of a well-kept garden. To me, a truly beautiful garden is one that is alive, diverse, and works alongside nature rather than trying to control it.

Above all, patience. Working with plants has taught me that some things simply take time. Nature cannot be rushed; it follows its own rhythm, and we need to accept that.

Every year I witness the same process. In March and early April, plants still appear small and insignificant, and for a long time very little seems to happen. There are cold spells and frosts, and you begin to wonder whether everything will work out. Yet eventually the garden bursts into life, and once again nature proves that it knows exactly what it's doing. That gives me a great sense of calm and optimism, both professionally and personally.

Each year I learn more about plants, but I also become increasingly aware of how much there is still to discover. The more I learn, the more fascinating and endless the plant world becomes.

Gardening has also changed my perception of time. In gardening, three or five years is only the beginning, while ten or twenty years feels like a completely natural timescale. It has taught me patience and encouraged me to look at life with a longer perspective.

It has also changed the way I experience the seasons. For many people, spring begins when everything turns green. I start noticing it much earlier – in the swelling buds, the changing colours of bark, the appearance of mosses and lichens. It has taught me to appreciate subtle changes and find joy in details that others often overlook.

It depends largely on the season, because seasonality is very pronounced in my work. During winter, I spend more time at my computer designing gardens, writing, creating educational content, and dealing with administrative tasks. It's a quieter period that allows me to slow down, recharge, and plan future projects.

Spring and summer are entirely different. I usually start my day around six or seven in the morning. I try to make time for yoga, a calm breakfast, and catching up on emails or social media.

Later, I head out into the field – visiting gardens, meeting clients, supervising projects, and observing how previously designed spaces continue to evolve. This is an important part of my work because it allows me to see how gardens develop over the years and how they function as living ecosystems.

I no longer work alone on every stage of a project. I collaborate with different specialists and have learned that a great garden is created through teamwork. My role is to ensure that everything develops in line with the original vision and philosophy behind the design.

No two days are ever the same. Weather, seasonality, and the stage of a project all influence what I do. Sometimes plans change completely because of rain or hail, and outdoor work has to be postponed. In those moments, I return to designing, writing, or other tasks I can do from home. Working with nature teaches flexibility and constantly reminds me that it is often nature itself that sets the pace of our lives.