Staying In My Own Garden

A small reflection on boundaries, responsibility, and learning when not to jump the fence

I’ve been learning a lot about boundaries recently. Not in a neat, self-help, “five steps to better boundaries” kind of way. More in the oh… right… that explains rather a lot way.

One image that really landed for me came from a coach I’ve been talking with. She described boundaries like this:

If a water pipe bursts in your own garden, you notice it, you worry about it, and you sort it out.
If a water pipe bursts in your neighbour’s garden, you might feel some concern — but you know it’s not your responsibility to fix it.

Simple enough.

Except my immediate internal response was:
“Oh. I would absolutely worry about my neighbour’s burst pipe.”

I’d probably be awake half the night.
Wondering who to ring.
Checking whether they’d noticed.
Offering towels.
Finding the emergency plumber.
Possibly apologising for not fixing it sooner.

And in that moment, I realised just how fuzzy my boundaries really are.

Somewhere along the way — through things I’ve lived, seen, and learned early on — I seem to have absorbed the belief that everyone’s burst pipe is my responsibility. That being a “good” person means noticing everything, carrying everything, and fixing what I can, even when it isn’t mine to fix.

The trouble is, that way of living is exhausting.

From a nervous system point of view, it also makes a lot of sense. When we’ve experienced trauma or grown up needing to stay alert to other people’s needs, moods, or crises, our brains get very good at scanning for problems. The threat-detection systems stay switched on, and the body learns that relaxing isn’t safe. Responsibility becomes tangled up with safety.

So when something goes wrong nearby, even if it’s not ours, our system reacts as if it is.

I notice this pattern in my illustrations, too. Figures leaning, arms outstretched. Bodies mid-motion, always reaching, always responding.

Perhaps that’s why the image of the fence and the burst pipe has stayed with me. It’s simple. Visual. Slightly absurd. And uncomfortably accurate.

Mid-leap… and realising I don’t actually have to go over the fence.

I’m learning that boundaries aren’t walls; they’re fences with gates. They let me see what’s happening next door without requiring me to vault over every time there’s a splash or a shout. They allow compassion without collapse.

So I’m practising. Slowly. Imperfectly.
Staying in my own garden.
Turning down the internal alarm.
Letting my nervous system learn that not every emergency is mine to fix.

And sometimes, when I catch myself halfway over the fence, I try to smile — and gently climb back down.

Are you working to fix any burst pipes that were never in your garden?

Thank you for taking the time to read — and, if you’re listening to this, for sharing a few quiet moments with me.

I often write these posts as much to help me make sense of my own inner world as anything else. Sometimes putting words and images to what’s happening beneath the surface helps things settle, soften, or simply become a little clearer.

I share these reflections because I genuinely want to encourage people — to help us all do a little better, live a little more gently, and feel a little less alone in the learning.

It’s my sincere hope that these words and drawings reach those who need them — and that, in some small way, they might be a blessing.

If this post resonated with you, please feel free to share it with a friend who might appreciate it. And if you’re feeling brave, you’re very welcome to share it on your socials too.

Thank you for being here.