POST 6: You’re Not a Vibe—You’re a Whole Damn Safari (And Bigfoot Is Driving the Jeep)

You’re Not a Vibe—You’re a Whole Damn Safari (And Bigfoot Is Driving the Jeep)

        

        The world wants me pruned and polished, like some HOA-approved flowerbed. Trim the wild. Edge the chaos. Smile politely while the mulch suffocates your roots. But no, thank you—I wasn’t made to be trimmed back. I am raw terrain. I’m that defiant patch of crabgrass in a suburban lawn, flipping the bird to conformity. My roots? Breaking through concrete like they heard freedom was buried underneath.

        I speak in compost avalanches and weather warnings. I celebrate the glory of a moldy banana peel turning into black gold. I’m not here to match the drapes—I’m here to rip the whole damn house down and build a greenhouse with the lumber. Suppress this energy and I’d be no better than a plastic ficus at a dentist's office—silent, synthetic, and dying slowly from boredom. No thanks. I let the wild out. I let it howl. And somewhere in that jungle of contradictions, I remind the world: growth is not always graceful. Sometimes it's a mess. Sometimes it's muddy. Sometimes it's a full-blown emotional landslide—and that’s where the real shit starts to bloom.

        Sometimes I’m as steady as bedrock. Sometimes I’m a landslide in Crocs and a tank top, emotionally sprinting through the garden at full speed with a shovel in one hand and an existential crisis in the other. And I’ve learned to be okay with that. Some days I’m all plans and prep—calculated compost ratios, spreadsheet tabs, battle strategy. Other days? I am the raccoon in the mulch pile, tearing through the day with zero regard for logic. And somehow, both versions of me are necessary. Both get things growing.

        The moment I really got it? When I ditched the careful blueprint and went full gremlin-mode in the greenhouse. Chaos. Mud. One broken rake. A glorious victory. Turns out, sometimes logic is just fear in a lab coat. Sometimes destruction is the only way to clear space for what actually needs to grow.

Welcome to the Reserve

        There’s a reason I call this place a freakin’ safari park. My inner ecosystem? Yeah, it’s got zones. 

The Strategic Wolf Pack: 

        These tactical beasts perch on the ridgeline of my mind, always calculating, always planning the next move. They don't howl unless they mean it.

The Stampeding Wild Boar: 

        Pure instinct. No brakes. Just raw force crashing through emotional underbrush like deadlines aren’t real and we’ve got mulch to move.

The Bone-Collecting Magpie: 

        Obsessed with shiny facts, useless trivia, half-remembered TikToks about mushrooms. This bird is building a brain nest and it’s fabulous.

Caution signs posted all over:

– WARNING: Bog of Overthinking. Depths unknown. Do not wade in alone.

– CAUTION: Unfiltered Honesty Habitat. Sudden truths may be delivered at high velocity.

– Advisory: Nighttime Brooding Zone. May involve playlists and tears.

        And listen, don’t sleep on the Vault of Unhinged Ideas. That’s where the weirdest, wildest, most game-changing thoughts are hiding. The ones that don’t make sense yet. The ones that might save your ass next season. Also, keep an eye out for Bigfoot. I swear I saw him the last time I followed a bold idea into the fog. We locked eyes. He nodded. I think he, too, believes in chaotic healing and banana water for tomatoes. Legend.

Feral Freedom = Real Freedom 

        

        I’ve been punished for being too much. Too loud. Too emotional. Too messy. Too direct. Too...everything. But what I’ve learned is this: every “too much” was actually a “just right” in the wrong environment. I’m not here to apologize for having a hurricane in my ribcage. I’m here to build storm shelters and throw dance parties in the eye of it. I’m done shrinking. Done trying to be someone’s idea of palatable. 

        I hereby give myself permission to be the garden gremlin I am. To stomp in puddles. To laugh too loud. To take up space like a damn zucchini in July.
Messiness is momentum. Chaos is creation. You don’t need to be neat to be necessary. Let the roots roam.

BMC's Signature Safari Quote: 

 “I’m not here to make sense. I’m here to uproot, ignite, and maybe emotionally stampede if the mood is right.”

        So come on in. The weeds are warm. The mulch is fresh. Bigfoot’s probably somewhere in the back, sipping compost tea. Let’s get wild.

Before You Head Back to Civilization…
        You just made it through the safari. You survived the Stampeding Boar, outwitted the Magpie, and maybe—just maybe—locked eyes with Bigfoot while he watered tomatoes with banana tea. 

Now I wanna hear from your wilderness.

        What zone of the inner ecosystem are you stuck in today?
When did you last go full gremlin in your own life?

What’s your version of emotional Bigfoot?

         Drop it in the comments. Raw. Unfiltered. Muddy if needed. This isn’t about being tidy—it’s about being true. Let the other weirdos know they’re not alone in the overgrown jungle. Roar, squeal, or squawk below. Just don’t leave me talking to myself and a gnome.
—BMC 

Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon

Let's be clear: This isn't advice, gospel, or anything official. I'm not a doctor, therapist, horticulturist, or any ist' with a fancy degree. This is my personal journey— imperfect, dusted with compost, and a little chaotic. if your tomato plant flops or you have an existential crisis in your garden shed. that's on you. Adulting required. This is a digital garden diary, and you re peeking over the fence— so say hello while you're here. -BMC

POST 5: Naked, Afraid, and Fabulous: The Art of Showing Up as Your Unfiltered Self

Naked, Afraid, and Fabulous: The Art of Showing Up as Your Unfiltered Self

        

Because you’ve spent enough time playing therapist, peacekeeper, overachiever, and emotionally constipated fixer. It’s time to drop the costume, light it on fire, and strut into the world like your unfiltered, unbothered, fabulous damn self.

        Let’s be real. Most of us are out here walking around in full-blown emotional drag. We’re suited up in roles we didn’t even audition for—stitched together with trauma threads, family expectations, and a little generational guilt for spice. Cute? Maybe. Functional? Sometimes. Authentic? Not even a little.

“You wore those survival costumes like armor—and yeah, they kept you breathing. But Plant-Warrior, you’re not here to just breathe. You’re here to burn brighter. To show skin and soul. To turn every scar into strategy and every shadow into a damn runway. Survival’s the prequel. Thriving? That’s the saga.”

Costume Closet Confessional:

        Let’s roll the receipts on the roles you’ve been playing:

The Caretaker: Saintly AF, but slowly evaporating inside.

The Achiever: High-functioning anxiety with a side of trophies.

The Fixer: Can’t stop, won’t stop solving everyone else’s shit… while yours is on fire.

The Spouse: All give, no orgasm. Let’s talk about that.

The Black Sheep: Rebel with a cause. That cause? Survival with side-eye.

The Family Therapist: Emotional 911 but no damn hotline for yourself.

        These aren’t personality traits. They’re trauma couture. And if you wear ‘em long enough, you forget there’s a real, raw, radiant human underneath all that emotional armor.

So Who TF Are You When No One’s Watching?

        Not Instagram-you. Not “hold it together at the family BBQ” you. We’re talkin’ you-you. That version with no audience, no applause, and no pressure to impress.

Ask yourself:

What lights you up when there’s no one to perform for?

What brings peace—not productivity, just… peace?

What would you do if you weren’t worried about looking selfish, weird, or “too much”?

When it’s quiet… what do you hear from inside?

        This isn’t some woo-woo retreat crap. This is the homecoming your inner badass has been waiting on.

Strip the Titles. Burn the Trauma Armor. Cut the Crowd-Pleasing Crap.

It’s time for a full-body soul exfoliation:

        Titles? You are not your résumé or your relationship status. Trauma Armor? Helpful once. Now? It’s just blocking your joy like expired sunscreen.

Crowd-Pleasing Reflex? That knee-jerk “yes” is just a slow death in polite disguise.

        “Stripping that sh*t off feels exposed—like walking into the arena with no armor, no edits, just full eye contact and bare truth. But that’s your zone, Plant-Warrior. That’s where the real power lives. In the raw. In the dirt. In the unfiltered, unpolished, undeniable you.”

So How Do You Let the Real You Breathe Again?

        Glad you asked, Dirty Mulcher. Let’s get down to the reclaim-your-damn-self checklist:

Self-Reflection & Inquiry

Journal like your pen’s on fire. No filters. No edits.

Meditate

Yes, even if your brain’s a racetrack.

Ask “Who am I without ___?” until it hurts… then ask again.

Identify Values & Interests

What matters when nobody’s grading you?

What’s fun even if it’s pointless and weird? That’s the sauce.

Create Solitude & Stillness

Stop filling every silence.

Sit with your damn self. Let your soul get a word in.

Challenge the Inner Programming

Whose voice are you hearing when you say “should”?

What rules are you following that aren’t even yours?

Experiment with Authenticity

Say the thing you’re scared to say.

Make a weird-ass choice just because it feels right.

Do you, even if it shocks your in-laws.

Seek Real-Deal Relationships

Find the people who clap when you get honest—not just when you’re cute.

Share the mess. If they can’t hold it, they don’t get to hold you.

Practice Self-Compassion

You wore the mask for survival. No shame in that.

Now you’re choosing truth. That takes guts. Honor the process.

    

         Bottom Line? Letting your authentic self out doesn’t mean burning down your whole damn life and running into the woods (unless that’s your kink). It means balance. It means honoring your realness with the same energy you give to your to-do list. It means saying:

“Yes, I’ve worn the mask—but I’m ready to breathe.”

“I can show up for others and still be true to me.”

“I want peace more than praise.”

        And trust—no matter how deep you’ve buried the real you under years of roles and reactions, they’re still in there. Still waiting. Still worthy. And hella fabulous. So go ahead: unzip the costume, toss it on the compost pile, and walk out into the sunlight of your damn life. Bare, bold, and brilliantly you. BMC’s right here, watering your wild side. Let’s mulch the masks and let that real magic grow. 

Now it’s your turn to dig in.
Have you ever tried to set a boundary that backfired?
Did your chili betray you too?
Whats your version of "healing"?
       

         Drop it in the comments. Seriously. This garden grows better when more voices get dirty in the soil. Say something. Say anything. Just don’t ghost me like that one zucchini I thought was thriving until it rotted overnight.
—BMC 

Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon

Let's be clear: This isn't advice, gospel, or anything official. I'm not a doctor, therapist, horticulturist, or any ist' with a fancy degree. This is my personal journey— imperfect, dusted with compost, and a little chaotic. if your tomato plant fiops or you have an existential crisis in your garden shed. that's on you. Adulting required. This is a digital garden diary, and you re peeking over the fence— so say hello while you're here. -BMC

Post 4: The Illusion of Control: You Think You’re Running the Show? That’s Adorable.

“The Illusion of Control: You Think You’re Running the Show? That’s Adorable.”

        

        You roll up to the garden like it’s a job interview you’re clearly overqualified for. Confidence dialed up to eleven. Chest puffed. Tool belt slung. Backwards cap, fresh gloves, boots tied just tight enough to show you’re serious but still down to vibe. You pause. Survey the land. Nod slowly. This… is your kingdom.

        You’ve got charts. You’ve got diagrams and drawings. You’ve got a color-coded planting calendar and three YouTube videos saved called “How To Grow Tomatoes Like a Boss.” You’ve decided: This year? You’re in charge. Cue the laugh track. Because Plant-Warrior, nature’s got other plans—and she didn’t read your spreadsheet. Control? Pfft. Try Again. 

Real Talk: Control is a Myth. Resilience is the Real Flex.

        Your perfectly mapped-out seed arrangement? The wind whipped through like a chaotic toddler with a leaf blower. The fancy trellis you spent four hours building with zip ties and optimism? The vines took one look and said, “Nah.” And that heirloom tomato you named Beatrice and whispered affirmations to every morning? She’s been violated by a horde of aphids with zero boundaries.

Let’s be clear:

        You don’t control the wind.

You don’t control the bugs.

You sure as hell don’t control that watermelon vine that just crawled into your neighbor’s carport like it pays rent there.

Control is a story we tell ourselves to keep from spiraling. But trust me—chaos is the default setting in every garden and every dang thing worth doing. So what’s the real flex? Resilience. 

Okay, Okay—Here’s What You Can Control:

        Let’s simplify this. You get three levers in the garden and in life. That’s it. Everything else? Divine mystery and insect sabotage.

1. Your Soil

        Your emotional root system. Your inner terrain. Rich soil = real growth. Neglected, toxic, dead soil? Expect stunted results. Same goes for your heart, your head, and your boundaries.

2. Your Care

        Consistency beats perfection. Are you showing up for your garden—your life—the way you’d show up for someone you love? Remove the toxic stuff. Tend it. Don’t ghost it.

3. What You Plant

        What are you seeding—joy, truth, purpose? Or burnout, bitterness, and other people’s expectations? If you plant drama, don’t act shocked when drama shows up like a dandelion on crack. Boundaries Aren’t Brick Walls—They’re Sexy Trellises. 

        People think boundaries are about keeping others out. Nah. They’re about giving your life structure to grow better. Your garden needs guidance, not a cage. Some things need to roam. Some things need pruning. And some shit needs to get ripped out by the roots. Trellis your life—don’t imprison it. Flexibility matters. Rigidity kills roots.

Perfection? Honey, That Ship Sailed With the Aphids

        You want Pinterest vibes? That’s cute. But real gardens are funky, busted, radiant rebels. Crooked carrots. Basil that thinks it’s a bush. Sunflowers that lean like drunk uncles at a wedding. And that’s the point. It’s not about aesthetic. It’s about aliveness. 

        Let go of the lie that your life has to look perfect to be worth celebrating. It’s not about flawless cucumbers—it’s about growing in the dirt, laughing at the chaos, and eating your weird harvest with joy.

Big Mulch Takeaway: You’re Not in Charge—You’re in Partnership

        You can spend your life trying to micromanage the universe—or you can co-create with it. Let go of perfection. Adapt when it goes sideways. Plant anyway.

Because real growth isn’t tidy. It’s stubborn. Sacred. Messy as hell.

Final Lesson: Even Chili Will Betray You

Still think you’ve got control? Let me introduce my infamous chili recipe.

You measure. You taste. You think it’s going your way. And then—bam. A rogue jalapeño with a grudge torches your sinuses like it’s auditioning for a Marvel villain role. Control? Nope. Best move? Surrender. Adjust. Grab a beer. Laugh through the tears. Enjoy the spice-soaked mess you created That’s the real secret of the garden—and life. Let it be wild. Let it be messy. Let it grow anyway.

🌶️ Launch the Chili

Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon

Let's be clear: This isn't advice, gospel, or anything official. I'm not a doctor, therapist, horticulturist, or any ist' with a fancy degree. This is my personal journey— imperfect, dusted with compost, and a little chaotic. if your tomato plant fiops or you have an existential crisis in your garden shed. that's on you. Adulting required. This is a digital garden diary, and you re peeking over the fence— so say hello while you're here. -BMC

Post 3 BOUNDARIES, BANANA BREAD & BADASSERY

BOUNDARIES, BANANA BREAD & BADASSERY

    

        WELCOME BACK, PLANT-WARRIORS! Big Mulch Command here, your resident garden guru-slash-emotional landscaper. Today we’re talking about the one thing no one teaches you—boundaries—but everyone expects you to have down cold. That’s right. The B-word. Not basil (even if she’s the queen of pesto), not banana bread— I mean the invisible fence you should’ve installed before Karen from HR moved in rent-free and started redecorating your feelings.

        I used to think “boundaries” were for Wi-Fi passwords and deciding which cousins get your real number (I’m looking at you, Aunt Lupita, with your midnight MLM pitches). I shapeshifted harder than a chameleon in a rainbow—fix-it fairy, guilt-driven caregiver, you name it—while my own roots went thirsty.

Until I finally grabbed my metaphorical shovel and laid down some mulch.

MULCH THE LINE: BOUNDARIES REPLANTED

        Here are the five personal fences you need to grow strong—no green thumb required.

ROOT ZONE (Physical)

– This is your body and personal space.

– “Please don’t hug me without asking.”

– “Hands off my stuff, thanks.”

DRAINAGE CONTROL (Emotional)

– Not everyone gets to dump all their feelings into your garden bed.

– “I care about you, but I’m not your 24/7 therapist.”

– “That comment stung—please don’t do that again.”

SUNLIGHT HOURS (Time)

– You decide who gets your daylight and when.

– “I’m off the clock after 6PM.”

– “I need downtime tonight—let’s chat tomorrow.”

PRUNING RULES (Sexual)

– Consent is your main fertilizer.

– “That’s not my jam.”

– “Let’s agree on consent every time.”

DIGITAL FENCE (Online)

– Just because someone follows you doesn’t mean they get unlimited access.

– “No hard feelings, but please unfollow if you can’t respect my space.”

– “Don’t post my photo without checking first.”

HOW TO SET & KEEP YOUR FENCE INTACT

Spot the Overgrowth. If you feel drained or uneasy, your boundary’s being crossed. Get Crystal Clear. Know exactly what you need—peace, privacy, space.

State It Simply. You’re not serving cake; you’re planting a fence post.

“I need a heads-up before visits.” Stay Consistent. A fence isn’t just for show—reinforce it whenever someone steps over.

Bonus Soil Wisdom:

        If someone gets upset at your boundary, it’s because they were used to freeloading off it. Let them have their tantrum; your garden’s peace is priority number one.

YOUR GARDEN NEEDS THIS, TOO

        You wouldn’t let weeds smother your tomatoes or let rabbits feast on your lettuces—so why let people trample your emotional soil? Compost what doesn’t serve you. Mulch your peace with firm “no’s.” Grow into the unapologetic, flourishing warrior you’re meant to be.

Just.

Grow.

You ever hit a point in life where the only thing holding you together is spite, a good playlist, and a loaf of banana bread that slaps harder than your last therapy session? This recipe isn’t just about ripe bananas—hell no. It’s about reclaiming your time, your boundaries, and your taste buds. So light a candle, blast something angsty, and preheat that oven, Plant-Warrior. Because healing starts somewhere—and today, it starts with BOUNDARIES, BANANA BREAD & BADASSERY.

Now hit that damn button and Launch to Loaf. 

🚀 Launch to Loaf

Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon

Post 2 – Dirt Therapy & Mental Clarity (Heavy on the Dirt, Light on the Clarity)

DIRT THERAPY & MENTAL CLARITY

(Heavy on the Dirt. Light on the Clarity. Zero Apologies.)

Spring Awakening—in the Garden and in Me

        The last cold snap has finally packed its bags, the wind stopped screaming like it just got dumped, and now? The birds are out here straight-up auditioning for a Disney reboot. It’s like The Voice: Backyard Edition, and these feathered freaks are going full Broadway. And me? I’m just standing in the garden, dirty hands on my hips, muttering, “Same, bro.” Because just like the soil, I’m waking up too—but my version ain’t as photogenic. Winter dormancy for humans doesn’t look like a cozy tulip nap—it looks like depression, grief, scrolling until your eyeballs vibrate, and wondering if that spoon is silently judging your life choices. (Spoiler: It is.) We’re Seasonal, Just Like the Soil, Soil rests. Trees chill. Bears basically do Hot Girl Hibernation without paying rent or answering texts. Why do we treat being tired like a personal failure? Maybe you’re not broken. Maybe you’re just… seasonal.

        This year, I’m taking my garden prep personally. Like, “might cry while mulching” levels of personal. The garden’s cluttered, the soil’s tired, and something’s gotta give. I’m yanking weeds and emotional baggage at the same time—because spoiler alert: nothing grows in chaos. (Ask the ghost of my 2019 houseplants. They died so dramatically I had to apologize.)

Prepping My Garden & My Soul

       I was out here trying to heal like a cowboy in recovery—journaling under the moon with whiskey breath and wildflower seeds. Meanwhile, my trauma was in the corner lifting emotional weights and getting real shredded. I thought I was rewriting my story, but really, I was just giving my pain a six-pack and a damn podcast mic. Healing ain’t cute. It’s not always crystals and candles. Sometimes it’s sobbing in your car outside a Dollar Tree, wondering if your inner child needs snacks or an exorcism.

Step 1: Soil Test — CSI: Garden Unit

        I scooped that dirt like I was starring in CSI: Garden Unit, whispering “Enhance” while dramatically squinting at the test strip. Boom—pH 8.5. Translation: too basic. My soil’s sipping iced lattes and preaching essential oils on Instagram. Most plants want a pH between 6.0 and 7.0, slightly acidic and ready to party. But mine? Passive-aggressive AF—hoarding nutrients like a toxic ex. Fixes? Pine needles (thanks, messy-ass tree), and rainwater (if it ever decides to fall in this desert wasteland). Adapt or die, plants. BMC doesn’t do hand-holding.

Step 2: Nutrient Check — Feeding the Soil, Feeding Myself

Nitrogen (N) = Low

→ Pale leaves = plant depression. Fix with coffee grounds, alfalfa meal, or Shake ‘n Feed. Precise measuring optional. Vibes only.

Phosphorus (P) = Decent

→ If yours sucks, try bone meal or bat guano. But for the love of mulch, don’t smoke the guano. You’ll hallucinate a raccoon named Steve giving life advice.

Potassium (K) = Holding steady

→ If low, try wood ash or banana peels. But don’t overdose or you’ll summon a cursed tomato spirit that haunts your garden but never fruits. (True story.)

Zooming Out: The Mental Health Parallel

        Soil needs compost, sunlight, and a good stir. So do you. What are you feeding yourself? If it’s nothing but doomscrolling and “I suck” monologues, you’re basically watering your soul with lukewarm sadness. Try this fertilizer instead:

“I am capable.”

“I am resilient.”

“I’ll get my shit together… eventually. After snacks.”

You’d be shocked what starts blooming with just a little mental Miracle‑Gro.

Testing Yourself: What Are You Low On?

        Me? I’ve been feeling like a human piñata—hollow, fragile, one hit away from a full collapse. I let other people fill me with garbage: regret, toxic nostalgia, and emotional takeout containers. But not anymore. This time, I’m holding the trowel. I decide what goes in. I decide what grows.

Clearing the Garden = Clearing My Damn Mind

        My garden’s a mess—dead plants, busted trellises, maybe a haunted Barbie leg. My mind’s not far off. So I’m ripping out weeds while telling that toxic voice in my head to shut up and sit down. Letting go isn’t weak. It’s compost. You’re not throwing it away—you’re transforming it into something stronger.

Ask yourself: Does this serve me? Does it help me grow? Would I let this live in my house and eat all my snacks? If not? YANK IT, PLANT‑WARRIOR. That trauma‑dump friend? That self‑doubt monologue? That fear of being “too much”? Compost it.

“We don’t bloom overnight. But we do bloom. One weed at a time. Now your turn—what’s one thing you’re ready to rip out?”

Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon

💬 SOUND OFF BELOW:

- What’s your garden (or life) cluttered with right now?

- What emotional weed are you finally yanking out?

- Ever cry while mulching? Be honest. I won’t judge.