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 midsummer 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.
Source : Self.com