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I’m grateful to say that, as well as a rather grey car park, during the year I spent in hospital, my window looked out onto a large oak tree. When I was first admitted its branches were bare, the first week of a cold April, yet to give way to fresh leaves. That initial period was a blur – the disorientation of a new environment and unfamiliar routines. One of the few moments I can picture clearly is my first observation of this tree – given that it was nothing but dark bark, it almost merged with the concrete sprawl, but I was pleased to see it nonetheless. I stood journaling against the radiator – unwilling to let my tired body rest – looking out at this skeleton tree, trying to process the changes that lay ahead of me. Rereading my writing, I find I was comforted to know that the oak would undergo a similar process: “As the time passes here I can watch it – move away from the radiator with spring. Leaves slowly uncurling until there is a full crown of them, vivid against the grey sky. I hope I will have grown by then too”.
Having entered an environment in which so much was hard and clinical, my life taking a shape I had never expected and over which I had very little control, maintaining this connection with the natural world felt deeply significant. To look out of the window and watch the tree transition from sparse branches to rich clusters of leaves gave me so much: it allowed me to view change as something positive rather than something to fear; helped me to stay in tune with the passage of time and the turning of seasons. Even when my life felt like living the same day on repeat, it kept me tethered to a world beyond illness, becoming this quiet promise that a wilder life existed outside of the ward.
While the impact this specific oak had on my recovery is perhaps impossible to fully explain, the comfort it gave me sits within a wider story. A growing body of research suggests that time spent in nature, or even observing it, has measurable effects on both our physical and mental health. Studies have found that hospital rooms that provide natural views and higher levels of sunlight lead to shorter admissions than comparable cases in rooms with no windows. We seem to instinctively understand that spending time in wooded areas has a positive impact on wellbeing and yet so much contact with nature is left to chance rather than built into our spaces of care. The tree did not heal me but I cannot dismiss its contribution – if we increased access to nature within hospital settings what else might be possible?
As I made progress, connecting with the natural world continued to play a large part in my ability to move beyond my illness: wild swimming in a mountain-top tarn after so long in the unit’s artificial environment felt like a mix of returning to the person I used to be and accepting someone new all at once. There is so much joy and beauty in the world around us and I am so grateful to have access to it again. Current research shows that my relief is based on more than just an aesthetic appreciation of the natural world, with benefits of time spent amongst trees ranging from lowered cortisol to improved mood. This has led to a growing practice of green social prescribing in UK healthcare systems, reflecting a wider appreciation of the role the natural world can play in wellbeing. These changes hold a lot of promise for further integration of nature within urban society but even without these new practices the benefits would still be there. No one sat me down and said ‘You will find comfort in this tree’. I doubt there was any consideration of my window when it was planted, and yet I built this connection nonetheless. There is so much to be gained by simply being intentional in the way you observe the world around you, taking time to connect with its natural elements.
A year later, back at the beginning of April, I was preparing for discharge and my oak was bare again: I had changed so much yet this whole time it had simply been living out its yearly cycle. I no longer felt a sense of kinship when looking at its thin branches, but that doesn’t negate the role it played in my recovery. The way that things serve you is, like nature itself, something that changes over time. The leaves turn and fall, but the tree will be green again soon.
Evelyn Byrne and The Team