Blending Beauty with Purpose: How I Made Peace Between My Favourite Plants and My Native Garden

This is now our third summer living in our home in the woods, and if the trees could talk, I’m pretty sure they’d say, “Look at them go … OMG again, with the shovel!”

The first summer here, I hit the ground planting. I was on a mission to create a native plant garden that would make the pollinators proud and David Suzuki weep with joy. I aimed for at least 80% native or near-native plants and, I’ll be honest, I think I nailed it. It was a wild, beautiful mess of turtlehead, pearly everlastings, bee balm, volunteer geranium, and hopeful idealism.

By the second summer, I turned my focus to the vegetable gardens while letting the native beds (and gifted hostas) settle in. I’d planted with intention and hoped that Mother Nature knew what she was doing. Now I’d let it all flourish while I chased tomatoes and cried over decimated kale.

But this spring? Something shifted. I found myself wandering around my garden, coffee cup in one hand, the other on my hip, with pursed lips and a vague sense of dissatisfaction that only gardeners truly understand. Something just didn’t feel right. By my second cup of coffee that morning, I finally figured out why.

The Good, the Bad, and the Pearly Everlastings

Let’s start with the obvious: not everything survived. Some of the plants I lovingly placed in the soil simply vanished. Gone. Not even a dramatic death scene – just poof. Others died where I planted them but somehow reappeared fifty feet away, as if they’d packed up in the fall and found roommates they liked better by spring.

Then there were the bullies. Take Pearly Everlastings for example. Sounds dreamy, right? Wrong! The first year, they not only took over the front garden but then they were chewed to bits by exactly the caterpillars they’re meant to support. Which is fine, in theory – I’m all for hosting a buffet for the local future butterflies – but not when they’re right in front of my porch looking like sad, tattered ghosts of a garden gone wrong.

Imagine that mess all across the front porch garden! I still feel buggy just looking at the pictures again!

And then they started popping up everywhere. They pushed out slower-growing companions, muscled into quiet corners, and I swear one tried to move that massive birdhouse. So I did what any mildly annoyed gardener would do – I pulled them out. Sorry, bugs. Two years later I’m still pulling them out. Frankly I’m shocked they’re not in the lawn … at the end of the road! I’m sure the New England Asters will be the next delinquents as I’m pulling sprouts all around.

But honestly, the biggest issue wasn’t the plant thuggery. It was the absence of the plants I loved. The ones that mattered not for their ecological benefits, but for their emotional ones.

The Plants That Still Lived in My Heart

Some plants carry stories. A climbing rose that reminds you of your grandmother’s trellis. A hosta that’s followed you from house to house like an old friend who always shows up at the perfect time. A cheerful peony that blooms just in time for a family birthday.

Letting go of those plants – because they weren’t native – felt like I was pruning part of myself. But I did it, for the sake of the ecosystem.

And then came a gift from my mother-in-law: a lovely assortment of hostas and coral bells (heuchera). She’s generous and thoughtful, and honestly, I like hostas. They’re lush, forgiving, and low-maintenance – the friend who brings wine and doesn’t mind that you haven’t vacuumed.

Initially, when we received the first few hostas, because I wanted to maintain my ratios at the front of the house, we planted most of them in a remote rock garden – even though that felt kind of wrong.  Then she visited again and brought more! I stood there, holding the gifts of green leaves and sweet intentions, and thought: Why am I being so strict?

The All-or-Nothing Trap of Gardening “Right”

Somewhere along the line, I’d boxed myself into a corner. I’d equated gardening ethically with gardening exclusively native. And while that’s a worthy goal, it turns out it’s not the only path.

My garden was starting to feel like a classroom full of overachievers- very impressive, but a bit annoying. I missed the softness, the memories, the joy that certain plants brought me.

So I gave myself permission to blend. To honour the ecosystem and the emotional roots I’ve grown over years of loving gardens.

How I Created a Blended Garden (That Still Supports the Pollinators)

Here’s what I did- and what you can do, too – if you find yourself wanting a garden that’s not all-or-nothing but all kinds of wonderful.

1. List the Plants That Matter Most to You

This is about emotion, not science. Which plants bring me joy? Which ones feel like old friends? For me, that list included roses and hostas; plants that had followed me from place to place and were part of my gardening DNA.

• Roses
• Peony
• Bleeding Heart
• Lavender

Your list might be different. Maybe it’s lilies from your childhood home or lavender you carried from your first apartment balcony. The point is: let your heart weigh in.

2. Choose Beautiful Companions that Bridge the Gap

I started looking for plants that were both garden-worthy and native-adjacent. Cue the burgundy ninebarks (Diablo for example). They’re technically cultivars of native plants and check all my boxes: hardy, gorgeous, friendly to birds and bugs, add interest and are incredibly easy to maintain.

They will become the divas of my beds – big hair, bold colour, but still good citizens.

3. Do a Gut Check for Ecosystem Compatibility

I made sure that none of my additions were invasive, chemically needy, or likely to push others out. I asked:

• Will this plant play nice with others?
• Will it need pampering (read: fertilizer or constant watering)?
• Will it crowd or smother nearby natives?

If a plant raised red flags, I gave it a polite but firm pass.

4. Blend with Intention

This part was fun. I didn’t want a clear divide – like “this bed is native, and this one is nostalgia.” Instead, I wove them together: coral bells snuggle up to yarrow, roses stand strong with the grasses, a hosta now lounges gracefully under a dogwood like a lady sipping tea in the shade. A few strategically placed native Bluestem grasses help soften the transition between structured “legacy” plants and the more casual sprawl of wildflowers beautifully.

I gave the plants enough space to shine, while still feeling like they belonged together. It’s not perfect—but it feels alive. And it feels like me.

The Best of Both Worlds

Here’s the thing I learned: gardening doesn’t have to be about sacrifice. It can be about integration. You can support pollinators, enrich the soil, and still have a patch of daffodils if they make you happy.

You’re not betraying the planet by planting your grandmother’s iris. You’re making space for beauty and meaning alongside function and responsibility.

We need joy in our gardens as much as we need native bees. 

Closing Thoughts: A Garden That Grows More Than Plants

Today, when I walk through the garden, I see more than just plants- I see a landscape of compromise and creativity. I see a place that supports the land we live on and the life we’ve lived.

My garden isn’t a perfect native sanctuary. It’s a blended family – a little wild, a little nostalgic, a little unpredictable, and a whole lot of love. Gosh this could be a perfect metaphor for lots of life-y things!

If you’ve been feeling torn between doing what’s “right” and planting what feels right – maybe you don’t have to choose. Maybe there’s space in your garden (and your heart) for both.

And if the Pearly Everlastings gets out of line again, well … the compost bin is always open.

Do you have a blended garden? Or are you feeling the tug between native-only and nostalgic beauty? I’d love to hear how you’re finding your balance in the comments below.