“Our yard is now teeming with life”

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I decided to rewild my backyard. But I can clearly remember those first few weeks after my husband, Dave, and I found our dream home: a large suburban block on the Gold Coast, Australia. A classic ’80s brick house with a classic ’80s South East Queensland garden. Neat green lawns and a backyard packed with more than 50 golden cane palms and dense clusters of agaves.

Years of pesticides had kept the place weed-free. But it was also free from insects and the wildlife they attract. When the auctioneer shouted “sold,” I started planning. Because I knew what this patch of land could become.

At our previous rental home, I had discovered hundreds of native blue-banded bees (Amegilla cingulata) nested in the earth beneath the back deck. Inspired by these tiny creatures, we stopped using pesticides and added pots of native plants around the yard. Over the next five years, the backyard transformed. The number of insects increased, as did the birds, skinks and frogs; even a blue-tongue lizard moved in. That garden gave me a glimpse of what was possible.

So when we moved to our new home, I brought that vision with me. Had I understood the scale of what we were taking on – how many times I’d second-guess plant choices or how often I’d be dripping in sweat, muscles aching, or pulling something out to start again – I might have hesitated. Some weekends were an absolute slog. But standing here now, looking at what we’ve created, I know it’s been worth every bit of it.

We started slowly. Alongside the house renovation, we’d pop in every free weekend to start clearing the palms and agaves. This took months.

When we finally moved into the property in June 2024, we lived alongside the garden for another month, planning, researching and figuring out its microclimates. The block is 941 square metres in size and challenging, with steep slopes and heavy compacted clay soil. We started gathering Australian natives, starting with tube stock and whatever we could get our hands on at the local annual native plant market, stockpiling for when we were ready to start planting.

Rewilding in Australia

When I started this project I called it rewilding, mostly because that’s the language I saw others using. It gave me a way to describe what I was doing and connect with a wider community. But the more I learned, the more I realized the term doesn’t reflect the history or reality of Australian gardens.

Because our gardens were never truly wild to begin with. Much of what we think of as “natural” is actually the product of tens of thousands of years of Indigenous land stewardship, shaped through fire, seasonal knowledge and cultural care for Country.

Here, we tend to talk about regeneration, habitat gardening and native gardening with intent. All of it grounded in the idea that our backyards can help support biodiversity and reconnect us to place.

In other parts of the world, you’ll hear terms like naturalistic gardening, wild gardening or restoration gardening. Each of them carries the same core idea: gardening with nature, not against it. Creating spaces that work for wildlife, and for us.

The regenerating process

We didn’t set out thinking we’d do all this all ourselves. Early on, I contacted a landscape designer to help shape the plan. But when they recommended glyphosate to kill the palm stumps, I knew we weren’t on the same page. By that point, I’d already begun the research and figured we could give this a go. Our renovation budget had to stretch, and except for the retaining wall and limestone steppers, we’ve done everything ourselves. It’s been a lot of hard work, some blood, a lot of sweat, and the occasional tears.

We ditched the chemical sprays to give the soil time to recover, then began clearing out the remaining exotics. But we didn’t rip everything out – some of the established trees stayed, including a flowering golden penda that lights up with lorikeets in the warmer months and a beautiful 40-year-old Chinese flame tree that shades the house and the future library garden. Near the pool, a huge Cycas palm and a mature benjamin fern arch over the pool and help cool the space. Those established trees were working for us, and for the wildlife, and gave the garden structure while everything else was still catching up.

At the same time, I was deep in learning everything I could. I wanted to understand how to work with our local environment and choose plants that would thrive here. Our climate zone is subtropical, and our home sits within a eucalypt forest and woodland bioregion, so that became the blueprint.

Local knowledge helped us the most. The annual native plant market on the Gold Coast (held every July) was a gold mine. We picked up many of our plants there, but just as valuable was the advice. Growers and gardeners who’ve been doing this for decades were generous with their knowledge. These are people who’ve been pushing for this kind of gardening long before it had a name. I’m certainly not the first.

We also made good use of council resources to learn what species suit our area. Most councils in Australia offer guides on local ecosystems and species suited to your suburb, including how to build wildlife-friendly gardens and improve biodiversity. These resources gave us a solid starting point and helped us understand what naturally belongs here.

Building the garden, one section at a time

Once the clearing was done, we tackled the garden in parts. We initially broke it up into six sections, with each section gaining its own name: the Corridor, the Retaining Wall, the Rock Garden, the Pool Garden, the Front and the Veggie Garden.

We started with what had to come first. Drainage. Runoff from the house above meant flooding was a problem, so we brought in help to install proper drainage and build a new retaining wall.

While that was underway, I gave myself a smaller project to start with: a pocket-sized garden off the front porch. I kept it deliberately simple, knowing how much work still lay ahead.

I planted two shrubby flowering natives, Westringia and Kunzea, chosen to bring in the native bees and ensure they have a reliable food source year-round. Along the ground, Dichondra repens and Viola hederacea act as living mulch, keeping the soil cool, attracting tiny insects and giving small garden skinks a food source and a safe place to hide. Then, a thick layer of tea tree mulch to help enrich the soil and draw in insects, with scattered rocks and sticks to create more of a habitat.

With the retaining wall finished, we got to work on the 21-metre stretch behind it. The goal here was to support wildlife year-round, so I chose species with staggered flowering times, starting with medium-sized trees like Prostanthera sieberi (a native mint bush that flowers in winter), Phebalium nottii with its star-like pink blooms and hardy Grevilleas for the birds.

To build a dense understory, I planted clusters of Lomandra confertifolia and longifolia, plus Banksia spinulosa to fill out the space and create shelter for lizards and small birds. For the bees, we added more Westringia, tall blue Plectranthus parviflorus, Brachyscome daisies and Chrysocephalum apiculatum. Down the face of the wall, I planted Casuarina glauca ‘Cousin It’ and Myoporum parvifolium, both spill and spread, softening the wall.

On a roll, we tackled the Corridor next – a long, narrow stretch between the house and the retaining wall where the water tanks live. It’s our main access path to the veggie garden and the area most prone to flooding, so we laid limestone steppers and planted low, hardy groundcovers: Viola hederacea and Pratia pedunculata.

Just before Christmas, we tackled the Rock Garden, the small section between the new alfresco area and the Corridor. This section needed to be low maintenance. Mulch kept washing away, and Charlie, our dog, couldn’t resist digging it up and tracking dirt through the house. So, we settled on crushed sandstone. Not great for soil health, but practical for this part of the yard. In every other part of the garden, we’ve prioritized habitat-building and soil life.

It turned out to be the most physically brutal project. We carted a cubic metre of soil and another of sandstone up our steep driveway in stifling humidity. That job nearly broke us.

In between all that, we set up the veggie garden with raised beds, compost bins, a greenhouse and a small nursery where I can propagate cuttings from the natives – an investment in the long game, and a way to stretch the budget further.

But nothing about this has been seamless. Some plants didn’t make it through their first season, a few cooked in full sun, others sulked in the clay. Drainage issues popped up where we hadn’t planned for them. We planted too densely in some places, too sparsely in others. We replanted sections more than once: moved things, swapped them, pulled out what wasn’t working and tried again. Even now I’m still learning, and I know the garden will continue to be a work in progress years from now.

By the end of December 2024, we hit pause. The heat rolled in at 35°C by 7 am, and when it wasn’t hot, it poured. The wettest season on record brought weeks of constant tropical rain. We couldn’t work outside, so we didn’t. That forced break gave us perspective.

I’d set this wildly optimistic goal to have the entire yard, front and back, finished by September. I laugh at that now. At the time, it felt like we’d barely made a dent. Looking back, that I can see how much we actually achieved. That we’ve transformed some pretty big areas in just six months. From clumps of golden cane palms and agaves that did little for biodiversity, to a yard filled with more than 50 native plants attracting birds, bees, lizards and more. A yard now teeming with life.

The wildlife moves in

Within weeks of planting, we started seeing more insects, more birds, more signs of life.

Pratia and native violets crept across the ground, and with them came tiny beetles and Tetragonula – our native stingless bees. The blue spires Plectranthus argentatus took over the corner behind the greenhouse and became a hub of activity. Blue-banded bees (Amegilla cingulata) and Megachile leafcutter bees feasted on the flowers, while silvery moths sheltered under the broad leaves. Their caterpillars chewed through them, only to be snapped up by noisy miners or the skinks that dart through the undergrowth. I started seeing a tiny food web in motion, all centred around one plant.

We watched our resident pair of magpie-larks shepherding fledglings across the lawn, now free from pesticides and full of life and food for them. A pair of butcherbirds began using the bird bath, rewarding us with their warbling whistles every morning. A swallowtail butterfly laid her eggs on the finger lime, and we had the privilege of seeing the full life cycle unfold.

A beautiful Australian water dragon we’ve named Big Boy now claims the hot compost pile as his personal sun lounge. Most mornings, he’s stretched out on top, completely unbothered. At least half a dozen others, adults and juveniles, have made themselves at home in the garden too. Soaking up the sun, and likely enjoying the smorgasbord of bugs.

Even the soundscape has changed. The constant chatter of rainbow lorikeets fills the air, now joined by kookaburras, honeyeaters, magpies and currawongs. Each week brings everything from hoverflies and mantids to frogs, spiders and ladybirds.

One year on, this small backyard is becoming a habitat again.

The bigger picture

I’ve been educating about sustainability for over a decade, and I am an advocate for small actions adding up.

We’re not going to save the world with one backyard. But every garden that supports wildlife, and every person who chooses habitat over (or in addition to) aesthetics, adds to a growing shift.

One backyard might not seem like much. But multiply that by hundreds, thousands, millions, and you start to see the change. Imagine if it were the norm. If every home, no matter the size, had gardens, pots, and balconies filled with native plants, helping rebuild food webs and support pollinators.

Gardens that reconnect us to the places we live and make our neighbourhoods more resilient, and full of life. That bring us joy in return. And sometimes, even inspire the people around us to begin, too.

What’s next

There’s still a long way to go.

There are three sizable areas in the backyard we haven’t tackled yet. Behind the pool, the rest of the veggie gardens, and the library garden.

Out the front, there are dozens of tropical screening plants I’d like to swap for natives, a bare strip along the steps that still needs a plan, and the verge, which I’d love to replant one day. The Gold Coast Council doesn’t allow verge gardens, so that’ll be a fight for another time.

We’re also hoping to add the pergola and a second water tank. And I’m slowly collecting materials for smaller projects: bee and frog hotels, water dishes for birds, and more flowering plants for pollinators.

But we’re not in a rush anymore.

A year ago, we were in full-steam-ahead mode, working most weekends, squeezing in jobs before work, trying to power through and get it all done. I’ve also stopped seeing it as a before-and-after project, which, in hindsight, was fuelled by years of sharing content on social media and always needing something new to post.

Now we’re happy moving through one small section at a time. It’s taken the pressure off and made the work more enjoyable for both of us. And given us more time to just enjoy what we’ve created so far.

We’ve made mistakes, and we’ll make plenty more. It’s been fun, frustrating, and occasionally emotional. But I love this garden and I’m excited to see what it grows into.

If you want to keep following along you can find my garden here on Substack.

Main image: A water dragon sunning itself on the fence is a regular sight. Photo: Kira Simpson.