What a Hedge Can Hold: Soft Boundaries, Deadwood Wisdom, and Growing Space to Breathe

I’ve been building dead hedges. It’s a simple task, but surprisingly satisfying—woven stacks of branches creating space, structure, and sanctuary for insects, birds, and small mammals.

It’s one of the oldest forms of boundary-making. Not rigid or harsh—just enough to guide movement, hold shape, and offer a form of safety.

I think about how long it’s taken me to build boundaries in my own life. Not the ‘no entry’ kind. The kind that says: this is what I need. This is where I stop. This is what feels okay, and what doesn’t.

Sometimes the strongest boundaries don’t look like fences. They look like quiet choices. Slower replies. Stepping back without burning bridges.

Dead hedging teaches me that boundaries can be soft and still hold. That we can shape space, not to shut people out, but to let the right things in.

It’s an act of care for self and others. Because when we build with what’s already fallen, we honour both the past and the present.

Boundaries, like hedges, take time to build. They need tending. And they’re never about shutting the world out—they’re about shaping the space where we can grow wild and rooted all at once.

Boundaries don’t push people away. They bring you back to yourself.

Hold your line. Let it hold you, too.

Soft can still be strong.

Sarah