Leisha Most people do not see what happens behind the scenes at Living Ground. They see gardens, food, quiet beauty, and perhaps a vision they can touch for a moment. What they do not see is what it actually takes to hold this together. They do not see the layers of confusion, disappointment, emotional labor, and ongoing struggle that come with building something alive from a place that was left empty and stripped bare.
I took over a building that was once used as a dormitory for highway workers around eight years ago. At one point it housed close to eighty men. There were dorm rooms, private rooms, bathrooms, shower houses, a kitchen, a dining hall, and more. On paper it sounded like infrastructure. In reality, it was a shell, quite literally.
When the work stopped and the building was abandoned, it became a free for all. Anything that could be removed was taken. Toilets disappeared. Shower heads were gone. Mirrors, sinks, taps, electrical parts, and doors were stripped out. Even the roofs were taken. The roof over the showers and bathrooms was cut off at the steel beams and hauled away. That kind of damage leaves more than physical loss. It leaves a weight, a sense that nothing here was considered worth protecting.
I am honestly doing my best to restore this place. We started with the soil, because that is where life actually begins. We have been rebuilding it slowly and deliberately, fully aware that soil restoration is not a project with an end date but an ongoing relationship. Growing good food, herbs, and medicines requires patience, observation, repetition, and humility. Now we are entering another stage, one that involves restoring the buildings themselves.
I have never had money. I am a woman. I am middle aged. I am a gringa. I live in a culture that is not my own, where the way I think, observe, and problem solve is often very different from how things are seen locally. I constantly come up against these differences. It is both humbling and frustrating. I hold back, listen, and try to understand. I consider other perspectives carefully and often make concessions that go against what I feel is the right or appropriate way forward, because I know I am not from here and I do not want to impose my worldview without respect.
Leading here is not simple. What feels clear and necessary to me is often not understood by the people I am working with. I do have a good team. I truly do. But I am still a middle aged gringa woman. I hear the chatter behind my back. I feel the resistance in the room when I say this is the next step. What I sense as necessary is often doubted, delayed, or quietly ignored. Navigating this reality requires constant restraint, patience, and emotional labor that is rarely visible.
This tension shows up even in the simplest things, like gardening. I ask for weeds to be cut before they go to seed, and if there are no seeds, I ask that they be left on the soil as cover rather than removed. I do not want the ground exposed. Soil is built through succession. Biomass feeds life. The more organic matter we return to the land, the more potent the soil becomes and the more balanced the relationship between fungi and bacteria can be. This is how land heals.
But I cannot prove this in a way that satisfies a checklist or a daily task list. I cannot show a receipt that says soil life is increasing. As a result, it often does not get done. I end up in the garden myself, cutting and dropping weeds, working hard, and doing exactly what I ask of others. Still, the concept does not land. It is not a familiar way of thinking, and that becomes exhausting.
Then there are the tools. I have four weed wakers. All four were recently repaired, cleaned, and in working condition, with time, money, and effort invested in maintaining them. Yet I am told they do not work. One person says none of them function, while another picks one up and uses it without any issue. We need these machines for ongoing work, including client jobs and helping people care for their land properly. When I hear conflicting stories about the same tools, I honestly do not know what to believe. Sometimes I truly do not understand it.
Now we are preparing the hostel rooms. Some are painted. Some have furniture. But the roof is not in good condition. We decide to clean it and bring out the pressure washer. The rains have arrived, and my water system comes from high up in the Podocarpus. The rivers are swollen, the rain is heavy, and sediment fills the lines. The pressure washer struggles.
One man tells me the machine is broken and cannot be used. Another cleans it and gets it working. But the pressure washing reveals leaks in the roof. Water comes through. Walls are damaged. Furniture is threatened. Work that has already been done is put at risk.
I say we need to fix the roof. I am told that the fique trees are the problem and must be removed first. I respond that I want the roof repaired, cleaned, and painted, and that the trees can be dealt with later. Once again, my priorities are questioned.
I am just a woman. A gringa woman.
With the rains also come the insects. There are ants everywhere, along with beetles and crawling creatures with eight legs. Normally I can handle them and understand they are part of the ecosystem. But right now they feel overwhelming. They are in the soil, the buildings, the paths, and the corners. When you are already stretched thin, even small things can feel like too much.
Financially, I am spending every single penny we make. For five years, I have held space for this project by earning income specifically to pay wages, not for myself. I worked so others could work. I brought money in so people could be paid, so the project could continue, and so the land and buildings could slowly move forward. I did not earn for comfort or ease. I earned to keep Living Ground alive.
I need to vent. I need to say this out loud. It is frustrating. I sometimes want to scream. I sometimes stop and ask myself what the fuck I am doing here and why I chose this path, especially when it feels so heavy and misunderstood.
And still, I continue.
Not because it is easy or because it makes sense to everyone, but because something in me knows this work matters, even when I am tired, even when I am angry, and even when I doubt myself.
This is not a story of perfection or success measured in clean lines and easy wins. It is a story of staying, of choosing to remain present in the discomfort, the misunderstandings, and the slow, uneven work of repair. Living Ground is not something I manage from a distance. It is something I carry in my body, my nervous system, and my daily choices. I stay because I believe in regeneration, not just of soil and buildings, but of ways of living, relating, and caring for land and people. Even when I am exhausted, even when I question myself, even when I want to walk away, I remain, because leaving would mean abandoning something that is still becoming alive.
