Why I Do This
A couple of years ago, someone offered me a well-paying project management job. She'd seen my work and wanted me on her team.
During the interview she asked me a question I wasn't expecting: "If building gardens for people is so rewarding, why are you interested in this job?"
I told her the truth — that my garden business hadn't given me the level of people interaction I was looking for. She hired me. I took the job. And for the next season of my life I managed software projects and tried not to think about the garden.
I'm done with that now.
My name is Brad Tarrant. I've spent my life at the intersection of two things: serving people and loving nature. Early career in nonprofits. A master's degree in Urban and Environmental Planning from Arizona State. Certified Arizona Master Watershed Steward. Army veteran, Operation Desert Storm. Two organizations built from nothing. And yes, even a season as a certified project manager — which, it turns out, is exactly what building a beautiful, thriving foodscape requires.
The thread running through all of it has never changed: I want to be present for the moment when something shifts in a person. When they see what's possible. When they stop, go quiet, and say — "I had no idea."
Last fall I opened my garden for a community planting day. It rained. Hard. Twelve people planted in the mud and didn't want to leave. At one point we all crowded under the patio roof — strangers who'd arrived an hour earlier — laughing, watching the rain come down, talking like old friends. When it let up, they went right back into the soil.
I've thought a lot about why that morning mattered so much.
We live in a time of relentless distraction — screens, noise, speed, disconnection. People are hungry for something they can't quite name. That morning in the rain gave it to them: their hands in the earth, their feet on the ground, their attention fully present. There's something ancient and restorative about that. The garden asks nothing of you except to slow down and pay attention — and in return it gives you back to yourself.
And when a group of people experiences that together, something rare happens. The walls come down. Strangers become a community. That's not a small thing. In fact, I'd argue it's one of the things we need most right now.
That morning reminded me that what I build isn't just gardens. It's the conditions for people to feel grounded, connected, and genuinely alive — often for the first time in a long time.
I grow about 75% of my family's food from 1,200 square feet in a suburban Phoenix yard — front and back. It takes a few hours on weekends. It stops strangers on the sidewalk. It produces enough to feed my family, share with friends, and still marvel at what the earth is willing to give when you meet it with intention.
Most people who see it say the same thing: "I had no idea this was possible."
That's exactly why I do this.
If you've ever looked at your yard and felt like it could be more — I'd love to talk.
