When I was a child growing up in the suburbs, my idea of summer fun meant running barefoot through lawn sprinklers, not worrying about whether the petunias or marigolds would survive the heat. But times have changed, and so has the climate. These days, even in regions once thought immune to droughts, long dry spells have become all too common. I now live in a river-wrapped patch of green in northwestern New Jersey, where you’d assume water would never be an issue. Ironically, we’ve faced the worst droughts in our recorded history over the past few summers. It’s forced me—and many fellow home gardeners—to rethink everything we knew about keeping a garden alive.
The first thing I had to confront was the notion that gardening always meant lush lawns and thirsty flowerbeds. That illusion doesn’t hold up under water restrictions. One summer, after a ban on all non-essential water use, I found myself with a watering can in hand, trying to decide which plants I could save. I wasn’t alone. Across the country, gardeners faced dry, cracked soil and wilting plants. But that crisis became an opportunity to learn new techniques that don’t just help a garden survive—it helps it thrive, sustainably and beautifully.
It all starts with choosing the right plants. I used to be seduced by exotic flowers from glossy nursery catalogs, but now I look for native and drought-tolerant species. Plants like lavender, thyme, echinacea, and yarrow have become the backbone of my garden. These aren’t just resilient—they're beautiful and attract pollinators like butterflies and bees. One summer I planted a clump of Allium sphaerocephalon, not expecting much. But by mid-July, their burgundy heads were bobbing in the breeze, untouched by the heat while nearby imported blooms had withered. That changed my whole perspective on plant selection.
But plant choice is only half the battle. Healthy soil is the secret weapon of any drought-proof garden. Much of my property lies on sandy floodplain, which drains too quickly and holds little moisture. I learned the hard way after watching several hydrangeas shrivel under the blazing sun. Since then, I’ve religiously added compost—what I like to call black gold—every spring and whenever I dig a hole for a new plant. Compost holds onto moisture like a sponge and nourishes the roots long after a rain has passed. Every time I rake in a new batch of leaf mold or kitchen-scrap compost, I imagine my soil whispering a little thank you.
Of course, even with healthy soil and hearty plants, summer sun can be merciless. That’s where mulch steps in. My neighbors laughed the first time they saw me spreading wet cardboard over my flowerbeds. But layering it beneath chopped leaves created a natural barrier that trapped moisture, smothered weeds, and cooled the earth. Even my stone-heavy gravel garden, designed originally to capture warmth, benefited from a light blanket of crushed stone mulch. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing tender shoots thriving in what looks like the harshest environment, simply because the roots are protected.
Speaking of roots, I’ve learned that how you water a garden is just as important as when or how often you do it. Overhead sprinklers are wildly inefficient in drought-prone areas. The water evaporates too fast, and most of it never reaches where it’s needed. A couple of years ago, I laid down a series of soaker hoses throughout my beds, burying them just under the surface. These rubber tubes, made from recycled tires, quietly weep water right at root level. I can run them during the cooler parts of the day without worrying about waste or surface evaporation. Plus, they don’t disturb delicate seedlings or pound the soil into a crust. After the system was in place, I noticed deeper, healthier roots and far less plant stress during hot spells.
Establishing young plants during drought requires extra attention, but it’s worth the effort. I once planted a row of native oakleaf hydrangeas during the driest August I can remember. It seemed foolish at the time, but with careful, consistent watering using upcycled plastic jugs—each one drilled with a tiny hole for slow dripping—I managed to get them through. Today they’re shoulder-high and covered in creamy blooms every June. There’s something incredibly rewarding about knowing you’ve helped a plant get through the toughest part of its life and that it will now stand strong on its own.
Even the lawn—once the crown jewel of any American yard—has undergone a makeover in my garden. Instead of aiming for a manicured putting green, I’ve embraced a low-maintenance patchwork of drought-hardy grasses, clover, and even so-called weeds. Creeping thyme has taken hold in sunny corners, providing fragrance and flowers while needing almost no water. I mow high and let the clippings fall, feeding the soil and keeping the roots cool. My neighbors are slowly starting to follow suit, impressed not by the aesthetics, but by the fact that I haven’t dragged out a sprinkler in years.
What surprises many people is that this kind of water-wise gardening doesn’t have to look sparse or dusty. My garden still bursts with color, texture, and life. Birds come for the seeds, butterflies dance among the blooms, and the soil beneath it all is rich and alive. I’ve found that embracing water conservation has actually made me a better gardener. I spend more time observing and responding to the needs of my space, less time fighting nature, and more time working with it.
There’s no denying that climate change has made home gardening more challenging. But it’s also made it more creative. I’ve learned to use my driveway to absorb rainwater by covering it with gravel instead of impervious asphalt. I’ve replaced solid pavers with ones set in sand, allowing water to percolate into the soil rather than running off. Even small changes like these help retain precious moisture where it matters most.
Gardening during a drought may sound discouraging, but it doesn’t have to be. In fact, it’s led me to discover an entirely new way of connecting with my landscape. Now, each time I see a bee hovering over a blooming thyme patch or find a patch of moss taking hold in the shaded edge of a dry stone wall, I’m reminded that resilience in nature often starts with restraint. Water is precious, and by honoring that truth, our gardens can become more than beautiful—they can become sustainable, thriving ecosystems right outside our doors 🌿