The motivation myth

My brief foray back to teaching ends tomorrow. The final A Level English Literature exam is in the morning. From the very first lesson I taught back at Goffs School in 1991 to the last one a couple of weeks ago before the current students went on study leave, the subject of motivation is something we have pondered. There is always a gardening analogy to be found and no better place to illustrate how motivation works than in the garden.

My grief counselling days take me into gardens, onto allotments, and into overgrown plots that clients have been meaning to tackle for months. The conversation that happens most reliably, somewhere between pulling the first weed and filling the first trug, is this: “I don't know why I've been putting this off. I actually feel so much better now I've started.”

They're not imagining it. What they're noticing is a real neurochemical shift, and it happens faster than most people expect. Whether it’s the garden, the home or dealing with the overwhelm of possessions after a bereavement, the experience is the same. Start and you will feel better.The neuroscience is clear on one counterintuitive point: Motivation does not precede action. Action precedes motivation. We sit and wait to feel ready, and the readiness never quite arrives because the brain doesn't release the chemicals that make us want to continue until we have already begun. That’s why runners keep their trainers by the front door rather than at the back of a cupboard.

The garden as a laboratory

A garden is one of the best places I know to observe this concept in real time, because the feedback is immediate and physical. You pick up a trowel (or in my case my Niwaki weeding hoe), turn a patch of earth and within minutes, something shifts, your shoulders drop, your thinking clears, and the task that felt overwhelming from the kitchen window starts to feel manageable.

What's happening in the brain is worth understanding.

The neurochemical shift

When we move from hesitation into action, the brain releases a cascade of neurotransmitters that directly alter mood and momentum.

·      Dopamine is the one most people have heard of, often called the motivation molecule. Crucially, the brain doesn't wait until you finish the whole job to release it. It arrives in small doses at each mini-milestone: the first bed cleared, the seeds sown, the path swept. That satisfying feeling of ticking something off is dopamine doing its work, and each small hit makes the next step easier to take.

·      Endorphins are released through physical movement and act as the body's natural painkiller and mood lifter. This is why even fifteen minutes of weeding or raking can produce a noticeable sense of wellbeing. The body doesn't distinguish between a gym session and an hour in the vegetable patch. Both count.

·      Serotonin which governs mood, sleep, and emotional stability increases when we engage in purposeful activity, particularly when we're learning something new or building a positive habit. There is something about the rhythmic, seasonal nature of garden work that is especially well suited to this. You are always, in some small way, beginning again.

·      Oxytocin, sometimes called the bonding chemical, is released when our actions connect us to others or to a sense of community. This matters for anyone who gardens with a neighbour, tends a shared plot, or grows food to give away. The social dimension of the garden is not incidental to its therapeutic value; it is part of the chemistry.

What the brain is doing when you hesitate

Two regions of the brain are doing most of the work when we face a task we're avoiding.

The prefrontal cortex (PFC) is the planning and decision-making centre. When we break a task into clear, concrete steps (“today I will just clear the corner by the gate”) we activate the PFC, which gives the brain a sense of control and reduces stress. The problem is that when a task feels too large or too vague, the PFC becomes overwhelmed. At that point, the amygdala, the brain's threat-detection system takes over. It fires up feelings of anxiety, resistance, and avoidance. We catastrophise. The garden begins to feel not like a place of possibility but like a source of shame.

The loop is self-reinforcing. Avoidance increases anxiety; anxiety justifies more avoidance. The grass gets longer. The border gets wilder. The gap between what is and what we'd like it to be grows wider, and with it the psychological barrier to starting.

Three principles that work in the garden and elsewhere

1. Minimum viable action

The single most effective way to bypass the amygdala's fear response is to make the starting point so small that it barely counts as an effort. Not “I will sort out the whole garden today”, but “I will go outside and pull ten weeds”. It’s tiny steps done consistently that lead to big changes. The point is not the ten weeds. The point is that the act of going outside changes your neurological state. Once you're in it, the momentum takes over. I have watched this happen hundreds of times. People who planned to spend twenty minutes end up staying two hours not because they forced themselves, but because the dopamine loop kicked in and they stopped wanting to stop.

2. Trust momentum over motivation

Waiting to feel motivated is a neurological trap. Motivation is a product of action, not a prerequisite for it. The solution-focused question I often ask clients is not “what would help you feel ready?” but “what is the smallest thing you could do right now, today, that would count as a start?”

In a garden context, this might be as simple as putting your boots on and stepping outside. Research on behavioural activation (the therapeutic approach underpinning this idea) consistently shows that changing behaviour first changes mood, not the other way around.

3. Keep the long view visible

When effort feels like a slog, explicitly reconnecting with why it matters shifts the experience. In solution-focused terms, we call this holding the preferred future in view. Neurologically, it reactivates the prefrontal cortex and reframes the current discomfort as purposeful rather than pointless. In a garden, this is wonderfully literal. You plant a bare-root rose in November knowing you will not see it flower until June. Every bit of care between now and then is sustained by a picture of what is coming. That forward-looking orientation (“this effort is taking me somewhere I want to go”) is one of the most powerful mood regulators available to us.

What this means for how I support people

As a coach, understanding this neuroscience underpins how I work with clients. I don’t expect people to feel differently before they act. I start asking them to act (minimally, imperfectly) so that feeling differently becomes possible. The garden teaches this without needing to explain it. You cannot think your way to a tended plot. You pick up the trowel, you begin, and the brain does the rest.