If I couldn’t fail, I’d buy a patch of land — a tired stretch of soil and scrub — and try to bring it back to life. I’d plant local eucalypts and grevilleas, wattles and banksias, enough variety to invite the birds back and coax the insects home. I’d watch the contours of the land and learn its moods: where the water gathers, where the wind cuts through, where the first light touches in spring.
It’s a big dream, and honestly, an unrealistic one. I don’t have the money, the energy, or the knowledge to pull it off. But that’s the freedom of imagining a world without failure — you can picture the good without being cornered by the cost.
I think of the Great Koala National Park, and the courage it took for someone to say, let’s make space for what’s vanishing. That’s the kind of vision I want to share in, even if my part is only small. I’d love to leave a piece of land that hums with life, a small inheritance of green for the generations who will never know my name.
But maybe the point isn’t to succeed on that scale. Maybe the point is to live as if it were possible. To plant something native in the yard. To notice the soil. To support those already doing the work. To rewild my own habits of haste and control.
Every small act of care is a rehearsal for the larger one — a way of reminding ourselves that we belong to the living world, not above it.
The Afterword 
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