Confessions of a (Joyful) Ivy Killer

Why one common vine threatens biodiversity and what you can do about it

It may look lush and innocent, but English ivy is anything but. In my ongoing story of restoration and rewilding, I share how one fast-growing vine quietly took over corners of our property—and how removing it is an act of compassion, healing, and hope for native plants, animals, and ecosystems.

The English (Ivy) Still Colonizing

That thick, lush vine blanketing fences, cloaking trees, and sprawling across roadsides may look innocent—even picturesque—but it has a dark side. This aggressive, fast-spreading plant is suffocating entire ecosystems.

Native to Europe, western Asia, and northern Africa, English ivy (Hedera helix) was brought to the United States by colonizers, likely for ornamental landscaping. Like many other non-native species, it arrived with settlers eager to recreate the gardens and landscapes of their homelands. Admired for its evergreen leaves and hardiness, English ivy was planted widely—and it didn’t take long to spread.

Today, it’s considered invasive in much of the United States. From the Pacific Northwest to the Southeast—and especially here in California where I live—English ivy grows rampant. Without its natural predators, competitors, or diseases to keep it in check, it thrives—often at the expense of native plants, animals, and entire ecosystems.

That means:

• No native insects feed on it

• No diseases keep its growth in check

• No native wildlife meaningfully depends on it for food or shelter (While rats and other generalist species may take cover in its dense growth, ivy offers little value to native insects, birds, or pollinators. Its presence often signals imbalance.)

And the native plants it displaces? They are defenseless — literally. Because they didn’t evolve alongside ivy, they can’t compete with its aggressive growth. Ivy doesn’t support pollinators or wildlife, and it offers virtually no ecological benefit.

Reclaiming Our Space

English ivy spreads primarily through runners. It doesn’t usually reseed itself aggressively, which should be good news—because technically, that means it’s relatively easy to control if you catch it early. You can pull it up when it’s young, before it sends out those long, snaking vines that root at every node.

But when it takes hold—and oh, does it take hold—it spreads rapidly and thickly, creating dense mats that block sunlight, smother native plants, and prevent new growth. It climbs fences, chokes trees, and wraps itself around anything and everything in its path.

When we bought this house more than a decade ago, English ivy was everywhere. It covered fences, crept along the ground, climbed trees, and blanketed entire sections of our property. I’ll admit I once appreciated the dense, lush green carpet it created, but over the years I came to see it for what it was: not just an innocuous decorative groundcover, but an invasive species displacing the native plants and animals who are fighting to survive.

Thanks to a combination of persistent pulling, a changing climate, and extended dry periods, most of it has either died back or been removed. But there’s one spot left—a patch on the slope of our back garden. It’s mostly contained, but every spring it starts to climb the fence again, and every spring I stop it in its tracks.

Slowly but surely, I’m working on removing it completely and replacing it with native shrubs, trees, and wildflowers to beautify the spot where our beloved cat Charlie is buried, alongside the ashes of Simon, Schuster, and Cassandra. We’ve named it Charlie’s Playground.

But just beyond a nearby fence, it was another story altogether.

Invasion

Behind it, in a tucked-away easement—a forgotten corner of land no one else tends to—we keep three rain tanks. As part of my current rewilding efforts, I’ve been methodically removing invasive species from every corner of our property—from single blades of veld grass to thick strands of ivy. Last week, while freeing a tree from ivy that had crept over from the other side of the fence, I decided to investigate further to find the source of that ivy.

I was stunned.

The ivy had completely overtaken the tanks. It had climbed into and through the metal cages surrounding them and created layers of growth that were six inches thick. It had wound its way around the tanks with such force that the pressure was actually concaving the thick plastic.

And that wasn’t all. One massive root had climbed up into a native oak tree — one of the ivy limbs was eight inches thick.

¡Liberación!

I started clearing it myself but realized I needed help. So I called in our garden cleaning crew, and together, we hacked, sawed, clipped, and pulled until the ivy was gone. Inanimate though our rain tanks may be, it felt like a liberation. We saved them from further damage—and we saved that oak tree from further suffocation, along with other plants and trees in that area.

I’ll be watching the tree in the coming months to make sure we really got all of the ivy; if we cut it properly at the base, it should eventually dry up and fall away from the canopy. Now, in that area where the ivy once reigned, that native oak tree has a fighting chance—and we’ve made space for native Matilija poppies (California tree poppies) to spread along the ground, supporting native bees, butterflies, and other pollinators drawn to their abundant nectar.

Not All Green is Good

I know some people argue that ivy is just doing what any plant does—growing, spreading, surviving. It’s alive, after all. Doesn’t it have a right to be here?

My answer is…no. Not everything that’s green is good. Not all growth is beneficial. And not every plant belongs everywhere.

Ivy doesn’t support native animals. It provides no real food, no real habitat, no real benefit. What it does do is smother and displace the plants that do.

So yes, this non-violent vegan took great satisfaction in killing it—because in doing so, I’ve created space for dozens of other lives to flourish.

Read more articles in the backyard rewilding series.

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