Early Spring Musings: Reflections and Ruminations

March 17, 2026 pammunkholm

Patience is not the ability to wait, but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting.

— Joyce Meyer

March in Saskatchewan is a master of disguise🥸. And every year I am hoodwinked! *shakes fist*

The sun shows up brilliant and convincing. Like it’s finally time! 🙌 🌱

You start to believe it…🙏 😃 until the wind pelts you in the face and reminds you this is far from over 🌬️🥶😢.

Honestly it feels like false advertising.

And somehow, that’s not even the hardest part.

Every time I open social media my algorithm pulls an ultimate betrayal of trust and I end up watching everyone else step into spring. Bare ankles, running shoes, patios, fresh air that doesn’t hurt to breathe. I gotta say, I’m a little jealous. 😡

Meanwhile, we’re still in boots and three layers. Bracing against the bitter cold.

It creates this quiet kind of rage.

Not just for warmer weather…

but for things to finally feel easier. Movement. Outdoor gear. Shivering. It all exacerbates the physical restrictions I am already battling.

⸻

Chasing the Unquenchable Longing 🏃‍♂️

Lately, I’ve realized that same feeling exists in my body too.

The desire to wake up and just go.

To follow through on plans.

To make goals and have a say over the outcome.

To move through the day without pain.

To go nap- free after an event and still pass as human.

To feel like I’ve rejoined the human race.

But I don’t make the rules. And my body isn’t in a state to join in any races.

Not against the clock.

Or expectations.

Or the version of life I thought I’d be living right now.

It’s asking for something completely different. My broad assessment is that every body is asking for something different than this “human racing.”

Calm.

Quiet.

Attention.

Harmony.

Tranquility.

Stillness.

If you’ve just tuned in. This is me in my slow- stroll era. A far cry from my past 100mph- blur era.

Nowadays is more comparable to a long drawn out forest walk.

⸻

A Shift in the Sands of Seasons

The other day, the sun was spilling in. The kind that makes you think, 🎵 Oh, what a beautiful morning.

So I put on a jean jacket and vest and went outside determined to feel the sun on my skin.

But within moments, the cold wind cut through my pathetic outer wear, and my body pushed back. Pain hit. Energy disappeared. Cramping like I’ve just run a marathon and forgot to stretch ensued. Then that familiar irritation right under the surface.

I thought,

What’s the hold up?

Yet instead of pushing harder, I tried something different.

I slowed down. I found another way. I went inside.

I sat by the window to feel the warmth of the sun (if not its actual rays).

Instead of resisting what was happening.

And the irritation softened.

⸻

What Early Spring Knows

The seed grows in the dark.

– Joyce Meyer

Early spring doesn’t rush.

It doesn’t bloom all at once.

Some things are not ready. And that’s alright.

They will begin… quietly. In their own time. So much of what is happening to prepare for spring is beyond what we can see.

There’s a line by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

The spring comes slowly up this way.

Maybe healing does too.

⸻

A Forest Therapy Practice

From Yearning to Hope (anywhere outside)

If you’re feeling that same pull toward more, toward better, toward not this. Try this on your next walk.

1. Pause

Stand still for a moment. Feel the air as it actually is. Not how you wish it felt.

2. Acknowledge the longing

What are you wishing for right now? Energy? Relief? Name it.

3. Walk slowly

Let your pace match your body.

4. Notice one small sign of change you can sense. A sign of becoming.

Melting snow. A drip of water. A patch of earth. A shift in light.

Let that be sufficient for today. (Even if part of you is still hoping for a dramatic, movie-worthy breakthrough.)

5. Receive this thought

I will allow what is ready.

Only what’s ready is happening. Allowing creates opening in me.

⸻

A Truth I Hold Dear

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote:

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

Slow doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

It just means it’s happening differently than we expected.

I am reminded of this scripture:

1 To every thing there is a season⁠, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

2 A time to be born, and a time to die⁠; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh⁠; a time to mourn⁠, and a time to dance;

5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

6 A time to get⁠, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

7 A time to rend⁠, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence⁠, and a time to speak

Ecclesiastes 3:1-7 KJV

There is a “proper time.”

🎶 Turn, Turn, Turn 🎶

Even if March doesn’t feel like it yet.

Even if your body doesn’t feel like it yet.

⸻

Embracing the Slow Transition to Spring

March will keep teasing us.

The sun will keep shining.

The wind will keep reminding us it’s still winter.

And spring will come anyway.

Slowly.

Right on time.

Maybe healing works like that too.

There is beauty (and warmth) ahead.

That which is to give light must endure burning.

– Viktor E. Frankl

Why Winter Trails are Terrifying For the Hypermobile: Through Pain and Pines

March 10, 2026 pammunkholm

Many trails in Saskatchewan are shimmering. Beautifully. Treacherously.

I’m pretty sure they are trying to kill me.

Sparkling snow is magical. Sparkling frost is beautiful.

But sparkling ice on a forest trail?

That’s a different category entirely. “Be gone foul thing!”

When you live with hypermobility, ice is less of a winter decoration and more of a full-contact sport.

For most people, a slip on an icy trail means a flail of the arms, a laugh, and maybe a comment. “Watch out for the icy patch!”.

For someone with hypermobility, that same moment can mean:

a rib that determines it would rather live somewhere other than its intended slot
a shoulder that doth protest too much (because the shoulder blade is sliding down your back)
muscles that grip like overprotective bodyguards
and a new entry in the ever-growing logbook titled “Well… that escalated quickly.”

A small jolt or an awkward catch. And suddenly a split second wobble becomes three months of physiotherapy, muscle protecting and pain with every movement.

Winter walking becomes less like a casual stroll and more like a strategic mission.

Our hypermobile bodies clearly have a different set of rules.

Living with hypermobility also means developing a surprisingly intimate relationship with your physiotherapist.

Years ago I realized I owned an entire library of tiny resistance bands in colours that sounded deceptively cheerful.

Coral. Mint. Lavender. Suggesting relaxation and beach vacations.

In reality they represented fifteen very specific exercises. Each designed to convince my shoulder, hip, or rib that staying in place is actually an excellent idea.

In more recent years, overall strengthening through running has become my greatest hope against hope.

Thankfully those resistance bands are now packed away. They were the bane of my existence for years. Strengthen the shoulder, put out the elbow, wrist, and fingers. Strengthen the hip, put out the knee, ankle and toes.

If you live with chronic pain, you also know the strange pleasure of telling people:

“Yes, I injured myself sneezing.”

And then watching them try to politely hide their confusion. 😕

Enigmatic Equations Await

People with chronic pain develop a special kind of mental math.

Before leaving the house, the brain quietly runs a checklist:

How icy is it?
How far is the trail?
What muscles are already staging a coup today?
What are the odds I’ll slip, twist, or do the world’s slowest accidental yoga pose?

Slipping into something a little more comfortable (psychosis)

These calculations happen constantly.

Because when joints are extra flexible, the body relies heavily on muscles to hold everything together.

If those muscles get surprised by a sudden slip on ice, they react like overcaffeinated security guards.

We don’t even have to experience a crash landing. A slight “whoop”. Everything tightens. Followed shortly by, everything hurts. Sometimes for a very long time.

And yet… Staying inside is not the answer.

Inside Out: The Hidden Dangers of Staying Indoors

My soul was not designed for indefinite indoor storage.

After a few days of being cooped up, something starts to happen.

First a restlessness.

Then a longing.

Then a slightly dramatic moment standing at the window staring outside like a Victorian character under quarantine.

Because the body may be complicated. But the soul is surprisingly clear about what it needs.

Trees. Sky. Fresh air. The quiet company of chickadees who seem perpetually delighted with life.

Naturalist John Burroughs once wrote:

I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.

And when chronic pain is part of your life, your nervous system spends a lot of time: out of order.

Pain keeps the brain alert. Guarded. Scanning.

But the forest gently invites something else.

A slower rhythm. A softer focus.

Don’t let perfect get in the way of good enough.

“Break!!”- Dancing Through the Meadow

Hypermobility changes the way you move through the world.

Especially in winter.

Walking on icy trails becomes a very particular style of locomotion that could best be described as:

“Cautious woodland creature.”

Short steps.

Careful weight shifts.

Occasional pauses to test the ground.

One wrong move and suddenly you find yourself soft launching a new form of dance.

Anyone watching from a distance might assume you were practicing some form of extreme slow-motion flamenco 💃 .

But really, you’re simply trying to avoid becoming an accidental case study in sidewalk face implants.

Oddly enough, this cautious way of walking mirrors a core forest therapy practice. Slow walking.

Forest therapy guides often invite people to slow down enough to truly notice the forest.

Hypermobility just… adds extra motivation.

A Little Winter Guiding Advice

I have learned a few things from my winter days on the trail this year.

Boots with ICE FX technology soles are the way to go. I started using them this year. I had two slips in the first couple weeks of winter. I got the boots and I haven’t had a slip since. They are like winter tires. I still have to be careful but they have saved me.
Hiking poles are this girl’s best friend. I am learning when to use them and when to leave them in the car. Days I can’t see the trail under the snow or when the trail is glistening with ice, they are essential. Days the trail is packed with snow and my balance feels good they can stay back.
Some days you just have to stay home. The boots and poles open your world. There are still times when staying home is the safest and best option. It is not worth the risk of a fall. Or a tweak. Walking in a mall or other large indoor space can meet some of your physical movement needs. As the snow melts, you can extend outdoor Earthing sessions in a safe, seated position until the ice is gone.

Nervous Systems: A Unified Network

There is another layer to chronic pain that people don’t see.

The nervous system becomes watchful.

When pain appears often enough, the brain begins to scan constantly for the next signal. Muscles tighten sooner. Reflexes fire faster. The body becomes protective.

It’s not weakness. It’s survival.

But a nervous system that spends too much time in protection mode eventually forgets how to settle.

This is one of the quiet gifts of time in nature. Not just for enjoyment but for nervous system survival.

As Japanese physician Yoshifumi Miyazaki, one of the pioneers of forest bathing research, observed:

The forest environment allows the nervous system to shift from vigilance to restoration.

For someone managing chronic pain, that shift is not small. It is validating.

Research into forest environments has shown that simply being among trees can lower cortisol, calm heart rate, and shift the nervous system out of constant vigilance.

In other words, the forest gently persuades the body:

You are safe enough to soften.

And for someone living with chronic pain, that reminder can be profoundly healing.

Frosty Therapy: Nature’s Icy Embrace for the Soul

If winter trails feel risky but your spirit still needs the forest, try this gentle practice.

Practice: Borrowing Stability

Find a tree nearby and place one hand against the trunk.
Feel the firmness of the bark under your palm. Trees have been practicing stability for a very long time.
Take three slow breaths.
Notice your feet inside your boots.
Notice the ground supporting you.
Then take three very slow steps. With each step, quietly ask: What does stability feel like right now?

You might be surprised how much calmer the nervous system becomes when movement slows down.

Winter walking with hypermobility includes both beauty and risk. Moments of deep solace among the trees and occasional grievances to file with a body that requires extra grit.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote,

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Perhaps winter forest walks teach that same wisdom.

Conscientious step by conscientious step.

The Whispers of Accord

Living with chronic pain sometimes feels like a negotiation between the body and the soul.

The body says: Please be wary.

The soul says: Please go outside.

The forest, thankfully, doesn’t insist on perfect joints or pain-free muscles.

It simply offers a place to breathe.

Scottish nature writer Nan Shepherd wrote about being in the mountains:

The thing to be known grows with the knowing.

Perhaps the same is true of our bodies.

The more we learn their quirks and their quiet wisdom, the more gently we can move through the world. Even when the trail shimmers with ice and every step requires a little forethought.

Because sometimes healing isn’t about conquering the path. Sometimes it’s simply about finding a way to keep walking among the trees.

So yes, SK winter trails sometimes feel like obstacle courses designed specifically for people with hypermobile joints to fail.

And yes, the body occasionally protests the whole arrangement. Of having any movement at all. Yet consider another quote by Nan Shepherd that leads us back to what matters,

It is a grand thing to get leave to live.

Perhaps that is what these mindful winter walks really are.

A quiet permission to keep living fully, even if the steps are slow and deliberate.

Careful steps. Even slightly wobbly steps.

Keep walking when and where you can. Surrender when called for. We are so close Prairies friends! We have almost made it to Spring! We’ve got this.

Accessing Strength in Nature and Family: Winter Healing

March 3, 2026 pammunkholm

Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.

–Katherine May

In Saskatchewan right now, the wind still bites and snow still crunches under our boots.

The pale sky stretches wide over frozen lakes and ground.

And yet… we are talking about spring. Not because we see it. But because we remember it.

It has come every year before and we can trust it will come again.

This is one of the most asked questions about forest therapy:

Does this really help when life is hard? When pain is chronic? When nothing feels like it’s changing?

The answer is not dramatic. It is steady.

Forest therapy does not promise cure. It doesn’t offer “complete and totally done with it all 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 .”

That’s not our story.

What it offers is regulation. Relationship.

So I keep returning.

Research around nature exposure shows reduced cortisol, improved heart rate variability, and nervous system settling.

But beyond the science is something quieter. The forest does not rush spring and the body does not rush healing. They know the futility and energy waste that rushing introduce to otherwise perfect systems.

Both the forest and the body move in seasons. Why then do we want spring to hurry up? Why do we expect the body to heal in our prescribed way, on our expected timeline?

🌲 “Can forest therapy help chronic pain?”

As someone who lives with chronic pain, I don’t speak in absolutes.

I speak in terms of mountains. There are days the climb feels vertical. Flares. Illness. Falls. Each with its own devastating consequences.

And still. We climb.

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.

–Zora Neale Hurston

During the super cold winter of 2021, I learned that our first precious grandbaby was on his way. I wanted. Correction: I needed to be able to hold and snuggle that little one.

But I was so weak. I could barely lift a mug of tea without shaking from the effort. I walked from the bed to the bathroom. Sometimes to the car for an appointment.

The little munchkin, who I hadn’t even met yet, was cheering me on. I could sense it. So with a soup can, a baby blanket, and a prayer, I commenced my grandma- training.

A soup can because it weighed approximately a half pound. My ideal starting weight.

A baby blanket because of what this can of soup represented. He was going to grow over the following months into an actual grandbaby that I would wrap in this blanket. And carry him around to snuggle him. And to put him to sleep. To have deep conversations and sing the songs my mom and grandma sang to me.

And a prayer because that’s who I am.

That soup can, baby blanket and I started with 30 second walks 3x a day. Each walk induced waves of nausea followed by hours of cramping and exhaustion.

Each half pound and each 30 second increase was an excruciating miracle.

There were setbacks. Most evenings were agonizing. Some days I wondered if this was the correct place to put this much time and energy. It was all I could do to find time and energy to eat.

After months of focused grandma- training, I could walk outside! And something shifted. During a particularly stressful week and stubborn muscles, I walked down the lane and into the trees on our farm. I couldn’t go as far as I’d planned. I couldn’t “achieve” what I wanted. I leaned against a frozen trunk and felt foolish for even trying.

The cold, early spring air sharpened my senses. The snow muffled the world. The trees stood, scarred, weathered, unmoving.

Some trees have survived a hundred Saskatchewan winters. I considered how they are wise and do not apologize for seasons of dormancy.

It was around this time I stopped asking, “When will I be better?” And started asking, “How do I live well from this place?”

That question changed everything. And part of my answer was to focus on being a grandma. That little man I trained for months to be able to hold is going to be 4 this summer. And his equally enchanting sister will be 2. They have been the means of my greatest confrontations and of my greatest delights.

Almost like trying to enjoy your favourite therapy during a Saskatchewan winter. We take the intense highs with the intense lows.

🌲 “How do you practice forest therapy in winter?”

Winter forest therapy isn’t about long hikes. It’s about being present in the moment.

Notice how snow softens sound. Notice how your breath becomes visible. Notice how even in dormancy, life is stored beneath the bark and soil.

I have come to the realization that the forest in winter mirrors chronic pain. Nothing looks alive. Nothing appears to be blooming. But beneath the surface, systems are conserving and recalibrating.

Strength. Resilience. Wisdom.

Spring doesn’t shout when it arrives. It begins as a spark. An idea.

A drop. A thaw.

A beam of light catching ice and reflecting its warmth.

The same is true in us. Your good days are coming.

Sometimes we have to trust that promise for a long time before we see it.

Even if all you’ve seen is a spark.

That spark will become a light. That light will become a beam.

That beam becomes you, reflecting what you’ve learned onto someone else.

🌿 A Simple Winter Forest Therapy Practice

Trusting the Season (10–15 Minutes)

Step outside, even if just to your yard or a nearby tree line.
Stand still. Feel your feet grounded in frozen earth.
Place one hand over your heart. One over your belly.
Take three slow breaths. Watch the air leave your body.
Ask quietly: What season am I in?
Look for one sign of hidden life. Buds beneath bark, tracks in snow, sunlight on ice.
Whisper: Spring has come before. It will come again.
When ready, take that sentence home with you.

🌲 What Makes Forest Therapy Different From Hiking?

Hiking is about distance. Forest therapy is about experiencing relationships.

You don’t conquer the mountain. You learn from it.

And when you fall (as we all do) you get back up.

Keep climbing. Fall after fall. Flare after flare.

Keep reflecting hope and joy in the middle of the mess. It’s possible.

Anne Lamott defines hope not as naive optimism but as a stubborn choice to believe in goodness and possibilities, especially during dark, uncertain times.

🩶 If you’re reading this from under grey prairie skies, remember:

The trees are not worried about spring. They trust the tilt of the earth. They trust that light and warmth will return.

You can trust too. Your good days are coming. There are bright days ahead.

My bright days in this season, are when I get to be a grandma. If you want to see my grandparent life in reverse, view the following. It’s meant to be scrolled through to get the overall feel of the joy that was ahead of me. That I now get to experience.

**Apologies. That was way too fun to go through old photos.**

Even if you have to hold on to that promise longer than you wanted to. Hold it tight. The good days make it all worth it.

At this point in my story I can cart around that 2 year old and 4 year old at the same time. Grandma’s got guns. Just kidding. Training for my grandson got me to the point that I can run on a treadmill and ride a recumbent bike. He is my hero.

Keep getting back up. Show a willingness to bend and slow when your crucible is heavy. But keep climbing. Keep reflecting the beams of light.🌲✨

The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.

–Robert Jordan

The Art of Finding Calm: Anchors for Inner Peace

February 24, 2026 pammunkholm

By the time you reach the last spring, your hands are shaking. You’re sweating. Frustrated. Everything keeps getting more crooked.

You realize too late. You started wrong. 😑

Anyone who has assembled a trampoline knows the rule. You don’t hook the springs in a circle, one after another. If you do, the tension pulls unevenly. By the end, you don’t have the strength to stretch it into place.

You begin with four. Evenly spaced. Then every ten. Then every five. Then every two.

You build balance first. Then you stretch.

Cruising the Chaos of Life’s Pulls

We are pulled by responsibilities👈, expectations👉, needs👆, roles👇, diagnoses🫵, deadlines🫡.

Work. Family. Health. Friendships. Faith. Community. The list goes on.

Each one a spring tugging at the mat of our life.

When we hook ourselves fully to one area without anchoring wisely, the whole thing warps. We overextend in one direction and find ourselves weak in another.

Sometimes that is the season we are meant to live.

After giving birth, your whole being stretches toward that tiny life. Other areas thin out. That is not failure. That is devotion. In time, the tension redistributes.

But chronic pain does not redistribute so gently.

Chronic Pain: The Illusion of Perfect Harmony

When you live with chronic pain, you are constantly pulled toward managing symptoms, setting and going to appointments, pacing yourself, rest, prevention. Your energy budget is small. Other areas stretch thin.

Then something hopeful happens. 😮

You focus on your health. 😧

You improve. 🫢

You feel almost normal. 🥹

Everyone else sees it too. 🙌

Schedules begin to fill 🗓️ Invitations multiply 🥳 Expectations quietly rise 🫴 . The springs of “normal life” begin snapping back into place 🫰.

You let yourself believe it. 😄

Maybe I’m better. 😂

Then exhaustion crashes in 🫩 You stare at your calendar at night and wonder what you’ve done to yourself 😳 A small slip becomes months of recovery 😵 One flare unravels carefully rebuilt stability 😞.

And then come the looks 😒🙂‍↔️

The subtle confusion 🤨

The well-meaning advice 🤓

The unspoken question: Why can’t she just get it together?

Living with chronic illness often means managing other people’s perception of your crooked mat.

There is grief in that.

Grief in not being believed. In being misunderstood. In having to explain your limits and have them questioned again and again.

Eventually, you begin to let springs go.

Work (sounds great, it’s decidedly not great)
Hobbies
Certain relationships
Many dreams have to shift

Not because you lack discipline. Because you are learning discernment.

Tregi:

“A tender form of sorrow- one that doesn’t overwhelm but lingers softly in the soul, and it’s the ache of remembering something beautiful that’s gone, the silence after a goodbye, the bitter sweet pull of nostalgia. “

–

The Spring I Learned to Release

Within you there is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time.

–Hermann Hesse

One sunny day I carried my journal and scriptures out to our trampoline. It was warm, the sun pooling across the mat. A strange place to do cold, hard work.

I read.

I prayed.

I journaled.

I napped.

I prayed again.

And then I cried.

And cried some more.

To say I wanted one more baby doesn’t begin to explain the years of ache. The doctors knew what my body could not sustain. I knew it too.

But my heart wasn’t ready. I wanted to leave the doors open for God to do His work.

That day on the trampoline, I realized I was hanging on to a spring that was pulling my whole life crooked. The decision to have a hysterectomy felt like unhooking something sacred. I needed my Saviour in it with me.

It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. Letting that spring go felt like loss. But when I finally released it. After some time. I stopped trying to force tension where my body could not hold it. And space opened for healing. Opportunities I never could have seen coming appeared. Energy shifted. My frame steadied.

The mat did not look like I once imagined. But it began to hold me differently.

Calm comes when I choose my springs intentionally.

Cultivating Serenity Amidst the Clutter

Inner calm is not equal distribution. It is intentional tension.

It is knowing which four anchors belong in this season and which ones do not.

There is a calmness to a life lived in gratitude, a quiet joy.

–Ralph H Blum

But we cannot hear that wisdom in noise.

We cannot recalibrate while drowning in comparison, expectation, and urgency. The nervous system cannot settle when constantly pulled outward.

This is why I return to nature.

In the forest, no one critiques the tension of a tree branch as it cradles more and more snow and ice.

The bitter prairie wind does not apologize for taking our breath away.

The river does not hurry spring.

Outer stillness teaches inner calm.

When I step into the trees, the sensory world steadies me:

The sharp edges of wind swept snow
The cool texture of bark beneath my palm.
The sound of wind moving through leaves like breath.
Light filtering through branches in patient patterns.
Look closely
Breathe deeply

The forest is not rushed. It is not impressed or judgemental of us. It simply grows toward light.

And in that space, I can finally ask:

Which springs belong today?

And the incredibly hard question. Where do I need to let go?

The mind, like water, when it is turbulent, becomes difficult to see. When it is calm, everything becomes clear.

–Prasad Mahes

🌲 Forest Therapy Practice: Four Anchors for Inner Calm

This practice is especially for seasons when your life feels uneven.

You are not rebuilding your entire life today. Only choosing your four.

Time: 30–45 minutes

Location: A quiet trail, grove, or open field

1. Arrive in Outer Stillness

Stand still. Feel your feet on the earth. Take three slow breaths, extending the exhale. Let your nervous system soften.

Notice where your body feels tight. Jaw. Shoulders. Back. Belly.

2. Choose Your Four Anchors

Whisper four priorities that truly belong in this season. No more.

Health.
Immediate family.
Faith.
One small joy.

Imagine each anchor as a tree spaced evenly around you.

Notice the balance.

3. Walk the Circle

Slowly walk in a gentle circle, pausing at each imagined anchor. Ask:

Is this spring too tight? Is this one neglected? Does this truly belong in this season?

Let answers arise without judgment.

4. Release One Spring

Name one responsibility, expectation, or internal pressure that does not belong right now.

Imagine physically unhooking it.

Notice the shift in your breathing.

5. Sit and Receive

Lean against a tree or sit on the ground. Feel the support beneath you. Let outer stillness hold what you cannot.

Stay in silence.

6. Gentle Reflection

When you are ready, journal:

What would happen if I allowed this season to be enough?
What does my body need more of?
What am I brave enough to release?

True intelligence operates silently. Stillness is where creativity and solutions to problems are found.

–Eckhart Tolle

You are not weak for having fewer springs. You are wise for choosing them. Balance may not look symmetrical. Your mat may not look like someone else’s.

But even a crooked mat can hold us.

And in the quiet of the forest, we learn to stretch for only what we are meant to hold.

What a blessing it is to look around and see pieces of my old prayers scattered everywhere.

Sarah Trent

How to Grow Rich When Chronic Pain is Your Reality

February 17, 2026 pammunkholm

Ever notice how the word rich instantly makes people picture a yacht, a corner office, or at least a pantry where I have everything I need from chocolate to chia seeds?

Meanwhile, some of us are over here feeling wealthy because we found a position that doesn’t make our back yell at us.

Welcome to redefining abundance.

When you live with chronic issues, the cultural picture of “the good life” can feel like a club you don’t get invited to. My body has very strong opinions. And she will not yield. And yet, many people walking this road discover a strange, stubborn truth.

Richness is not a circumstance.

It’s a way of seeing.

Better Than Happy host Jody Moore distinguishes between two kinds of discomfort. One is fueled by resistance and the belief that life should be different. The other is accompanied by gratitude and a desire to create meaning from what is here.

In the latter, action becomes possible. In the former, people often remain stuck.

For those with chronic pain, discomfort is not optional. The choice lies in how we relate to it.

Turn your wounds into wisdom.

–Oprah Winfrey

Gratitude does not deny suffering. It widens the field of attention so that suffering is not the only occupant.

There is the ache that says,

“Why me? This ruined everything.”

And there is the ache that whispers,

“Given that this is here, what life can I still grow?”

The first freezes us in place.

The second opens a path.

A rich life might include money. It might include health. It might include work you love or a family that grows together. Or it might be something far less Instagrammable and far more sustaining. Presence, meaning, connection, small mercies, deep seeing.

Gratitude has a way of turning what is here into enough, and from that soil, more becomes possible.

Not because your nerves suddenly behave.

But because your mind has room again.

As Meister Eckhart wrote,

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.

Gratitude is not pretending pain is lovely.

It is noticing pain is not the only thing present.

Nature’s Secret Calculus

In the woods, a tree with a twist in its trunk is not considered a failure.

It is considered interesting. Strong. Adapted.

No straight lines required.

Chronic pain can feel like the bend you never asked for. But bends create habitats. They slow us down enough to notice moss, breath, companionship, the sacred ordinariness of being alive.

What if the detour is also the destination?

Chronicles of My Journey

Some days my life feels like a series of unfortunate events. Many of those events are inconsequential to the general population. But to my loose joints they are devastating.

Last August I was enjoying a beach day with friends. Enjoying isn’t a strong enough word. These are the days I live for.

In my rush to support my mom getting off the boat, I slipped. My leg hit twice. On the back of the boat. Then scraped down the ladder.

The pain sent me into waves of nausea. Darkness of passing out kept threatening. I refused to surrender because that seemed embarrassing in the moment.

I was rushed off the beach as my leg swelled into two big lumps. Once I got it raised, it started to stabilize and my senses returned. In the end we decided to wrap it and I got to stay at the beach. But my summer was over.

More devastating was what it did to my gym workouts. I try to get to the gym a few days a week to keep my muscles strong enough to hold me together.

I was finally to a place where I could hold most major joints in for a week or more. This incident set me back months.

The bruise went through the ankle bone and wrapped almost completely around my shin. My tan is hiding most of the damage.

I am pleased to say I am finally back to a place where I can run almost the distance and pace I had before the damage to my leg. But it took all of those 6 months. The rest of my body has yet to catch up.

These setbacks are frequent and challenging. But I am learning there is peace and hope available on all days. No matter what is happening or not happening. And the sunshine will return.

Finding Wealth in the Woods: A Forest Therapy Practice

Go somewhere with trees or sky.
Let your pace match what your body can honestly do today.
Arrive. Feel your feet. Or your walker. Or the place you are sitting. Let the earth hold some of your weight.
Notice three forms of wealth already present. Warmth on your face. Air entering lungs. A sound that is gentle.
Place a hand on your heart or thigh and ask, “Given my limits, what is still possible for me?” Don’t demand a big answer. Let something small come. A phone call. A rest. A moment of beauty.
Say, quietly, thank you.

That’s it. Tiny riches count. And this practice opens doors for more riches to enter your presence.

Navigating the Path Ahead: A Thoughtful Analogy

Imagine inheriting land you didn’t choose. Some of it is rocky. Some days it floods. You can spend years arguing with the map… or you can learn what grows there.

Blueberries love poor soil.

Certain pines only open after fire.

Some of the most resilient beauty requires harsh beginnings.

As Rainer Maria Rilke advised:

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Where Forest Therapy Carries Us

At the outset, when life no longer looks like it did, when identity is disrupted, the forest helps us find where we fit now. Not who we were. Not who others are. Who we are today.

In the middle, when the physical and mental anguish feels loud, nature gives our nervous system something steady to lean on. Wind continues. Chickadees continue. Light continues. We borrow their rhythm.

And at the end, or at least with distance, we often see that pain brought unexpected inheritances. Tenderness, clarity, reprioritized love, a fierce ability to notice what matters.

A different kind of fortune.

You may never get the yacht.

But you might receive awe. Intimacy. Meaning.

Moments of real rest inside the storm.

That is wealth no market can crash.

And forest therapy walks with you through the whole thing 🌲

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

-Rumi

The Influence of Non-Judgmental Awareness: Mending the Nervous System

February 10, 2026 pammunkholm

There is always in February some one day, at least, when one smells the distant, but surely coming, summer.

-Gertrude Jekyll

If you’ve ever tried to “think positive” while your body is screaming, you already know who wins.

Pain wins. Exhaustion wins. A nervous system on red alert wins. Any pep talk given to said nervous system is bringing a Post-it note to a tornado.

And then we blame ourselves! Because obviously the problem is a personal moral failure, not a human being a human.

In forest therapy, we take a different approach. We don’t try to out-think the body. We learn to listen to it without judgment. In doing so, the body finally gets what it has been asking for all along. Safety.

Biology’s Rebellion: The Dangers of Overriding Nature

Many people living with chronic pain think they should be able to cope better.

They should be stronger.

They should push through.

They should be more grateful it’s not worse.

But here’s a humdinger of a thought. When your body is sending powerful distress signals, your conscious mind has very little leverage.

The attempt to escape from pain is what creates more pain.

–Gabor Maté

Neill Williams, on the Success Genius Podcast, explains it beautifully. When you are hungry, exhausted, or in pain, your biology overrides your attempts to think or feel differently.

The vagus nerve, your internal communication highway, links brain, heart, lungs, digestion, and the stress response. If that system is dysregulated, focus, creativity, decision-making, and connection all suffer.

Your body is a boundary of your soul. Treat it with care.

–Jean Shinoda Bolen

As I’ve said before. This isn’t a motivation problem. It’s a nervous system problem.

And until the body feels safer, it will keep turning up the heat.

Rushing: The Trap That Keeps Us in Survival Mode

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

–Ghandi

I dare say, we hurry through the day, override our limits, stay stimulated late into the night, fall into bed, wake up feeling four days past our bedtime, and repeat.

Then we wonder why our system is constantly braced for danger. We keep hitting refresh on the same nervous system and expecting a software update.

From a survival perspective, it makes perfect sense. Nothing in that cycle signals “You can stand down now.”

So the body continues to send messages. And they are rarely gentle. Whispers don’t usually create change. Pain often does.

To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

–Mary Oliver

“I Would, But I Simply Can’t.”

I often hear how wonderful forest therapy sounds.

I wish I could. Maybe someday. When life calms down.

But healing asks for time. Attention. Slowing down. Repetition.

Until then, forest therapy remains a lovely idea instead of lived remedy.

Word to the wise. Your body will keep requesting the appointment. It has an unlimited follow-up policy and will keep calling until someone answers.

If you don’t schedule a break, your body will take one for you, and it probably won’t be at a convenient time.

-Unknown

The Remarkable Power of Non-Judgmental Awareness

Here is where the shift happens.

When we practice noticing sensations without evaluating them, we step out of the inner fight.

Instead of:

This is bad.
Why am I like this?
I should be better.

(There are no gold stars for hating life correctly)

We try:

Warmth
Tightness.
Pulsing.
Cool air on my cheek.

No argument. No story.

Judgment activates defense. Awareness invites regulation.

The nervous system reads neutrality as safety.

The organism knows.

–Eugene Gendlin

Nature: The Ultimate Stage for Inspiration

The forest is a masterclass in non-urgency.

Nothing is asking you to be different.

Everything belongs. You. Belong.

Research into nature exposure consistently shows reductions in cortisol, blood pressure, muscle tension, and rumination.

But experientially, I’ve seen something even more important. People soften. Attention and breathing widens.

The body begins to renegotiate its alarm state.

Nature provides gentle sensory anchors. Light, texture, birdsong, air movement. These allow awareness without overwhelm. For someone with chronic pain, this is crucial. We are not adding more intensity; we are expanding capacity.

Astravore: (n) A soul that keeps feeding on hope even after disappointment- light-hungry, resilient, unbreakable. -ViviJan

You are larger than what is happening to you.

–Michael Singer

Silencing the Alarm: A Lesson in Balance

Imagine a car alarm that has been blaring for years.

You wouldn’t yell affirmations at it and tell it to be quiet.

You would look for the threat it thinks it perceives.

Non-judgmental awareness in nature is how we open the hood.

Each calm moment says, “No one is breaking in right now.”

Over time, the alarm system recalibrates.

My Story

I’ve experienced moments in my forest therapy practice when I wanted to do it all perfectly. To follow all the “right steps.”

When I go in with this focus I notice the pain is still there. The frustration is still there. I start thinking about all the years of pain I have ahead of me. Of financial strain. And the weight it adds to every relationship.

Then I remember to just breathe. Focus on today. Right. Now.

I start to feel the breeze on my face and hear it making its way through the trees around me. I sense the solid earth beneath me.

The pain does not vanish. But it’s not the only voice anymore. It has just been hogging the microphone in my head. 🎤 🤫

There is support available here whenever I need it. In the birds and the trees and the solid ground. This may sound odd. But this shift in thinking moves the pain inside a larger field of safety.

This is regulation. I just keep coming back to it.

The best way out is always through.

– Robert Frost

A Gentle Invitation to Explore

Find something in nature that feels steady. A tree, a rock, the shoreline.
Let your eyes rest there.
Now widen your awareness to include three additional sensations that are neutral or pleasant.
Move back and forth between the discomfort and the wider field

You are teaching your nervous system that pain can exist without emergency.

Do this regularly and the vagal pathways that support calm begin to strengthen.

Don’t just do something, sit there.

–Sylvia Boorstein

The Real Result: Persistence in Life

When regulation improves, people often notice clearer thinking, better sleep, and easier connection. Not because they forced positivity, but because their biology finally cooperated.

You are no longer fighting upstream. You are being carried. Like these little bitty icebergs I watch on the river. Floating by. 👇

The Closing “Peace”

If we keep living in a way that ensures the alarm stays active, nothing changes.

But when we make space, even small, consistent space for non-judgmental sensory awareness in the forest, the body hears something new.

I’m safe. I can soften. I don’t have to shout today.

And maybe, that is where my healing lingers. I just have to take time away, to meet it there.

The body always leads us home… if we can simply learn to trust sensation and stay with it long enough for it to reveal appropriate action.

-Pat Ogden

Take care, my friends. I leave you with these February thoughts that gave me a little chuckle:

My February workout plan is mostly just shivering until my muscles get tired.

Love is in the air this February, but so is the flu, so please stay back.

The Biggest Rocks, Near Enemies, and the Stillness That Tells the Truth

January 20, 2026January 20, 2026 pammunkholm

As a forest therapy guide, I spend a lot of time listening. Not just to birds and wind, but to the quiet wisdom that surfaces when life slows down. Recently, while listening to the Follow Him podcast with guest Dr. John Hilton III, I was struck by how clearly their insights mirrored what I see every day in nature-based healing.

The Silent Saboteur of Greatness: Settling for “Good Enough”

Dr. Hilton shared a story Warren Buffett once told about his pilot, Mike Flint. Buffett asked Flint to list his 25 most important goals, then circle the top five. Flint assumed the remaining 20 would simply be addressed later, as time allowed.

But Buffett surprised him.

Those other 20 goals, he said, were not “later” goals. They were avoid-at-all-costs goals. Why? Because what most often pulls us away from our very best work isn’t something bad. It’s something good. Interesting. Worthy. Pretty good.

And that’s the danger. Pretty good competes quietly. It distracts us without alarming us. It drains time and energy while convincing us we’re still doing something valuable.

Choosing Wisely: Balancing Big and Small in a Limited Jar

You’ve probably heard the “big rocks” analogy: if you put the big rocks in the jar first, then the small rocks, then the sand, everything fits. It’s a powerful visual reminder to prioritize what matters most. In a day. In a year. In a life.

But Dr. Hilton pointed out something that often gets overlooked. In real life, no one measures out the rocks and dirt ahead of time so it all fits. Neat and tidy. Many of us simply have too many big rocks.

The daily work.

The self care.

The appointments.

The responsibilities we can’t opt out of.

At some point, the work becomes less about fitting everything in and more about asking a braver question:

Which rock is the biggest?

And then: Which one comes next?

For those of us living with chronic pain or limited energy, this question isn’t philosophical. It’s survival.

The real work is not to prioritize what’s on your schedule, but to schedule your priorities.

— Stephen Covey

Near Enemies: The Perils of Almost Right

Psychologist Kristin Neff teaches about near enemies. Qualities or choices that look helpful on the surface but quietly undermine what we actually need.

In compassion practice, for example, self‑compassion’s near enemy is self‑pity. In mindfulness, it might be zoning out instead of being present. Near enemies are dangerous not because they are wrong, but because they are convincing.

They imitate wisdom.

They borrow the language of care.

They feel responsible.

And yet, they subtly pull us away from what truly nourishes us.

Familiar Foes: Chronic Pain’s Close Encounters

When you live with chronic pain or chronic illness, near enemies show up everywhere:

Filling your day with “useful” tasks instead of the few essential ones that protect your health.
Trying every therapy instead of committing energy to the one or two that truly help.
Positive thinking that bypasses your body’s real signals.
Staying busy so you don’t have to feel how tired you actually are

Even healing practices can become near enemies when they cost more energy than they restore.

In these seasons, discernment matters more than discipline.

Unearthing Clarity: The Truth of Forest Therapy

Nature has a way of clarifying what belongs and what doesn’t.

In the stillness of the forest, the nervous system softens. The noise quiets. And without effort, priorities begin to rearrange themselves.

Here, the biggest rocks often reveal themselves as simple, foundational truths:

Enough sleep
Nourishing food
Gentle, appropriate movement
Nervous system regulation
Emotional safety

These are not optional extras. They are the largest rocks.

From there, we can begin to see the next biggest rocks. Helpful therapies, meaningful connection, creative expression, without confusing them for the foundation itself.

And finally, with compassion, we can begin to sift out what simply does not fit in this season of life. Not forever. Just for now.

Arabic proverb: Sunshine all the time creates a desert.

Perhaps, in the storms, roots deepen and rain helps us grow.

The Significance of Near Enemies

Near enemies are dangerous because they:

Masquerade as wisdom
Drain limited energy
Keep us busy instead of well
Pull focus from what truly supports healing

For those living with chronic pain, the cost of mistaking a near enemy for a true ally is high. Energy is precious. Attention is finite. Choosing the wrong “good thing” can mean losing access to the best thing.

You can do anything, but not everything.

— David Allen

Letting Go

There was a season when I was frantically searching for a diagnosis. Searching not just for answers, but for validation. I was living with constant, invisible pain that no one could see and few seemed to understand. And so I chased understanding wherever I thought it might live.

I pursued every avenue. Every referral. Every therapy that sounded even remotely promising. I read, researched, pushed, argued, advocated. Believing that if I just searched hard enough, fought clearly enough, or proved my case convincingly enough, I would arrive at the answer. A conclusion. A resolution. A moment where someone would finally say, “Yes. This is real.”

What I didn’t recognize at the time was my near enemy.

On the surface, what I was doing looked responsible. Even admirable. I was being proactive. Informed. Determined. But underneath it all, my hope had quietly become tangled up in outcomes, test results, and external validation. The search itself, though it looked like healing, was slowly exhausting me.

I needed to let go of the illusion that my life might have been different.

It’s in my eyes. I tried to hide it. But I see now I was not overly successful in that attempt. Through that time, I could best be explained. By these words someone wrote, “she’s got the hospitality of a Southern belle and the emotional stability of a raccoon in a Dollar General.” Or these accurate words, “I’m currently looking for a moisturizer that hides the fact I’ve been exhausted since 2019.”

Each clear test result landed not as relief, but as another erosion of trust. My pain was getting worse, not better. And I suspect my medical charts were, too. Notes growing heavier, more complicated, perhaps less in my favor as frustration mounted on both sides.

Still, I kept searching. Because stopping felt like giving up.

Eventually, I had to face the truth. This relentless pursuit wasn’t leading me toward healing. It was pulling me away from it.

I still don’t have clean answers or a tidy diagnosis. But something essential has shifted. I no longer outsource my validation. It doesn’t come from a test, a label, or a professional conclusion. It comes from listening to my own lived experience.

These aren’t the only people. But it’s a good chunk of them.

I’m deeply grateful for the people in my life who try to understand my pain, even when they can’t see it. They may not witness the pain itself, but they see me. And that has mattered more than I once believed possible.

Some answers have arrived gently, settling on me soft as a sunbeam. Others have been harder, more confronting. But I no longer search frantically.

That frantic searching. The good‑looking, well‑intentioned chase for certainty was my near enemy. And laying it down made space for something quieter, truer, and far more healing.

What you tend grows. What you ignore fades.

Forest Reflections

Near enemies are not mistakes. They are invitations to deepen our discernment.

When we learn to tell the difference between the important and the essential. Between the helpful and the healing. We begin to live with greater integrity toward our bodies and our limits.

And often, it is the forest. Quiet, patient, and uncompromising that helps us remember which rock truly belongs in our hands today.

Rest is not idleness. Sometimes lying on the grass under trees on a summer’s day… is hardly a waste of time.

— John Lubbock

Embracing Presence: The Passage Towards Healing Together

December 16, 2025 pammunkholm

But first I share some holiday humor,

Frost upon a windowpane 
and softly falling snow,
Warmth beside a crackling fire
while biting north winds blow
Books and blankets, steaming tea ,
The soft glow of an ember,
Candlelight and cozy nights~
The magic of December

-Laura Jaworski

Especially when you live with chronic pain. Spending time in nature is good. Spending time in nature with people. Held in a shared experience of presence and permission. Now that, is something else entirely.

When you live with chronic pain, connection can feel complicated.

I am happy, hurting and healing at the same time. It is the bravest version of me I have ever been.

–healing meme therapy

You long for meaningful connection. But you don’t have the time or strength to find, let alone nurture it.

Bodies are unpredictable. Energy is rationed. Calendars fill with medical appointments instead of casual plans.

Even when we long for community, there’s often a quiet question humming underneath it all.

Will I be able to keep up?

Will I have to explain myself?

This is where group forest therapy offers something different.

Connection on a forest therapy walk doesn’t come from conversation or comparison. It doesn’t require sharing your story or proving how much you hurt.

It emerges slowly, almost indirectly, through shared pacing and shared permission.

It happens when the group naturally slows because one person needs to slow.

When silence is allowed without awkwardness.

When someone names an experience you thought was yours alone.

I’ve watched shoulders drop the moment someone realizes they don’t have to explain why they’re moving slowly.

That moment matters.

There are many things that can only be seen through the eyes that have cried.

-Oscar A Romero

From a physiological perspective, safe connection is not just emotionally comforting. It is biologically regulating. When we feel seen, believed, and accepted without pressure to perform, the nervous system receives a powerful message.

I am safe enough right now.

Stress hormones like cortisol begin to ease. The breath deepens. Muscles soften. Pain doesn’t vanish, but it often becomes less consuming.

Nature does part of this work.

But shared experience completes it.

AD ASTRA PER AMOREM (latin): To the stars through love.

During the holidays, many of us are preparing, with excitement, (hopefully not with dread) for connection.

Family gatherings. Traditions. Empty chairs. Expectations.

For those living with chronic pain, this season can heighten both longing and fatigue. Wanting closeness while knowing how much it costs the body to participate.

Group forest therapy offers another way of being together. A quieter way. One where connection is rooted in presence rather than endurance.

One of my favorite practices for larger groups is something I call Shared Noticing.

Participants are invited to wander slowly and find one small thing that reflects how they are arriving. A stone, a leaf, a texture, a sound.

We must not allow the clock and the calendar to blind us to the fact that each moment of life is a miracle and a mystery.

-H.G. Wells

Later, we gather in a wide circle. Each person is invited (never required) to show what they found and complete the sentence,

“I’m arriving like this…”

There is no fixing. No interpreting. Just witnessing.

Again and again, what emerges is relief. A realization that our internal landscapes are not as isolated as they feel.

Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.

–Anne Lamott

Poet David Whyte writes,

Belonging is not something we negotiate; it is something we remember.

Forest therapy helps us remember. Not by erasing pain, but by holding it gently within a living community. Trees overhead, earth beneath us, and others beside us who understand without needing all the details.

As the season of gathering approaches, I find myself wondering,

Where do you feel most allowed to be exactly as you are? Without explanation, without apology?

Share in the comments 👇🏼

As this season asks many of us to gather, I offer this as an alternative kind of togetherness. One rooted in presence, patience, and permission.

If you’re navigating chronic pain and longing for connection that honors your limits, group forest therapy may be a gentle place to land. I’d love to walk alongside you.

To love at all is to be vulnerable.

–C.S, Lewis

Harnessing Nature’s Power Through Forest Therapy

December 9, 2025 pammunkholm

😂👆🏼

For years my body lived in a storm of chronic pain. Caught between relentless tension, inflammation, and exhaustion. Traditional therapies weren’t making a dent. Something profound shifted only when I began practicing forest therapy. Intentionally slowing down in nature to activate the body’s parasympathetic nervous system, the calming rest-and-digest branch that supports healing.

Today, as a forest therapy guide, I’ve watched this shift happen not just in myself, but others around me. In people carrying chronic pain, anxiety, grief, and burnout. Research confirms it and nature continually demonstrates it.

This post explores how parasympathetic activation through forest therapy aids recovery, why it’s especially valuable in chronic pain, and how to practice it even in winter months. When we often need it most.

Having a chronic illness is like looking both ways before you cross the street and then getting hit by an aeroplane.

-my take on quote by Nitya Prakash

FOREWALLOWED: overwhelmed, exhausted, or worn out, often due to excessive effort or difficulty.

🌿 Woods & Wellness: The Science of Forest Therapy

Chronic pain keeps the body stuck in a prolonged sympathetic fight-or-flight state.

Research shows that forest environments:

🌿 Lower cortisol levels
🌿 Reduce muscle tension
🌿 Lower blood pressure and heart rate
🌿 Increase heart rate variability (HRV) (a strong indicator of parasympathetic activation)
🌿 Decrease activity in the prefrontal cortex, easing mental fatigue
🌿 Boost immune function through phytoncides, natural compounds released by trees

Shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) studies from Japan indicate a significant increase in parasympathetic activity after as little as 15–20 minutes in a natural space.

This activation signals the body:

You are safe. You can repair.

Chronic pain often cycles when the body cannot access this safety. Forest therapy helps gently turn that switch.

Break often- not like porcelain, but like waves.

–Scherezade Siobhan

🌱 The Power of Pause: Healing with Parasympathetic Rest

There was a stretch of my life when going to sleep hurt. Waking up hurt. Every day just hurt. Fibromyalgia flares, migraines, and exhaustion deep into my bones, left me swollen with frustration.

My healing didn’t happen all at once. It began with moments.

Moments of pausing on a beach.

Moments of feeling my breath match the trees. A slow and ancient pace.

Moments of letting myself not push. Easing into instead of always rushing to take the next step.

Forest therapy didn’t cure my chronic pain. But it gave my nervous system something I didn’t know it was starving for. Permission to soften!

And in that softening my symptoms eased. My hope returned. And my body began recalibrating.

Nature gave me a place where healing didn’t feel forced. It unfolded.

Forest Therapy checks so many of these boxes and aids in checking the others. In FT we practice breathing exercises, sometimes chanting or humming. We meditate. Depending on the season we are exposed to cold &/or sun. Music can be part of the practice. Social connection and exercise are built in. The gag reflex and ability to sleep are supported after the practice.

🍃 The Icy Veil: A River’s Progression Beneath the Freeze

Winter teaches us about quiet healing. The kind that hides but never stops working.

Imagine a river in Saskatoon in January.

On the surface, it looks frozen, still, unmoving. But beneath the ice, water continues flowing. Deliberately, purposefully.

This is what happens when the parasympathetic nervous system activates in chronic pain.

Outwardly you might still feel limited and slow.

But beneath the surface, healing begins to flow again:

inflammation decreases
muscles release
circulation improves
your mind stops bracing for the next wave of pain

Forest therapy is the gentle sunlight that softens the ice, allowing your inner river to move again. Not rushed, just returned to its natural rhythm.

For me, being quiet and slow is being myself, and that is my gift.

–Fred Rogers ❤

❄️ Embracing the Chill: Winter Forest Therapy for Chronic Pain

Are we 100% sure we are meant to be awake in the winter?

–Jordanne Brown @Perry7Platypus7

Winter can be challenging when you live with chronic pain:

colder temperatures increase stiffness
shorter daylight affects mood
energy dips
motivation wavers

But winter also offers something summer can’t:

an environment that naturally encourages slowness, stillness, and reflection- key conditions for parasympathetic restoration

When practiced intentionally, winter forest therapy becomes a deeply comforting, grounding practice.

🧣 How to Practice Forest Therapy in Winter (Without Freezing or Flaring)

1. Take Slow Sensory Walks (10–20 minutes is enough)

The cold naturally slows your pace. Let it. Pay attention to textures, sounds, and the muted winter palette.

2. Use “Micro Moments” of Nature

If going far feels impossible, try parasympathetic nature moments:

sit by a window and watch wind move branches
listen to a crackling fire or light a pine-scented candle
stand on your porch and notice a single tree
touch cold bark and notice grounding sensations

Even 3–5 minutes helps reset your nervous system.

3. Practice Breathwork with Nature

Try the “tree breath”:

Imagine your exhale traveling into the roots of a nearby tree. Slow, steady, grounding.

4. Bring Nature Indoors

Winter healing doesn’t require wilderness:

evergreen branches
natural scents (cedar, spruce, pine)
smooth stones
indoor plants
nature soundscapes

Your parasympathetic system responds to cues of safety, not location. Are you ready to commit to this statement?👇🏼

🌲 Cozy Winter Connections: Nature’s Embrace Awaits

Here’s your winter-friendly, chronic pain safe list:

🔥 1. Warm beverages as grounding tools

Tea, broth, hot cider. Wrap your hands around warmth while practicing stillness.

🧤 2. Layer with intention

Merino wool layers
Heated socks
Hand warmers
A thermos tucked in your coat

Warmth = reduced pain and more parasympathetic access.

🌲 3. Bring texture

A soft scarf, wool blanket, or mittens can become sensory anchors.

✨ 4. Choose wind sheltered routes

Forest edges, dense evergreens, or local parks with natural windbreaks reduce the cold’s impact on pain.

🌞 5. Use pockets of sun

Even 5 minutes of winter sunlight boosts serotonin and eases the nervous system.

🧘 6. Gentle seated practices. You don’t have to hike.

Sit on an insulated pad, lean on a tree, and let your body settle.

🌿 Healing from Within: Nature’s Cradle for Chronic Pain Relief

Forest therapy doesn’t eliminate chronic pain, but it helps the body access what pain often steals:

a state of rest, repair, and deep nervous system safety.

When nature cues your parasympathetic system:

your muscles unclench
catastrophizing thoughts settle
your breath deepens
your pain becomes less sharp
your resilience grows.

In this softened place, healing becomes possible again.

When you do things from your soul, you have a river moving in you, a joy.

-Rumi

🌿 Winter Is Not the Enemy, Merely a Difficult Friendship

“The trees may sleep, but they are never dead.” — Edwin Way Teale

Winter offers these quiet, tender invitations:

Slow down. Notice. Receive what nature offers.

Even when life feels frozen, your healing can still flow beneath the surface.

Your body is not failing you. It is waiting for safety.

And the forest, still, patient and ancient, knows how to offer it.

We are the granddaughters of the grandmas your reindeer couldn’t run over.

We are resilient! We are strong! We are SISU!!!

The Messy Middle: Finding Hope When Life Refuses to Be Tidy

November 25, 2025 pammunkholm

I am in the messy middle of my life.

Not the beginning, when everything still feels like clay. Wet, moldable, brimming with possibility. And not the end, when threads have been tied off and stories are stitched into something you can finally make sense of. I’m here, in the thick of it. In the in between. Healing from chronic pain and somehow learning to live with chronic fatigue, trying to shape what might be next.

Trying to find purpose in pain when the path ahead feels tender and unfinished.

She cleared out all of her old ideas of things, until she could hear her own joy with almost no effort at all.

-Sara Avant Stover, The Way of The Happy Woman

As I have talked about previously on here. I had a hysterectomy after years of fighting hormones that felt like they were clawing their way through my insides. Endometriosis pain stretched across entire seasons of my life.

And then there was my business. It was finally thriving, finally fun. Something my mom built with her hands and heart. But my body whispered then shouted then raged to get me to listen to its unmistakable limits.

Even sitting at the piano. The place that once felt like oxygen became something my body could no longer hold. Notes I used to float through now feel heavy, unsteady, often impossible.

Chronic pain doesn’t just take.

It rearranges.

It remodels.

It forces you into corners you didn’t see coming.

And here I am again, in this messy middle. Sorting out the parts of me that remain. Trying to decide what pieces go where, and to whom, and how much. Because there is only so much of me to go around.

My days are short. My energy is rationed. I can’t just “get up earlier” or “push harder” or “stretch the day.” Those tricks don’t work in this body.

I have learned, painfully, that pushing past limits costs me days, sometimes weeks, of recovery. I don’t slip gently into tired. I crash into a wall of pain with no warning and no buffer. There is no bouncing back.

I don’t have a reserve tank anymore.

I remember when I did.

I remember using an entire day to make snacks and treats for my family, cleaning the house, bathing my littles, tucking them into bed.

I remember being so tired, but feeling full. Like life had weight and meaning and movement. I loved looking at what I had accomplished.

Now?

I can get that same level of bone deep exhaustion from five minutes of washing the dishes.

And that, sadly, is not an exaggeration.

This isn’t “just midlife.”

This is chronic pain. And chronic fatigue. And chronic limitation.

But here’s the truth I’m holding onto-

The messy middle is still a valuable place. A real place. A sacred place of hope. A place worth tending.

And I’ve learned that healing isn’t found in the before or the after.

It’s found right here.

In the slow, intentional steps we take when life has to narrow down.

I have never experienced walking on sand in my winter boots before. Weird!

For me, one of those steps is forest therapy.

Where Forest Therapy Meets Healing Journey

In this season, forest therapy has become one of the few places where my body and my motivation find agreement.

It isn’t hiking. It isn’t performance. It isn’t even about movement.

It’s a return to your own breath. It is nature therapy in its gentlest form.

A soft doorway into emotional healing, grounded presence, and quiet hope.

A reclaiming of the parts of yourself that pain has tried to scatter.

A gentle companionship in the places of life that feel undone.

In the forest, I don’t have to be anything for anyone.

The trees don’t ask me to push. The moss doesn’t question my intentions. The forest simply holds space.

And in that space, I remember that even when life feels broken, I’m not.

I think healing is like that.

Quiet. Nonlinear. Messy.

More felt than understood.

And every time I enter the forest, I feel like I step onto a “ladder of hope.”

The Ladder of Hope by me

You climb it not in leaps
But in breaths.
You rise not by strength
But by softness.
The rungs are made of moments—
A bird call,
A sunbeam,
A place to sit.
And every rung you step on
Whispers the same truth:
You’re still rising.

These are small moment that lift me enough to keep going. Not giant steps. Not perfect healing. Not having everything sorted.

The middle is messy. But it’s also alive. It’s also becoming. It’s also sacred ground.

And maybe, purpose isn’t something we chase.

Perhaps it is something that can grow. Slowly, gently, sturdily. If we let it.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words. And never stops— at all.

-Emily Dickinson

Wherever you find yourself today, whether you’re living your own messy middle or standing at the edge of it, may you find one small rung of hope. One quiet moment. One breath of space.

Chronic pain has rerouted my life more times than I can count. It has taken me down roads I never meant to travel.

It’s like my GPS is stuck on the back roads setting as I travel cross country. Not quite the way I’d planned. A lot bumpier. Requiring a slower pace. And focused attention. It is often lonely. And misunderstood.

Sometimes a path calls for you to walk alone. And still, it is beautiful.

-Angie Weiland- Crosby

There are places where the forest tends us and our own breath begins to feel like a home again.

Let the air touch your face. Let the light filter in.

Climb one rung of your ladder of hope.

Just one. This will look different for each one of us. Rightly so.

We are still rising.

And that matters.

Winter, come rest your soul on autumn’s weary head. Twirl, shimmer, soften, before tucking fall into bed.

-Angie Weiland-Crosby