Let the waters settle and you will see the moon and stars mirrored in your own being.
-Rumi
There are places that shape us before we’re even old enough to understand what’s happening. Places that imprint themselves on the soles of our feet, in the rhythm of our breath, in the part of our memory that feels more like home than any house ever could.
For me, that place has always been Diefenbaker Lake.
Some places are so deep inside us that we carry their shoreline in our bones.
-John O’Donohue
I’ve been coming here since I was tiny. Even before I had words for belonging, but somehow already knew I belonged here. Grandpa always made sure of that.
My grandparents had a cabin and a sailboat tucked along these windswept shores. Some of my earliest memories are stitched together with the smell of woodsmoke from backyard fires, the sweetness of my grandpa’s violin, and the rowdy chorus of siblings and cousins running wild between the cabin and the water. With the constant reminder to “wash the sand off your feet before you come in!”
And then there were the cozy, indoor moments that stitched themselves into my heart just as tightly as the beach days. Evenings around the table playing Phase 10, some of us a little too competitive for their own good. And we watched Bedknobs and Broomsticks over and over and over again. Never questioning why, just letting the magic and music wash over us like it was brand new every time.
Mornings were their own kind of ritual. Waking up to Grandma making bacon and something (it didn’t matter what, it’s the bacon that mattered) and the smell of fresh coffee drifting through the cabin. To this day, I associate the scent of coffee with pure happiness, because it always meant family, warmth, and the safe little world we built at the lake.
Teenage awkwardness made an appearance here too, because of course it did. Blushing, fumbling romances that felt monumental at the time. Even with his hair plastered to his face. Perhaps this was done by those winds that could have knocked over a small cow 🤔.
Speaking of cows. They are a regular feature of this lake that is surrounded by pasture land. Two rules. Don’t use a cow as a landmark when giving directions. They tend to move eventually. And don’t pick a beach with a cow path into the water. You can guarantee there’s a few cow pies in there.
Swimming lessons were basically an extreme sport back in my day. With waves bigger than me, wind that felt like knives, and instructors yelling cheerful encouragement while I questioned all of my mom’s life decisions that brought me to this point.
Still, I kept going back.
I lived for the days Uncle David would haul out the power boat. Kneeboarding, tubing, laughing so hard my face hurt. Those were the moments that made childhood feel endless. We’d tear down the path to the beach, towels flying behind us, younger siblings and cousins trailing like joyful chaos. We swam, we snacked, we visited, we repeated. Every day was an epic saga of sunshine and soggy towels.
Sailing days were their own kind of magic. My mom loves to retell the story of my sister and me being so little our feet didn’t touch the floor as we sat at the table down below. Meanwhile grandpa and dad were tacking hard and smiling harder. Every time the sailboat leaned, we’d just… slide helplessly under the table like tiny bewildered penguins. Apparently we were adorable. At the time, I remember thinking, Is this normal? Are we sinking? Should I be able to see the lake out that window?
Dad and grandpa were always smiling so I took that to mean we were safe.
As I grew older I loved sitting at the very front of the sailboat, facing forward, wind whipping around me, I felt like I was flying. When the water was calm, the spinnaker would make an appearance billowing out like a living thing. My grandpa worked the ropes and held the tiller with the easy smile that only comes from loving a place so much. Those are memories I hold like treasures.
My youngest son a few years back in his favorite spot on the sailboat, that front seat.
And now seems like the appropriate moment to confess something to my parents…
I did, in fact, steal the keys and “borrow” the cabin for one weekend as a teenager 😬. I had “a few friends” over. I threw exactly one party in my entire life. And I was so sick with worry the entire time that I basically grounded myself for the rest of my adolescent years. Lesson learned. Sorry. Mostly. It’s been a good story over the years.
I spent my honeymoon at the lake- 26 ½ years ago. We fished, built sandcastles, and solved the great riddle of rural Saskatchewan: there are no gas stations open on Sundays. (At least, not back then.)
About five years ago, my parents bought their own place by my lake It took a some time but something inside me reconnected. Something long since silent woke back up.
I listen excitedly to hear about the ice breaking in the spring. The booming, cracking, shifting sound like the earth stretching after a long sleep. Then, in an instant it seems, the ice is gone. Summer brings shimmering waves, familiar laughter, and barefoot days that always feel too short. Fall arrives in gold and red and farewell winds. Winter… winter brings a darker, quieter beauty. A solemn stillness that somehow feels honest. Vulnerable.
The older I get, the more I find that the quiet places are the ones that speak the loudest.
-Unknown
We’ve camped along these beaches. We’ve laid in the sun. And now, when I head out on my power boat with our next generation, I think of Uncle David. I feel him in the hum of the engine, in the ripple of the wake, in the bright splash of joy that comes with speed and water and family.
The pinnacle of our lake experiences has to be when we helped save our friend’s boat from sinking. When the bladder around the leg came off and they started taking on water, they quickly headed to the boat launch. Seeing they wouldn’t make it, they beached the boat. Then with two other power boats and a cacophony of helpers, they managed to get two boat tubes under the leg and the front of the boat. One of the support boats towed. Two people bailed. People sat on the tubes to balance. And in this ridiculous state we slowly made our way through the marina and up the launch. To the laughter and cheers of watchers nearby.
I have found beauty in the whimsically ordinary.
-Elissa Gregoire
These days I walk the trail by my lake often. I slow down. I breathe.
And somewhere along the way, I realized,
This place has become part of my healing.
Chronic pain forces you to live differently. More slowly, more intentionally, more gently. Forest therapy taught me to seek connection with the natural world, to let my nervous system rest in the presence of trees, water, sky. And here, wrapped in the sounds and rhythms of my lake, something in me softens. Pain quiets. My body remembers safety.
When the heart is overwhelmed, the earth invites us to rest.
-Unknown
My parents host endlessly now, filling their summers with family, friends, neighbours. Anyone who needs a taste of peace.
They are the sailboat owners. And they love it just as much as my grandpa did.
The legacy continues, like wind passing from one generation to the next.
My lake is healing. This home of my parents is healing.
And after all these years, I am still finding new ways to belong here.
There are days the lake knows my story better than I do.
-Unknown
Fluctuat nec mergitur (latin phrase):
She is tossed by the waves but does not sink.
An Ode to My Lake
O Lake of my childhood, keeper of my summers,
You who taught me courage in cold waves
and laughter in the spray of speeding boats
I return to you again with a heart that remembers.
You cradle my earliest joys.
Grandpa’s violin threading through evening air,
firelight warming our faces,
cousins tumbling down the path like wild things set free.
You were witness to awkward teenage hopes,
to frozen swimming lessons and winds that stole my breath,
Sometimes my life feels like a forest—dense, shadowed, and uneven.
Everyone else seems to walk a wide, sunlit path: their maps are clear, their steps steady, their packs light.
Meanwhile, I carry heavy bundles of pain and medicine, stumbling often, wondering if I’ll ever catch up.
~Cue the tiny violins 🎻 🤭~
Beyond the Familiar: Embracing a Different Forest
My therapist keeps telling me to stop comparing myself to other people – that life’s not a competition. Which, to be fair, is exactly what I’d say to someone I was trying to beat, too.
Comparison is never useful. It’s like measuring trees by how tall they look in someone else’s forest, forgetting that soil, roots, storms, and sunlight differ wildly.
Or like judging an oak tree by how quickly the wildflowers around it bloom. Different roots, different seasons, different reasons for being.
And yet I fall into it—measuring my path against someone else’s trail, forgetting we are not even walking in the same terrain.
Comparing … is a waste of time and effort; we are all different people, experiencing and feeling things differently.
San Diego Prepare Yourself: Sisterhood Adventures Await
Next month, my sisters will gather in San Diego. I am so excited for them. And to hear about their adventures. Sunshine, laughter, time to connect. It’ll be fabulous.
I would love to be there. But the cost of my monthly medicine is about the same as what that trip would take.
I live in a different economy—the economy of pain management. So instead of boarding a plane, I stay home.
~Poor lil’ me 🥲👉👈 🤣 ~
It’s hard not to compare. Their togetherness, my absence. Their momentum, my stillness. I remind myself that longing is not failure—but it still stings.
Screenshots of a Life I Don’t Live: Family Call, Personal Spiral
On a recent morning: my sister called from her vacation in London. On a family video call. At 9 a.m., I was still coaxing my muscles awake.
I listened to the bagpipes she was sharing and checked out the sights in the background. I marvelled at what she has been able to accomplish and see in her life. I joy in her success.
Inevitably another emotion starts to rise. As on the screen, this is what I see:
One sister in her home office, thriving in a job that suits her perfectly.
Another in her kitchen, caring for her family and home.
A sister-in-law outdoors, likely at the park or on a walk with her two littles.
My parents smiling in their living room, enjoying retirement and seeing their family.
And then there was me—tired, clearly still in bed, clearly accomplishing nothing.
That’s how I saw it. In truth, no one said that. But comparison painted me useless in bold letters across the screen.
~Woe is meee 🐌💤 😜 ~
A Sermon I Couldn’t Speak
At church, I tried to answer a question on a bad pain day after a sleepless night. My words came tangled, incomplete.
I saw my husband’s face and thought, I’m taking too long. I gave up. Without tying my random thoughts together. And I gave him the microphone. He expertly gave a clear, concise answer that was perfectly on point. My effort looked weak next to his polish.
“My brain and I, we are not friends. My brain and I, we are classmates doing a group assignment called Life. And it’s not going great.”
But here’s the truth: trying counts. Even stumbling words are a kind of courage.
The Math of Measuring Up Never Works: The Broken Ruler I Keep Using
Comparison is a thief. It always leaves you with less than you started.
It’s like weighing a feather against a stone and expecting the scale to balance it out. It demands a sameness life never promised. It blinds us to the worth in our own story.
As a people, we tend to magnify the strengths and blessings another person receives. But minimize our own gifts, talents and opportunities. Social media is as helpful as a screen on a submarine when it comes to perpetuating this problem.
There’s no hierarchy of pain. Suffering shouldn’t be ranked, because pain is not a contest.
Fear and scarcity trigger comparison and we start to rank our own suffering.
Brown calls this comparative suffering. She goes on to say,
The opposite of scarcity is not abundance; the opposite of scarcity is simply enough.
Empathy is not finite, and compassion is not a pizza with eight slices. When you practice empathy and compassion with someone, there is not less of these qualities to go around. There’s more. Love is the last thing we need to ration in this world
This toxic pattern of comparison blocks emotional processing and prevents genuine empathy, creating isolation rather than connection.
My worth is not judged by what I do in comparison to others, but by what I do with what I have—what love, what compassion, what presence I can offer. Even just in showing up.
Measuring By Love, Not Ladders
I’ve decided to measure my life by something else: in every conversation, I want the other person to leave feeling better about themselves than when we started.
If they do, then I’ve accomplished something real. It may not be a promotion, a trip abroad, or a picture-perfect moment. But it’s love, and it’s within my reach.
In such a headspace there should be no time for shame and comparing. Only felicitations and adulation.
Broken But Still Moving
Mandy Harvey is a singer/ songwriter. I saw her on an America’s Got Talent clip. Mandy lost her hearing when she was 18. Interestingly enough she has EDS which is similar to my connective tissue disorder.
On the show, she spoke about initially going to dark places. And when she decided she wanted more for her life, she wrote this song. And performed it in front of a live audience and judges and cameras.
She beautifully sings,
“I don’t feel the way I used to / The sky is grey much more than it is blue / But I know one day I’ll get through/ And I’ll take my place again… So I will try…
There is no one for me to blame/ Cause I know the only thing in my way/ Is me…
I don’t live the way I want to/ That whole picture never came into view/ But I’m tired of getting used to/ The day
So I will try..
Those words hold me when comparison tries to unravel me.
Forest Therapy: A Way Forward
If comparison is a thorn, forest therapy can be a balm.
The forest floor is messy. Layers of leaf litter, moss, dead wood. It doesn’t pretend to be clean and perfect. It is rich because of its imperfections.
Your struggles, limitations, pain give richness and texture to your life story—not flaws to hide.
Walking a path in woods, you may have to step over roots, navigate mud and stray branches. But each step gives you awareness, grounding, breathing space.
Comparison often makes us spin like leaves in the wind; forest therapy anchors us.
When comparison grabs tight, I go to the woods.
The forest does not compare:
Trees don’t measure their height against one another.
Moss doesn’t resent the ferns.
Streams don’t ask why the river runs faster.
Each element grows where it is, as it is. That is enough.
Roots, Rituals and Small Resets
Here are ways the forest has supported me:
Leaning against a tree and letting its rootedness remind me that I, too, belong.
Listening to the birds until my thoughts soften.
Sitting by water and imagining my comparisons floating downstream.
From Forest Floor to Open Sky
Yes, I still compare. Yes, it still hurts. But when I remember that comparison steals joy, I find space to choose something else.
I may not be in San Diego, or London, or even fully awake at 9 a.m. (to those who are, Have as good a time as possible, given that I’m not there. Heehee 😊)
~Life said nope 🙃🍋~
I can still offer kindness, presence, and love.
And maybe that is enough.
I want to feel good about my life. Not in the sense of “as good as anyone else,” but as my life, full of the shape I have.
Chronic pain is part of the soil I grow in. It’s changed what I can do, yes—but also deepened what I can feel, what I can appreciate.
If everyone else seems to be walking on sunlit paths, I may be walking in dappled shade, or in a different time of day. But my path is still mine, and still worthy. Because even in the shaded parts of the forest, light still filters through.
Grief hits us all differently. No matter the cause or the depth. I personally believe grief hits our nervous systems. It tugs at our nerve strings. If we ignore that tug to care for ourselves, the consequences are far reaching.
In 2020, my condition and its associated unmanageable pain, coupled with stress, led me to my breaking point. What happened? I just read something. But that something broke my mind and then my heart. This experience resulted in my nervous system turning into a bit of a punk. In this post I share the story of my mental breakdown.
Before I get into it, make sure you are subscribed to my Instagram, Facebook and now X! You will want to stay tuned for the plans I have in the works for spring.
The bravest thing I ever did was rebuilding, when I DID NOT even want, to live.
-John Polo
My Story
My world stopped when I read those two lines. Time stood still or so it seemed until I looked at the clock and 6 hrs had passed.
It was like I had carefully and lovingly built this life. Like building a home. It was a beautiful glass home. I thought I’d finished completion on it recently. Everything was fitting together perfectly after such a long haul to the contrary. So many setbacks. But it was finally starting to making sense. I started to decorate my home.
And then I read those words.
I kept trying to reconfigure in my brain how this would still work and still fit. But it didn’t. What I was reading did not fit in my home. It was all or nothing. This piece of information was so contrary to the home it would not go inside. But it was my home. I just finished building it. It looked so perfect.
I had to decide what was more important. Those words despite the deep hurt they caused… or my beautiful new home. This life I had built. I was not in a position to take them both forward.
So it broke my brain.
My beautiful home started to implode. So many thoughts sent the pieces of glass flying at me. Slicing me in multiple places at once. The image was only that. An image. But the pain was real.
My eyes went dark and a terrible sound rushed into my ears. I standing in the path of a tornado. It went on and on.
This was the only way. Complete separation.
I lay in bed and counted down the hours…to nothing.
There was nothing left to do with my time. Every thought I had about getting up brought me back to the raging tornado.
So I closed my bedroom door and locked it. Shut off the lights and tucked every crack of light out with the blackout curtains. I liked it being so dark I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or not. That’s when it was easiest not to think. Dead air.
And then when the thoughts broke through the darkness I drowned them out listening to piano music. Naming the notes and translating them from solfege to ABC took my conscious and subconscious brain. Anything to keep them busy.
Any thoughts related to the implosion ripped through me. I had to scribble them out on paper with a pen so hard I’d rip through every time. Even when I put the pen down, my thoughts made me mad at myself. I had to scribble them out in my head. I felt the pen rip through there too.
The days of lying in bed were spent going through the many parts of my life this will alter.
I was so confused. I didn’t know anything anymore. I didn’t trust myself. I decided I just needed to stay small and insignificant. Sending shrapnel through my mind. The thought, what did I think I was doing? Sending shrapnel through my gut.
I had the Miss Saigon refrain in my own words. 🎵 No plans. No joy. No goals. No change.🎵
Stay small. Stay insignificant. Stay low. These thoughts felt more right. But going along with them felt more wrong.
Depression and nerve pain felt the same. The vibration that spread to my fingertips and through to the ends of my toes was uncomfortable exhausting.
It felt like a break up. But worse. I didn’t want to be reminded of the things that broke my brain. All of it. Stuff and books and papers and notebooks. It all had to be hidden away.
I didn’t even know what to eat. So I didn’t eat anything.
I was on the edge of a cliff. It would be so easy to fall. I’d already felt the crash. It took great force to stay on the cliff. Every thought that imploded another part of the house threatened my safety.
This disease was trying to hide in my brain and gut. A disease of shrapnel. If I coax it all out now, I will most definitely fall. But holding it in was also astonishingly painful.
I wanted to hide. I closed my eyes and put a blanket over my head and pushed my fingers into my eyes. Hiding from the pain of it all.
What am I fighting back for? For things to continue to swirl in a sea of chaos?
I kept checking. Do I have any foundation left in my home? Do I still know what I know and believe what I believe?
I am safe. I am loved.
That was all I could trust at that time.
Three days later I texted my mom. I need help. (Hubby was working out of town)
☝ That is what I wrote in my journal☝ . It was a few weeks later when I started to come out of it. What I read that caused the breakdown doesn’t matter. It was the straw that broke, not the camel’s back. But my brain and heart
There is a Time for Grief
I share this as a way of connecting. If you are experiencing grief I hope you have someone to text. I hope you can find your way to sit with it so you will, in time, let go.
Let go or be dragged.
-Anonymous
Over the River and Through the Woods
My way through the grief was nature. It started with grounding which led me to forest therapy.
These tools helped me retrain my nervous system. from choosing the chaos it was familiar with, to an unfamiliar peace. This initially felt awful. It took time but that balance shifted and eventually I felt peaceful being at peace. I found me again.
In nature I found healing from wounds I wasn’t ready to face any other way. They melted away into the sand and dirt through my bare feet. My nerves found shelter from the strain as I stood in the pouring rain. My doubts were carried away on the wind. The land was a teacher and I the student starving for learning. Joy slowly crept back into my life as I literally took time to smell the flowers. Hope was in my vocabulary once I took time to sit in the sun and feel it reviving me.
It took time. But I found me again. Me, with this new information. A better me. A me prepared to navigate the shifts still to come in my life.
She may be falling apart, but she’s been there before. She’ll take her time as she mourns the pieces she no longer needs and gather the rest of her, the best of her, and with a smile she’ll walk away.
-JM Storm
A Painful Truth
Developing chronic illness, pain, fatigue is devastating. We all stand in need of a time of mourning. A time to say goodbye to the life we’d planned. And then a step forward with care.
I try to take care of my nervous system. I hope I pay attention to those tugs of grief, or overwhelm, or anger. Now I know my emotions are messages my body is sending. I have learned how important it is to listen to them.
A big part of our nervous system healing involves teaching it that it is safe to feel negative emotions. It is safe to feel tired. It is safe to feel uncertain. afraid or incredibly sad. Just because something is unfamiliar doesn’t mean it’s bad. As my nervous system starts to trust me on that point, I am better equipped to face life. And to continue healing.
Loss is part of life and grief is part of love. I don’t want to let go of either.
Be at Peace
What brings you the most peace? Knowing this about yourself is key. Nature is awesomely soothing. Try it. You will be ready and willing to join me soon enough. Together, we can go deeper into our study of forest therapy when spring comes.
Remember, forest therapy is not only for grief but a host of human conditions. Such as the following. Forest therapy can:
relieve stress and anxiety
improve lung and heart health
increase memory and focus
improve sleep
fight depression
improve mood and energy
boost immunity
speed recovery from injury
just to name a few!!!
There is something for all of us to heal from. The forest has an open invitation. I eagerly anticipate working together with you. I invite you to continue to learn and heal and grow with me as we face this beautiful life. Take care!
The conversation I am hearing around any table, in any social situation, is a desperate pleading for less stress, calmer nerves, more down time. Any way you put it, people are worn out. The phrase I choose to use in this space, is that we each have a deep need to regulate our nervous system. Which requires less stress and finding a way to calm our nerves.
So how do we go about doing this?
If only it were this easy!
Do A, B and C and your nervous system will be regulated. If only there were a list of instructions. But any of us who suffer from an easily activated system know from experience that once you allow that “jack-in-the-box” out, it is really difficult to squish him back in. Once you have had a breakdown of nerves aka a nervous breakdown it is really difficult to bring them back to normal function.
But! The good news is that it can be done.
There are many good ways to calm a dysregulated immune system. My number one favourite way is forest therapy. In the forest we find peace. We find rest and rejuvenation. It’s not just from the nice scenery.
There are many principles to forest therapy that I can teach to help you find the benefit of the forest when we go on a walk together.
As a forest therapy guide I am trained to lead you to the most valuable use of your precious time by sharing invitations to bring the benefits into your being and to take aspects of the forest home with you to keep that regulated feeling flowing.
I have to admit there are many other ways to regulate an overactive nervous system but I hold to the opinion that forest therapy is best!
Think of anything that brings you calm. We are not talking about ignoring your emotions while binge watching Disney movies and eating copious amounts of junk food. What we seek is the calm that feeds you. When you finish this type of activity, you feel better than when you started.
Some of my other ways to support my nervous system are: fun with family and friends, going to church, helping others, being creative or expressing gratitude.
Then there are the therapies that are also supportive. Red light therapy. Detoxing.
When our nervous system is overactive there is an over abundance of cortisol present. Cortisol is a good hormone in appropriate amounts. But like anything, too much of a good thing is not a good thing.
Cortisol’s acidic nature can cause a breakdown in lymphatic tissue and can lead to the flow of fluid being reduced. Grounding (connecting bare skin to the earth or a grounding mat) can support the breakdown of cortisol and improving lymphatic fluid flow.
Many of us who suffer from chronic conditions have a buildup of lymphatic fluid. A quick tip for this week is to either hum, bounce on a rebounder (you don’t even have to leave the mat, just a small bounce) OR tap your chest with your first three fingertipsto clear some of this fluid daily. If there has been buildup you may notice a lot of phlegm in your throat. Nasty, but success!
For everyone, there is a chronic health epidemic regarding our nervous systems and we are all vulnerable, I believe this epidemic is due in part to the attitude we have developed around work, money and our own self worth.
If you look at the terms we use for money you will notice how they can also be used when talking about an individual and how they see themselves. The value of a dollar is nothing compared to the value of each human being. Our net worth can be high and our self worth low.
If we’ve spent years finding our worth in our productivity our nervous systems perceive play and rest as unsafe.
But maybe rest is exactly what we need!
Instead of asking, ‘Have I worked hard enough to deserve rest?’, I’ve started asking, ‘Have I rested enough to do my most loving, meaningful work?’ – Jane Hobbs
Whatever work that may be. Employment. Raising children. Caring for aging parents. Putting our creative work out into the world. A combination of these. Or none of these. For some of us, taking care of our bodies is a full time job because that is the only way out of this powerful cycle of dysregulation.
Brene Brown said, It takes courage to say yes to rest and play in a culture where exhaustion is seen as a status symbol.
Relatable?
May I offer a suggestion to choose your rest spot well?
Certain members of my family who shall remain nameless are so good at falling asleep they could make it an Olympic event. It’s a form of art, the noises they can make and how wide the mouth can hang open as they drift further and further into dreamland; it’s quite impressive. Ok I admit I am one of them, but these stories are not about me!
One day after hours of errands, one family member got in the car, leaned the seat back and closed their eyes. Upon waking, through blinking, fuzzy eyesight they saw a man wandering unnervingly close to their car and looking directly at them with eyebrows furrowed.
He was not the only one on the scene as there was a bus stop directly across from Sleeping Beauty and we have surmised our family member must have looked dead. That man waiting for the bus must have gotten quite a shock when the concern that brought him to peer into the windshield, turned to surprise that the dead had awoken.
Another time. Anther family member. This time a truck and a moment to nap on the side of the road that turned to dread upon waking hours, that’s right, plural, hours later to wonder how many friends had witnessed the scene. They’d had plenty of opportunity to drive by over all those hours. Possibly more than once since it was a popular intersection for all that know this nameless family member.
Here’s an approach to shifting that perspective. From exhaustion as a status symbol to doing what is best for us. I hope this sticks more than a mere invitation to get your rest, I offer to you two words of the week. Hurkle Durkle and Ramfeezled.
Ramfeezled: An 18th Century term for wrung out, tired and exhausted. Let’s stand up to the world’s judgment and have a nap before we become ramfeezled. And we will NOT allow exhaustion to be our status symbol. We choose life.
Hurkle- Durkle: A 200- year- old Scottish term meaning to lounge in bed long after it is time to get up. Happiness is Hurkle-Durkling. When your body needs rest, find time and a way to rest. When your energy is depleted find a time to Hurkle- Durkle. It is refreshing to get the amount of sleep one’s body needs.
You know how when you plug your phone in to the cord and leave it all night only to find the other end wasn’t plugged into the wall? It got no charge from being only plugged in on one end.
That is what it can feel like to someone with chronic fatigue/ pain/ illness. The stress on our body to exist can become too much some days. And exhaustion is the reality.
Have you experienced this type of fatigue? Being tired and being fatigued are quite different.
Please be aware of the beings in your world that require extra rest. It can be quite devastating to wake up after hours of sleeping and still be exhausted. Or to have a small window of the day to get things done before the body is showing signs of stress and fatigue.
We all experience moments of fatigue. However, if you are one of those that wakes up fatigued everyday and then goes about their endeavors as best they can like a boss, I see you, I recognize what it costs you, you are not alone.
Never. And I mean Never feel bad about taking a nap or getting a rest when your body needs it.
I invite you to allow the effects of the forest to heal your dysregulated nervous system. It can help bring your cortisol levels under control in a shorter period of time than other ways I’ve tried. Arrange your life to allow time to rest when your body needs to rest. Have you rested enough to do your most loving and meaningful work? Say yes to rest but choose your rest spot wisely! Find time to hurkle- durkle and don’t become ramfeezled. I can show you how.
Join me in the forest. Head to my contacts page to book or to make inquiries. Take care of yourselves.
SUNBEAM ACRES 