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

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 Science Behind Forest Therapy’s Immune Benefits

February 3, 2026 pammunkholm

The human body is not designed to be constantly alert. It is designed to return, again and again, to states of rest.

–Esther Sternberg

Have you ever noticed that your shoulders drop the moment you step under trees?

That your breath deepens without effort?

That your body seems to say, “Ahhh. That’s better.”

When I was starting out, I knew I’d find something wonderful in forest therapy. But I didn’t expect it to be the answer I desperately needed for my chronic condition.

Rimesong- English (n) (rhyme song)- the gentle sound the world makes on frozen mornings. Branches cracking softly, frost shifting, ice whispering under light winds.

-@everglowwords

That’s not imagination. Or placebo.

That’s physiology.

Long before supplements, ice baths, or wearable tech, the human immune system evolved in relationship with forests. And modern science is finally catching up to what our bodies have always known, nature doesn’t just soothe the mind. It actively regulates inflammation and supports immune function. Read about that research here.

My face before a forest therapy walk.☝🏼

As a forest therapy guide, I experience this recalibration often. We arrive tense, inflamed, fatigued. And leave softer, warmer, steadier. Regulated.

Let’s talk about why.

(I don’t always share the research but it does exist. Follow the links through the post to learn more if you are interested.)

🔥 How Nature Cools the Flames of Inflammation

Inflammation isn’t the enemy. It’s a protective response.

But when stress, illness, or modern life keeps inflammation switched on for too long, the body pays the price. Joint pain, fatigue, brain fog, autoimmune flares, lowered immunity.

You can’t see it. But this is a picture of brain fog,
joint pain, fatigue and flares.
Grandbabies such as this little booger are wonderful!
But they are also 🦠 germ factories 🦠

Nature helps flip that switch back toward balance.

🍃 Forest Breaths: Nature’s Prescription

Trees release volatile organic compounds called phytoncides. The aromatic oils that protect the trees from disease and insects. When humans breathe them in, something remarkable happens:

Natural Killer (NK) cell activity increases. Read more here.
Stress hormones like cortisol decrease
Pro-inflammatory cytokines are reduced

NK cells are a critical part of your immune system. They identify and destroy virus-infected and abnormal cells. Research by Dr. Qing Li shows these immune benefits can last up to 7 days after a forest visit! Read about that research here.

Nature isn’t passive.

It’s interacting with you.

🌬️ Tune Your Nervous System for Optimal Immunity

Here’s the part most people miss.

Inflammation is deeply tied to the nervous system.

When your body is stuck in fight-or-flight, immune responses become exaggerated and inefficient. Forest environments consistently activate the parasympathetic nervous system. Research on that here. The “rest, digest, and repair” state.

Studies show that time in forests is associated with:

Lower C-reactive protein (CRP) Read about that here.
Improved heart rate variability
Increased salivary immunoglobulin A (sIgA), a key immune defense

In simple terms:

Your body repairs better when it feels safe.

Forests and other natural environments create that safety signal.

🌲 Embracing the Woods: Nature’s Anti-Inflammatory Escape

This is not exercise.

This is not a hike.

This is an invitation to regulation.

In wildness is the preservation of the world.

-Henry David Thoreau

🌿 The Practice (45–75 minutes)

1. Arrival — Let the Body Catch Up (5 minutes)

Stand still. Place one hand on your chest, one on your belly.

Breathe slowly through your nose.

Say quietly, “I don’t need to fix anything right now.”

2. Slow Sensory Walking (15 minutes)

Walk at half your normal speed.

Let your eyes soften.

Notice textures, temperature, sound.

This sensory input tells your nervous system it’s safe to stand down.

3. Tree Contact (10 minutes)

Rest your back or hands against a tree.

Notice its steadiness.

Imagine excess heat or tension draining from your body into the ground.

4. Immune Breath (10 minutes)

Inhale forest air slowly.

Exhale longer than you inhale.

This extended exhale directly reduces inflammatory stress signals.

5. Closing Reflection (5 minutes)

Ask yourself: What feels different in my body right now?

No analysis. Just noticing.

💬 Words That Echo the Science

The immune system is exquisitely sensitive to our environment.

-Dr Candace Pert, neuroscientist

And from scripture:

The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. -Revelation 22:2

How many are your works, LORD! In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. -Psalm 104: 24-25

A reminder that nature’s design supports life, health, and resilience.

Healing in nature has always been part of the human story. Both scientific and sacred.

💗 A Story of Healing

There was a season when my body felt constantly inflamed. Sore joints, heavy fatigue, a nervous system that never seemed to settle.

I was doing all the ‘right’ things. But what helped most wasn’t something I added. It was somewhere I went.

A slow walk among trees to capture pictures of my first forest therapy walk. Standing still in winter air. Letting my body remember how to downshift.

The forest didn’t cure me but it gave my immune system room to breathe.

When I was starting out, I knew I’d find something wonderful in forest therapy. But I didn’t expect it to be the answer I desperately needed for my chronic condition.

❄️ Grounding Your Soul: Embracing Earthing in a Saskatchewan Winter

Frozen ground doesn’t mean disconnection.

🌲 Outdoor Winter Grounding

Hands on trees or snow. Bark and damp earth still conduct energy. Research here.
Lean your back against a tree (a favorite forest therapy posture)
Grounding Footwear or Socks. Leather-soled or grounding-compatible footwear can help conduct Earth energy while keeping feet warm. More on that here.
If you are lucky enough to have authentic mukluks with a leather sole they are a perfect alternative. (Word to the wise- 🦉 walk to your outdoor earthing spot in your regular boots with a non-slip sole, sit and then put on your super slidey footwear)

🏡 Indoor & Cold-Weather Options

Grounding mats under feet while reading or stretching. Learn more here.
Warm baths with sea salt and natural stones. More here.
Sitting near open windows to breathe cold, fresh air (powerfully regulating)

Photo by Monstera Production on Pexels.com

Grounding is less about bare feet and more about intentional contact with the natural world.

The earth has music for those who listen.

-George Santayana

🌿 Final Thoughts: Nature’s Wisdom Unveiled

Nature doesn’t override your immune system.

It reminds it how to work.

In a world that keeps us inflamed, overstimulated, and disconnected, the forest offers something radical.

Regulation. Relationship. Repair. Without asking anything from you!

Your body remembers this language.

Sometimes it just needs to hear it again.

Finding Self Compassion Through the Mirror of the Forest

December 30, 2025 pammunkholm

Resilience is based on compassion for ourselves.

–Sharon Salzberg

In the beginning of my chronic pain, before I had language for it, I fought it.

I tried to outrun the agony.

I tried to out- power the fatigue.

I believed if I just pushed harder, rested less, proved myself more. I would get ahead of it.

Instead, the harder I tried, the further behind I seemed to fall.

What I didn’t yet understand was that I wasn’t battling weakness or lack of willpower. I was battling a body riddled with inflammation. A body asking to be soothed, not ignored. Not overridden. But met with compassion.

There likely will never be a cure for my condition.

But there can be healing. For myself and so many others.

For me, that healing began when I stopped fighting my body and started listening to it.

Healing in the Woods: A Transformative Quest

When I found forest therapy, I was still angry. Still confused by my disability. Still grieving the body I thought I should have. Trying to figure out exactly what steps to take to “get better.” Whatever that means.

Forest therapy didn’t fix me. But it slowed me down enough to meet myself honestly.

Walking slowly among trees, I began to notice how nature never rushes itself into wellness. Trees scarred by lightning still reach for the sun. Fallen logs don’t apologize for dormancy. Fallen leaves aren’t failures. Moss thrives not despite dampness but because of it. They are part of the cycle that nourishes what comes next.

In the forest, I learned to take time and space:

For my body.

For my care.

For myself.

I learned to soften.

*The photo on the left was taken this Christmas. On the right is a shot from one of my highest pain and least support years. Do you see the softening that has taken place?*

Nature became a mirror for self-compassion. Showing me that acceptance is not giving up, and rest is not weakness. That change is and always will be constant, and beauty is often found because of it.

Where do your forest reflections take you?

Tender and Fierce Self-Compassion: A Pathway to Healing Mastery

If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.

– Jack Cornfield

Psychologist Dr. Kristin Neff, a leading researcher on self-compassion, describes two essential forms. Tender self-compassion and fierce self-compassion. Healing (especially in chronic pain) requires both.

In the forest, tender self- compassion is offered effortlessly. Shade, stillness, permission to slow down. Tender self-compassion is the gentle response we offer ourselves when suffering arises. It sounds like,

“This hurts.”

“I’m allowed to rest.”

“I don’t need to earn care.”

Self-compassion is simply giving the same kindness to ourselves that we would give to others.

–Christopher Germer

Self compassion also says,

In forest therapy, tender self-compassion shows up as slowing down. Sitting instead of pushing. Letting the forest hold us when our nervous system is overwhelmed.

But compassion is not only soft.

Fierce self-compassion is protective. In the forest, fierce compassion looks like a tree growing around an obstacle instead of breaking itself against it. It looks like roots lifting pavement. Life insisting on what it needs. It draws boundaries. It advocates. It says no to harm. Even when that harm comes from expectations we’ve internalized.

Fierce self-compassion involves taking action in the world to protect, provide, and motivate ourselves to alleviate suffering.

— Kristin Neff

For someone living with chronic pain, fierce compassion might look like canceling plans without guilt, choosing gentler paths, or refusing to prove pain through being productive. (Holy moly, have I ever been guilty of that last one!)

The forest teaches this balance effortlessly. Life adapts rather than destroys itself.

True healing lives in the balance.

Softness without surrender.

Strength without violent self talk.

I highly recommend looking at Dr. Neff’s research.

Beyond the Power of Positivity in Chronic Pain

One of the most harmful ideas placed on people with chronic pain is the demand to “stay positive.” It is a reality many of us are quietly living inside. Through good intentioned humans or when we place this expectation on ourselves. Either way.

This is not healing.

This is toxic positivity.

The forest is not positive all the time. It holds decay and beauty simultaneously. Rot feeds growth. Death makes room for life. Nothing is bypassed.

Embodied compassion, unlike forced optimism, allows pain and beauty to coexist. Forest therapy has taught me that I don’t need to pretend things are fine in order to find meaning, or hope.

Acceptance is not resignation.

It is honesty.

You don’t know this new me; I put back my pieces, differently.

Embracing the Wild: A Practice of Compassionate Forest Therapy

If you are able, try this practice in a forest, park, or any type of natural space.

Find a tree that shows signs of damage Look for scars, broken branches, or weathering. Notice how the tree continues to live.
Stand or sit nearby Place one hand on your body. Where you feel pain or tension most.
Name tenderness. Quietly acknowledge what hurts. No fixing. No reframing. Just noticing.
Name fierceness Ask yourself. What does my body need protection from right now? Fatigue? Expectations? Self-criticism?
Receive the lesson. Let the tree reflect back to you. Adaptation, not defeat. Presence, not perfection.

Take your time. Healing doesn’t rush.

Nature’s Note: A Message from the Forest to Your Body

Dear Body,

You are not broken.

You are responding to what you have endured. And we know you have endured much.

I have seen storms too. I have lost branches. I have rested longer than expected.

Still, I grow.

You do not need to push to belong here.

You do not need to prove your worth through endurance.

I hold decay and beauty at the same time.

You are allowed to do the same.

Rest when you need to.

Stand tall when you can.

Trust that healing is not the absence of pain, but the presence of care.

You are part of this rhythm.

You always have been.

— The Forest

That’s the thing about December: it goes by in a flash. If you just close your eyes, it’s gone . And it’s like you were never there.

–Donal Ryan, The Thing About December

Look into the mirror of forest therapy. Reflect where you need more self- compassion. Take time to recognize and lean into both tender and fierce. It will aid in all types of healing.

Diefenbaker Lake: A Childhood Sanctuary

November 18, 2025 pammunkholm

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,

to stolen keys and the single party I regretted

before it even began.

You held my honeymoon,

my young love learning its way,

and you held me still years later

as chronic pain reshaped my life.

Now I walk your trails slowly,

letting forest therapy guide my weary body

back into rhythm with the world.

Your waves teach me presence.

Your ice teaches me patience.

Your seasons teach me trust.

Grandparents gone on, Uncle David gone on,

Memories gone on,

yet their echoes remain in your wind.

In every sail that fills,

in every motor that roars to life,

I hear them.

My lake,

always changing, always faithful,

you have become a sanctuary,

a place where the ache eases

and beauty remains.

Thank you for holding my childhood.

Thank you for holding my healing.

Thank you for holding me still.

My lake.

Some memories are not moments at all, but places.

Victoria Erickson

Finding Purpose and Beauty Amid Limitation: Healing Through Forest Therapy

November 11, 2025November 11, 2025 pammunkholm

It was November- the month of crimson sunsets and parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind- songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.

–L.M. Montgomery

When chronic pain changes how you move through the world, finding purpose can feel impossible. Discover how forest therapy helps you reconnect with beauty, peace, and meaning amid limitation.

When the World Doesn’t Understand

This week, I’ve run into that old ache of being misunderstood.

A well-meaning friend said, “If someone is important, you find time to visit them.”

Another person offered me a job, a kind gesture, but one that didn’t see what my body needs right now. Despite having had this conversation with her. Recently.

I wanted to explain that my hours in a day are not the same as theirs. That every decision I make comes with the quiet calculation of energy, pain, and recovery. But I get tired of trying to convince people. That I have a nerve condition, that my life requires peace, that my healing depends on rest.

So instead of explaining, I go where I don’t need to explain.

To the forest.

To the lake.

To the soft company of trees who ask for nothing.

Sophistication in Life’s Constraints

There’s a strange grace in limitation. It strips away the noise. It forces you to listen closely to what truly matters.

Silfira (noun)
“silent fire” an inner quiet confidence that doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful

In chronic pain, the world becomes smaller. But sometimes that’s where beauty hides. The simple act of breathing deeply, the sound of wind in pine branches, the reflection of light on water. These moments remind me that purpose doesn’t disappear when your capacity does. It shifts.

Sometimes you have to let go of the picture of what you thought life would be like & learn to find joy in the story you are actually living.

–Rachel Marie Martin

Every visit to the woods rewires something inside me. It doesn’t erase pain, but it helps me hold it differently, with more compassion, less resistance.

Revitalize Your Soul: The Healing Power of Forest Therapy

In November the trees are standing all sticks and bones. Without their leaves, how lovely they are, spreading their arms like dancers.

-Cynthia Rylant, In November

Forest therapy, or shinrin-yoku, the Japanese practice of “forest bathing”, invites us to slow down and let the natural world do what it’s always done: heal.

When I walk among the trees, I don’t have to perform or explain. I can simply be. The forest doesn’t need me to be productive. It asks only that I show up, open, present, and willing to listen.

Science continues to affirm what our bodies already know. Time in nature lowers cortisol, reduces pain perception, and restores emotional balance. For those of us living with chronic illness, that’s not a luxury, it’s medicine.

Unleashing True Intent

Purpose used to look like productivity, working, helping, showing up for everyone else. Now, it looks like protecting my peace.

It looks like saying no when my body whispers, rest.

It looks like walking slowly among through the trees and realizing that healing is still a form of doing.

Living with chronic pain doesn’t mean my life is smaller. It means my purpose has changed shape, quieter, more deliberate, rooted in stillness.

But I am still connected with society. The kindergarten rules that apply to everyone else still apply to me. It just looks a little different. How do these rules apply to you?

Share everything
Play fair
Clean up your own mess
Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody
Don’t take things that aren’t yours
Put things back where you found them
Flush
When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic
Hold hands and stick together
Be aware of wonder

And it is this final rule that I want focus on now.

Discovering Hidden Beauty in Your Everyday Surroundings

This is my life. And I can either accept it and find joy in every day, or I can let it ruin me.

-Unknown

Not every day feels beautiful. Some days, it takes effort to see beyond the ache. But the forest teaches patience. It reminds me that seasons change. That even the barest branch carries life within it.

I learned to know the love of bare November days.

–Robert Frost

Healing isn’t a straight path; it’s a spiral. And every time I return to the forest, I find another piece of myself waiting there grounded, calm, and whole enough to keep going.

Dancing with Discomfort

If you, too, are learning to live inside limitation, may you know this: your life is still rich with purpose.

You are not falling behind.

You are not invisible.

You are simply living at the rhythm your body requires.

Step outside. Breathe the air that has touched leaves and sky. Let the forest hold what words cannot.

Because sometimes the most powerful healing happens not when we push harder, but when we finally allow ourselves to be held by something greater.

Please never forget how brave it is to continue to show up in a story that looks so different than what you thought it’d be.

–Liz Newman

🌲When Comparison Becomes a Thorn in Your Forest 🌳

September 23, 2025 pammunkholm

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.

-from 22 Quotes About Chronic Pain

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.

Comparison whispered: why even try?

Fredrik Backman once wrote:

“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.

No one truly wins the “Pain Olympics”.

–Lori Gottlieb

Living with chronic pain means my days will never look like someone else’s. But that doesn’t mean they’re lesser—it just means they’re different.

Brene Brown says:

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.