Nourish Your Nervous System: Forest Therapy Insights

April 7, 2026April 9, 2026 pammunkholm

This Spring is literally that friend who always says they’re, ‘on their way’ but hasn’t even left the house yet.

As a forest therapy guide, I spend my days watching the silent, slow-motion choreography of the woods. I see trees that have been bent by storms, scarred by fire, or crowded by neighbors. Yet, in the quiet of the understory, there is a profound truth that the forest whispers to those who listen.

A tree does not blame the wind for its lean; it simply grows where the light is.

In our human lives, we often find ourselves stuck in a thicket of blame. When we face chronic pain, illness, or the heavy consequences of past decisions, it is easy to retreat into a victim narrative.

We point to our circumstances, our upbringing, or our luck as the sole architects of our current reality.

But staying in that space is like a sapling trying to grow in the permanent shadow of a fallen log. It is exhausting, and eventually, it leads to stagnation.

The Forest of Our Making

Even when we are navigating the complex terrain of chronic conditions, we must recognize that our current reality is, in part, a map of the choices we have made. This is not about shame or self-flagellation. In fact, it is the opposite. To own our choices is to reclaim our agency.

To be clear. This is not to say that our choices have caused our chronic condition. (Despite what medical professionals tell us.) There is a level of listening to our bodies that leads to health and healing. But the way you have lived life is not always the answer to why your body has chosen this course of action. Often this is out of our hands.

Or as the 17th-century Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza noted:

The more you struggle to live, the less you live. Give up the notion that you must be sure of what you are doing. Instead, surrender to what is real within you.

This “saving of circumstance” begins with the radical act of ownership. When we look back and see the moments where we acted to the best of our ability, even if those actions led to mistakes, we begin to see our humanity not as a flaw, but as a shared condition. We have all stumbled. We have all misread the trail. But there is no medicine in shame, and there is no repair in blame.

Rooted Connections: The Nervous System as Fertile Ground

For those living with chronic pain, this shift from victimhood to ownership is more than a psychological pivot; it is a physiological necessity. Our nervous systems are like the forest floor. A complex, sensitive network that requires the right conditions to repair and thrive.

When we are stuck in blame or victim mode, our system remains in a state of high alert (the sympathetic “fight or flight” response). This internal friction creates a “noisy” environment where the body cannot easily access its natural repair mechanisms. By owning our choices, we create a clearing. We allow the “rest and digest” (parasympathetic) system to take the lead.

Just as the forest brings our nervous systems to a natural state of regulation through phytoncides and fractal patterns, the act of self-forgiveness and ownership brings our internal landscape to rest. It provides the space required for the nervous system to settle and begin the slow work of repair.

A Forest Therapy Practice

The “Stone and Stream” Invitation

To help move through these human emotions with strength and confidence, I invite you to try this practice, whether you are in a literal forest or simply sitting by a window.

1. Find Your Anchor: Find a place where you can sit or stand comfortably. Notice the weight of your body.

2. The Stone of Choice: Pick up a small stone (or imagine one). Hold it in your hand. Let this stone represent a choice you have made that you currently carry with weight. Perhaps one you have blamed yourself or others for. Feel its texture, its coldness, its reality.

3. The Stream of Time: Look at a moving part of nature. A stream, the wind in the leaves, or even the movement of clouds. Recognize that like the water, time has moved on. The choice happened, but you are here now.

4. The Offering: Place the stone down. Not with a sense of getting rid of it, but with a sense of placing it in the landscape. Say to yourself: “This was my choice. I acted with the knowledge I had. I am human, and I am here.”

5. The New Growth: Notice a small sign of life. This is your next action. Trust in your experience. Trust that you can act again, informed by the past but not imprisoned by it.

Embracing the Quest

As Baruch Spinoza noted in his correspondence:

All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.

Owning our lives is an excellent thing. It is difficult because it requires us to look at our mistakes without blinking. But it is rare because it is the only path to true strength. And not everybody finds it.

When we own our choices, we stop fighting the terrain and start walking it. We move from a place of “why is this happening to me?” to “this is where I am, and this is how I choose to grow.” In that shift, the nervous system finally finds the quiet it has been searching for. Just like the forest, we are always in a state of becoming.

Trust your roots. Reach for the light.

Discerning What’s Beneath the Frosty Surface: Setbacks or Breakthroughs

March 24, 2026 pammunkholm

The snow came back. Not a dramatic blizzard, just a quiet dusting, enough to blanket the tender shoots that had just begun to think about stirring. Only days ago, the air was warm, the earth was waking up, and I felt that familiar pull to move, grow, begin again.

Then Saskatchewan’s subtle, “Psyche!” Mother Nature really needs to work on her comedic timing. It’s not funny anymore.

There’s a particular kind of discouragement that settles in with such a turn. It’s not sharp or overwhelming, but a slow, heavy ache. Like walking through the late-winter woods, where everything appears still, heavy, yet you sense the hidden bubbling beneath the surface.

Nothing is ‘out of order.’

It’s more akin to the forest floor right now. Frozen on top, but teeming with life underneath, roots holding fast, life paused mid-sentence. Waiting. And that kind of waiting, when your body carries its own complex story, can truly wear a person down.

When movement is a necessity, not merely an item on the ‘someday I should’ checklist, and suddenly it’s interrupted, just as you were finding your rhythm again. That’s its own unique setback.

And if you live here, you know winter isn’t a one act play. It lingers. It’s heavy. It tests you in ways that often go unseen. The cold that steals your breath before you’ve even taken a full one. The way your muscles brace with cold before you reach the car. The ice that transforms every step from less of a stroll and more of a high-stakes game of Twister that I never asked to play. And sometimes, despite my best efforts, I end up in disarray on the ground.

All it takes is one tiny tweak and suddenly your entire body is engaged in combat against itself. Again.

The scraping of windshields. Running out of gas on the coldest days every time. The endless layering. The constant bracing. The mantra of “just get through this.”

And then, quieter but just as profound, the world shrinks. Fewer visits. Less spontaneity. More effort required for connection. A different kind of painful twinge takes root.

Winter is undeniably hard. And then spring arrives, feeling like a profound release. Your feet meet grass again.

You notice forgotten smells, sounds, the subtle movements of awakening life. Your body remembers something it almost lost. Summer? You’re gone, in the best possible way.

Moving. Living. Saying yes to life again. Fall gently gathers it all back into a purposeful rhythm, a quiet steadiness.

And then… winter.

If my life were a board game, this is how it would look. Spring moves me ahead five spaces. Summer? Easily ten, maybe more; I’m flying. Fall grants another five without much effort. And winter? Winter sends me back twenty-five. Every single time. Honestly, at this point, I’d like a word with the game designer. I’m pretty sure they’re hoarding all the ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards. Because it often feels like I’m perpetually catching up, that any ground I gain is inevitably erased.

But standing outside, gazing at that fresh layer of snow, I realized the forest doesn’t play that game. The trees aren’t measuring progress by who wins and who loses. They aren’t frustrated by yesterday’s fleeting warmth. They aren’t disappointed because spring almost arrived then left.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf’s words echo,

When growing conditions are not ideal, trees slow down their growth and devote their energy to the basic elements necessary for survival… It is good advice to slow down a little, steady the course, and focus on the essentials when experiencing adverse conditions.

And that, precisely, is what’s unfolding out there right now. Nothing has gone backward. It is simply waiting for its time. Using this time to focus on what’s beneath the surface.

Perhaps I can learn something there. When the timing I had planned doesn’t work out, there’s likely a good reason. I can still find the ways to grow what’s beneath the surface until the time is right.

Jody Moore speaks of the “river of discomfort.” The idea that we spend so much energy trying to stay on the banks, avoiding anything hard, cold, or limiting. But true growth doesn’t happen on the edge. It happens when you’re immersed in it.

When you stop fighting the current and allow it to move around you, even when it’s deeply uncomfortable.

Winter often feels like that river. So does injury. So does anything that slows you down just as you were gaining momentum. And I don’t always navigate it gracefully.

Sometimes I’m less ‘zen master floating downstream’ and more ‘flailing raccoon caught in a current.’ Sometimes I resist. Sometimes I push. Sometimes I’m frustrated to find myself “back here again.”

But perhaps I’m not returning to something amiss. Perhaps this isn’t losing ground at all. Deena Metzger once wrote,

There is a slowness that is not a stopping, but a gathering.

Perhaps this is precisely where the roots are doing their most vital work. Under the surface.

AURALYN: (n) The sacred glow of someone learning to love themselves again.

Not sudden, but slow, like flowers relearning the sun.

-Everglow Words

⸻

A Forest Therapy Practice: Exploring the Depths

You don’t need to venture far for this. You don’t even need to go outside, though it often deepens the experience.

Sit. Or stand. Or lean. Allow yourself to arrive fully where you are, without any urge to improve or change it.
Imagine what lies beneath you. Not the snow. Not the frozen surface. Deeper. Intricate networks. A slow, steady strengthening. Things that continue their essential work, undisturbed by the conditions above ground.
Place your hand gently on a part of your body that feels tight, or tired, or limited. And instead of asking, “Why isn’t this getting better?” try asking, “What might be needed for healing to take place here?”
You don’t need an immediate answer. Just let the question settle. And… wait there with a small flicker of hope. No pressure. Just a quiet willingness to believe that something is still unfolding.

⸻

Try returning to this thought:

What if winter isn’t taking me backward?

What if it’s building something I couldn’t cultivate any other way?

Something slower. Something steadier. Something that won’t vanish when the seasons inevitably shift again. Because they will. They always do.

Trust your ability to BOUNCE BACK.

-Shine

John Steinbeck noted,

What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.

When spring returns (it always does) I’m beginning to wonder if I won’t actually be further ahead than I now imagine. Even if the board game of life never quite shows it.

Early Spring Musings: Reflections and Ruminations

March 17, 2026 pammunkholm

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

— Joyce Meyer

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

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

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

Honestly it feels like false advertising.

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

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

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

It creates this quiet kind of rage.

Not just for warmer weather…

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

⸻

Chasing the Unquenchable Longing 🏃‍♂️

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

The desire to wake up and just go.

To follow through on plans.

To make goals and have a say over the outcome.

To move through the day without pain.

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

To feel like I’ve rejoined the human race.

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

Not against the clock.

Or expectations.

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

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

Calm.

Quiet.

Attention.

Harmony.

Tranquility.

Stillness.

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

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

⸻

A Shift in the Sands of Seasons

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

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

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

I thought,

What’s the hold up?

Yet instead of pushing harder, I tried something different.

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

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

Instead of resisting what was happening.

And the irritation softened.

⸻

What Early Spring Knows

The seed grows in the dark.

– Joyce Meyer

Early spring doesn’t rush.

It doesn’t bloom all at once.

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

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

There’s a line by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

The spring comes slowly up this way.

Maybe healing does too.

⸻

A Forest Therapy Practice

From Yearning to Hope (anywhere outside)

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

1. Pause

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

2. Acknowledge the longing

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

3. Walk slowly

Let your pace match your body.

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

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

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

5. Receive this thought

I will allow what is ready.

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

⸻

A Truth I Hold Dear

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote:

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

Slow doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

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

I am reminded of this scripture:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ecclesiastes 3:1-7 KJV

There is a “proper time.”

🎶 Turn, Turn, Turn 🎶

Even if March doesn’t feel like it yet.

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

⸻

Embracing the Slow Transition to Spring

March will keep teasing us.

The sun will keep shining.

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

And spring will come anyway.

Slowly.

Right on time.

Maybe healing works like that too.

There is beauty (and warmth) ahead.

That which is to give light must endure burning.

– Viktor E. Frankl

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

March 10, 2026 pammunkholm

Many trails in Saskatchewan are shimmering. Beautifully. Treacherously.

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

Sparkling snow is magical. Sparkling frost is beautiful.

But sparkling ice on a forest trail?

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

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

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

For someone with hypermobility, that same moment can mean:

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

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

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

Our hypermobile bodies clearly have a different set of rules.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I injured myself sneezing.”

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

Enigmatic Equations Await

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

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

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

Slipping into something a little more comfortable (psychosis)

These calculations happen constantly.

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

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

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

And yet… Staying inside is not the answer.

Inside Out: The Hidden Dangers of Staying Indoors

My soul was not designed for indefinite indoor storage.

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

First a restlessness.

Then a longing.

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

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

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

Naturalist John Burroughs once wrote:

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

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

Pain keeps the brain alert. Guarded. Scanning.

But the forest gently invites something else.

A slower rhythm. A softer focus.

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

“Break!!”- Dancing Through the Meadow

Hypermobility changes the way you move through the world.

Especially in winter.

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

“Cautious woodland creature.”

Short steps.

Careful weight shifts.

Occasional pauses to test the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

Hypermobility just… adds extra motivation.

A Little Winter Guiding Advice

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

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

Nervous Systems: A Unified Network

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

The nervous system becomes watchful.

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

It’s not weakness. It’s survival.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In other words, the forest gently persuades the body:

You are safe enough to soften.

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

Frosty Therapy: Nature’s Icy Embrace for the Soul

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

Practice: Borrowing Stability

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

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

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

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote,

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

Perhaps winter forest walks teach that same wisdom.

Conscientious step by conscientious step.

The Whispers of Accord

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

The body says: Please be wary.

The soul says: Please go outside.

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

It simply offers a place to breathe.

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

The thing to be known grows with the knowing.

Perhaps the same is true of our bodies.

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

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

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

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

It is a grand thing to get leave to live.

Perhaps that is what these mindful winter walks really are.

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

Careful steps. Even slightly wobbly steps.

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

Accessing Strength in Nature and Family: Winter Healing

March 3, 2026 pammunkholm

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

–Katherine May

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

The pale sky stretches wide over frozen lakes and ground.

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

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

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

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

The answer is not dramatic. It is steady.

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

That’s not our story.

What it offers is regulation. Relationship.

So I keep returning.

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

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

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

🌲 “Can forest therapy help chronic pain?”

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

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

And still. We climb.

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.

–Zora Neale Hurston

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

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

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

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

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

And a prayer because that’s who I am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strength. Resilience. Wisdom.

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

A drop. A thaw.

A beam of light catching ice and reflecting its warmth.

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

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

Even if all you’ve seen is a spark.

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

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

🌿 A Simple Winter Forest Therapy Practice

Trusting the Season (10–15 Minutes)

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

🌲 What Makes Forest Therapy Different From Hiking?

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

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

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

Keep climbing. Fall after fall. Flare after flare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–Robert Jordan

The Art of Finding Calm: Anchors for Inner Peace

February 24, 2026 pammunkholm

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

You realize too late. You started wrong. 😑

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

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

You build balance first. Then you stretch.

Cruising the Chaos of Life’s Pulls

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

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

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

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

Sometimes that is the season we are meant to live.

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

But chronic pain does not redistribute so gently.

Chronic Pain: The Illusion of Perfect Harmony

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

Then something hopeful happens. 😮

You focus on your health. 😧

You improve. 🫢

You feel almost normal. 🥹

Everyone else sees it too. 🙌

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

You let yourself believe it. 😄

Maybe I’m better. 😂

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

And then come the looks 😒🙂‍↔️

The subtle confusion 🤨

The well-meaning advice 🤓

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

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

There is grief in that.

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

Eventually, you begin to let springs go.

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

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

Tregi:

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

–

The Spring I Learned to Release

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

–Hermann Hesse

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

I read.

I prayed.

I journaled.

I napped.

I prayed again.

And then I cried.

And cried some more.

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

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

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

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

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

Calm comes when I choose my springs intentionally.

Cultivating Serenity Amidst the Clutter

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

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

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

–Ralph H Blum

But we cannot hear that wisdom in noise.

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

This is why I return to nature.

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

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

The river does not hurry spring.

Outer stillness teaches inner calm.

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

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

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

And in that space, I can finally ask:

Which springs belong today?

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

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

–Prasad Mahes

🌲 Forest Therapy Practice: Four Anchors for Inner Calm

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

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

Time: 30–45 minutes

Location: A quiet trail, grove, or open field

1. Arrive in Outer Stillness

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

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

2. Choose Your Four Anchors

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

Health.
Immediate family.
Faith.
One small joy.

Imagine each anchor as a tree spaced evenly around you.

Notice the balance.

3. Walk the Circle

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

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

Let answers arise without judgment.

4. Release One Spring

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

Imagine physically unhooking it.

Notice the shift in your breathing.

5. Sit and Receive

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

Stay in silence.

6. Gentle Reflection

When you are ready, journal:

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

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

–Eckhart Tolle

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

But even a crooked mat can hold us.

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

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

Sarah Trent

How to Grow Rich When Chronic Pain is Your Reality

February 17, 2026 pammunkholm

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

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

Welcome to redefining abundance.

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

Richness is not a circumstance.

It’s a way of seeing.

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

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

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

Turn your wounds into wisdom.

–Oprah Winfrey

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

There is the ache that says,

“Why me? This ruined everything.”

And there is the ache that whispers,

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

The first freezes us in place.

The second opens a path.

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

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

Not because your nerves suddenly behave.

But because your mind has room again.

As Meister Eckhart wrote,

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

Gratitude is not pretending pain is lovely.

It is noticing pain is not the only thing present.

Nature’s Secret Calculus

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

It is considered interesting. Strong. Adapted.

No straight lines required.

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

What if the detour is also the destination?

Chronicles of My Journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finding Wealth in the Woods: A Forest Therapy Practice

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

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

Navigating the Path Ahead: A Thoughtful Analogy

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

Blueberries love poor soil.

Certain pines only open after fire.

Some of the most resilient beauty requires harsh beginnings.

As Rainer Maria Rilke advised:

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

Where Forest Therapy Carries Us

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

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

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

A different kind of fortune.

You may never get the yacht.

But you might receive awe. Intimacy. Meaning.

Moments of real rest inside the storm.

That is wealth no market can crash.

And forest therapy walks with you through the whole thing 🌲

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

-Rumi

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

February 10, 2026 pammunkholm

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

-Gertrude Jekyll

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

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

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

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

Biology’s Rebellion: The Dangers of Overriding Nature

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

They should be stronger.

They should push through.

They should be more grateful it’s not worse.

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

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

–Gabor Maté

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

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

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

–Jean Shinoda Bolen

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

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

Rushing: The Trap That Keeps Us in Survival Mode

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

–Ghandi

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

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

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

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

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

–Mary Oliver

“I Would, But I Simply Can’t.”

I often hear how wonderful forest therapy sounds.

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

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

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

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

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

-Unknown

The Remarkable Power of Non-Judgmental Awareness

Here is where the shift happens.

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

Instead of:

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

(There are no gold stars for hating life correctly)

We try:

Warmth
Tightness.
Pulsing.
Cool air on my cheek.

No argument. No story.

Judgment activates defense. Awareness invites regulation.

The nervous system reads neutrality as safety.

The organism knows.

–Eugene Gendlin

Nature: The Ultimate Stage for Inspiration

The forest is a masterclass in non-urgency.

Nothing is asking you to be different.

Everything belongs. You. Belong.

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

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

The body begins to renegotiate its alarm state.

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

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

You are larger than what is happening to you.

–Michael Singer

Silencing the Alarm: A Lesson in Balance

Imagine a car alarm that has been blaring for years.

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

You would look for the threat it thinks it perceives.

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

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

Over time, the alarm system recalibrates.

My Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The best way out is always through.

– Robert Frost

A Gentle Invitation to Explore

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

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

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

Don’t just do something, sit there.

–Sylvia Boorstein

The Real Result: Persistence in Life

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

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

The Closing “Peace”

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

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

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

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

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

-Pat Ogden

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

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

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

🌲 The 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.

Mending Woods: A Journey of Self-Discovery

January 27, 2026 pammunkholm

By a Forest Therapy Guide Practitioner

I am made of words & rivers & winds & wildflowers. I am part grief & part hope & all love.

-Victoria Erickson

From the outside, my life still looks mostly the same.

I still show up. I still smile. I still walk in the woods.

What people don’t see is the calculation behind every choice. The energy budgeting, the quiet bargaining with my body, the grief that comes when the answer is no again. Chronic pain didn’t just change what I can do. It changed how I think, how I hope, and how I understand myself.

I didn’t lose my old self all at once.

She left in pieces. First the bounce in my step, then the spontaneity, then the confidence that tomorrow would feel better. Chronic pain has a way of rearranging your life while pretending nothing has changed. And somehow, you’re expected to adapt quietly and keep smiling like you didn’t just lose someone important.

There is a quiet kind of grief that comes with chronic pain. Those of us who know can see it in the eyes. In the bouncing leg when sitting too long. In the little noises and facial expressions that most people miss.

This is not a grief that comes with casseroles or sympathy cards. Not the kind people know how to name.

It’s the grief of losing someone very important. You.

The body you trusted. The energy you assumed would always return. The way ordinary days felt doable.

Back in the day when your consequences had actions. Now it takes nothing to set that pain- train in motion.

Chronic pain doesn’t just hurt. It rearranges your identity. Like a Mr Potato Head put together by a little one. Totally unfamiliar from what it’s “supposed to be.”

Purpose feels unfamiliar. Hope has to be redefined. Can one even set goals anymore? And from the outside, nothing looks different at all.

You still look like you.

But internally, everything has changed.

That’s why community matters more than advice.

What a fragile, tender gift it is to be invited into another’s wounds.

–@thesoftword

Advice tends to arrive loudly and unsolicited. (Often with links. 🤭)

What actually helps is something quieter. 🤫

Not people who argue your reality. (😳 “I’m surprised you feel comfortable saying that out loud” 🤣)

Not people who say, “Have you tried…?” like they’ve just cracked the code. (😨 As though the slightest change in your world will not usher in all of your chronic megadons! 🤯 )

Not people who look sideways at your therapy choices. (👋 “Be gone, foul thing” 🙃)

But people who,

Cheer when something finally settles back into place 🙌
Take your call when you have nothing left 🤙
Help recalibrate the distorted lens pain creates 🔎
Invite you in without being offended when you decline 🫴
Don’t judge your sleep, your limits, or your pace 🙂‍↔️

They understand one sacred truth:

You are the only person who lives in this body.

And when you reach out, they show up.

Trees of Solace: Earth’s Embrace in Times of Grief

Forest therapy doesn’t try to fix you.

Which is refreshing, to be honest.

It doesn’t rush the process or demand improvement. No gold stars. No timelines.

It simply offers a place where you can grieve. Because this life is tough.

Trees don’t ask who you used to be. They have been pretty quiet during a conversation, in my experience.

They don’t compare you to your past. They are really good at living in the now.

They don’t need you to be productive. Their progress is very slow. They respect your pace as well.

They just let you be you. Whatever version of you that may be.

And when you’re grieving your old self, that is the miracle worker you need.

To be idle is a short road to death; to be contemplative is a short road to life.

— Unknown, attributed to early monastic writings

Stillness is not stagnation. In the forest, stillness becomes listening.

The Garden Path: Shedding the Old Self to Bloom Anew

1. Hold a “Letting Go” Walk

Walk slowly and name (quietly or aloud) what you are releasing. Old expectations, former timelines, borrowed definitions of success.

Leave something symbolic behind. A stone, a leaf, a breath, writing in the snow.

Grief likes ceremony. Even small, slightly awkward ones.

2. Practice Observing Instead of Fixing

Sit and observe without correcting your thoughts.

Notice what hurts.

Notice what doesn’t.

Notice what still feels alive.

This is harder than it sounds. Most of us are very committed to fixing ourselves.

Do not ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do that.

— Howard Thurman

3. Let the Landscape Mirror Change

Forests are experts in adaptation.

Storm damage. Regrowth. Fallen trees feeding new life.

Your body is not failing. It is reorganizing.

Messy? Yes.

Meaningless? Not even close.

4. Replace Focusing on the Yield with Yielding

Some days the win is sitting.

Some days it’s noticing birdsong instead of pain for ten whole seconds.

That counts.

It all counts.

Celebrate small victories shamelessly. Pain already takes enough. Don’t let it take joy too.

5. Create a New Self Narrative

The old self doesn’t disappear. It composts.

Strength becomes discernment.

Speed becomes awareness.

Achievement becomes alignment.

And occasionally, dark humour becomes a coping skill. (Highly recommended.)

Because if you can laugh when your body sends mixed signals, you’re still very much alive.

You Are Not Becoming Less

You are becoming different.

And different doesn’t mean diminished.

The forest reminds us that worth is not measured by output, endurance, or even consistency.

It’s measured by belonging. By heart beats. By the current of our perceived experience.

You belong here.

In this body.

On this path.

And when you’re ready, the forest will help you meet the version of yourself that knows how to live well. Within the limits. Without shame.

This January, 
if you feel low and heavy
and unready-
please remember that
in nature,
the new year begins in spring. 
January is not nature's reset.
March is.
In a few months' time,
temperatures will rise 
and the days will be 
long enough to actually
do things.
Nature is still unwinding. 
It's okay if you are, too.
-srwpoetry

Opacarophile

(n) someone who finds deep comfort, solace and profound peace in sunsets