healing in nature – SUNBEAM ACRES

You Are a Success Story

May 26, 2026May 26, 2026 pammunkholm

My physiotherapist, “J,” has been with me through it all.

She has seen me on some of my best days over the past 15 years of working with her.

The day I told her I was finally pregnant with the baby I had tried nearly a decade to conceive.
The day I said, “I’m running again.” After years of pain making even the thought of it feel impossible. My body has approached physical activity like a suspicious cat approaches a cucumber in the past.
She heard me process the long, exhausting teenage years of push and pull with my oldest child. And then my second. Followed by my third. The painful years that felt like emotional whiplash and then she celebrated with me when they all graduated. She understood firmly the mentality of, We did it! On each occasion.
She walked alongside me through buying and selling homes.
When Kenzie got engaged. Jamie transitioned. Riley moved in with his girlfriend.
When all three times I found out I was going to be a grandma, she was one of the first people to know.
When I started a forest therapy business and dared to believe healing could become something I offered others.

She has witnessed joy. Growth. Milestones.

We have laughed together as I walked around in a body that behaved like it’s been assembled from spare parts with vague instructions and one missing screw.

Proof that life can still bloom in hard soil.

And she has also sat with me on some of my worst days.

The day I fell off a boat and we both knew recovery would not be quick.
The years I fought to be taken seriously by medical professionals before finally getting the MRI that revealed my bone spur. Disappointing specialist appointments. Medical gaslighting.
Family job losses.
Kids in car crashes.
The miscarriage of the baby I had fought so hard to conceive. She cried with me that day. And the day I told her I was going ahead with the hysterectomy that closed that door entirely. We were so hopeful that would help my overall health.
Surgeries that did not go well.
The passing of dear friends.
The painful decision to close my business and then Brent’s and eventually to stop working.
Leaving the farm and grieving all that move represented. She understood, she’s a farm girl.
And the appointment Christmas Eve where she examined me and realized something was deeply wrong. I had almost no muscle mass. I was so weak and felt so broken, useless, a waste of skin.

I could write pages about what J and I have discussed over the years. At some point, she became more than someone treating my body. She became someone quietly witnessing my life story unfold.

The size of my kids when I started seeing J

And then one ordinary appointment changed how I saw myself.

It started like any other. I explained where the pain was. What had shifted in my workouts. What stress was doing to my body. What daily life had looked like since we last met.

She examined me, worked through familiar areas of tension, and after a moment of silence she said something I think applies to all my chronic comrades:

“You’re a success story. Do you know that?”

My first instinct is always to deflect a compliment.

I think you have me confused with someone whose joints aren’t held together by determination and prayer alone.

But it felt true. It felt like the most true diagnosis I’d ever been given.

She continued, (and I want you to see yourself in this,)

When you look at where you’ve been on your lowest days and where you are now. This is a success story.

You could have closed the doors on life. Stayed in bed. Turned inward. Leaned into fear of the future. You could choose to live frustrated and depressed. White-knuckling your way through existence.

But instead, you keep rebuilding. You keep getting stronger. No matter what knocks you down, you come back.

Like one of those punching balloons from childhood. The ones you smack into the floor and somehow they pop right back up, mildly annoying and aggressively optimistic.

I have a core memory of my cousin’s party. They had one of those balloons in the backyard. As I played with it I wondered what was inside that made it keep popping up.

If resilience had a mascot, I might nominate a half-inflated punching balloon and a woman with heating pads.

J was right though. That’s me. That’s you.

What is it that’s inside us that keeps us popping up, time after time?

Not graceful. Not elegant. Occasionally leaking air. But still coming back up.

Again. And again. And again.

J encouraged me to start writing it down. My story. To let others read it. And that is where this blog began.

A success story, heavily disguised as a challenging life story.

Chronic Pain Does Not Stay in One Box

If you live with chronic pain, you understand this. Pain does not politely stay in your shoulder. Or your spine. Or your hips. Or your joints.

It leaks. It spreads.

It enters your sleep, your patience, your relationships, your finances, your confidence, your work, your parenting, and your identity.

It is never just physical.

The dis-ease spreads just like disease. Not because we are weak. But because pain is invasive.

Scars are not signs of weakness, they are signs of survival.

Yet many people living with chronic pain quietly continue. They raise children. Show up to work. Try to exercise. Cook supper. Pay bills. Care for aging parents. Smile through appointments (and cry after.) Fold laundry while wondering why their body feels like it was assembled by a distracted Ikea employee.

And still… they continue.

That is not failure. That is resilience. That is success.

Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

–JK Rowling

The Exhaustion of Not Being Believed

One of the hardest parts of chronic pain is not always the pain itself. Sometimes it is the disbelief. Unfortunately, this can include close family members. Friends. Employers.

And yes, medical professionals.

When symptoms are invisible, people often assume they are exaggerated. If scans are unclear, they question your tolerance. If you “look fine,” they assume you must be fine.

And so many of us become defenders. Explainers. Evidence gatherers.

Trying desperately to prove that our pain is real. Trying to earn validation. Trying to convince others that suffering exists even when they cannot see it.

But constant defense is exhausting.

As Dallin H. Oaks said:

When attacked by error, truth is better served by silence than by a bad argument.

That quote hit me.

We do not need to defend ourselves from every misunderstanding. Not every person deserves access to our explanations. Not every accusation needs a rebuttal. Not every skeptical glance deserves our emotional energy.

There is a time to inform. And there is a time to walk away.

Never wrestle with pigs. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.

–George Bernard Shaw

Silence is not surrender. Sometimes silence is strength. Sometimes it is peace. Sometimes it is refusing to spend precious energy proving your pain to people committed to misunderstanding it.

Do not explain. Your friends do not need it, and your enemies will not believe you.

–Elbert Hubbard

You Are a Success Story Too

If you live with chronic pain and still carry on…

You are a success story.

If you’ve had to explain your pain as a weird hip or angry neck. Here is your medal in interpretive medicine 🏅…

And you are a success story.

If, like my friend described it, you have been blindsided at a medical appointment and you keep seeking your answers…

You are a success story.

If you got out of bed today and every day, despite exhaustion…

You are a success story.

If you parent through pain…

You are a success story.

If you grieve what your body once was while still learning to care for the body you have now…

You are a success story.

If you feel misunderstood. Lesser. Frustrated. Invisible. You are still a success story.

Do not let anyone take that from you.

You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice.

–Bob Marley

A Forest Therapy Practice: Seeing Yourself in the Landscape

One of the most grounding practices I return to comes from forest therapy.

Take a small mirror with you into nature.

Stand among trees.

Or beneath open sky.

Hold the mirror so your reflection appears framed by branches, clouds, leaves, or light.

Look at yourself. Really look. See your face inside the larger landscape. Notice how you are not separate from nature. You belong here too.

Then ask yourself:

Where was I a year ago?

What have I survived?

How far have I come?

What strength still exists in me?

Appreciate where you are now. Not because healing is complete. But because progress deserves to be witnessed. And because you still have what it takes to continue.

Rivers don’t apologize for moving slowly at some points on their path.

Seasons do not shame themselves for resting.

Maybe we shouldn’t either.

My Success Story Is Still Being Written

I used to think success had to look polished. Strong. Linear. Easy to explain. Now I know better.

Sometimes success looks like rebuilding muscle. Sometimes it looks like surviving grief. Sometimes it looks like asking for help. Sometimes it looks like walking instead of running. Sometimes it looks like closing one chapter when life forces your hand. Sometimes it looks like bouncing back up like an emotionally exhausted inflatable clown with stubborn determination.

I have bounced back like a plastic bag caught in a prairie wind.

Messy. Crooked. Still rising. Still trying.

And maybe that is enough.

Actually

Maybe that is extraordinary.

You are a success story.

If pain has tried to rewrite your life and you still continue…

🫵 You are a success story.

And don’t you forget it. 😉

🌲 Activating Your Vagus Nerve With Forest Therapy 🌲

May 5, 2026 pammunkholm

If you’ve ever noticed your body relax the moment you step into a quiet natural space, you’ve already experienced the vagus nerve at work.

That shift, subtle but undeniable, is your nervous system moving out of protection mode and into restoration. It’s not ‘all in your head.’ It’s physiology.

SISNA: one who blooms in chaos; breaker of norms, lover of moonlight and quiet rebellions.

This shift is something we can intentionally support through forest therapy.

What Is the Vagus Nerve?

Have you ever noticed your body doing that thing where it’s technically relaxed but also ready to fight a bear or answer emails (same energy.)

I lived here for years. Me 👇🏼.

I needed to understand the following information to move out of it.

The vagus nerve is the longest cranial nerve in your body, running from your brainstem down through your face, throat, heart, lungs, and into your digestive system. Its name comes from the Latin word vagus, meaning “wandering.” A fitting description for a nerve that touches so many systems.

But its true importance lies in what it does.

The vagus nerve is the main highway of your parasympathetic nervous system. The branch responsible for rest, repair, digestion, and healing.

If your nervous system had a group chat, the vagus nerve would be the one constantly saying, ‘Hey guys… maybe we’re okay?’ 🤷‍♀️

When your vagus nerve is activated, your body shifts out of survival mode and into a state of safety.

Heart rate slows. Muscles release. Inflammation decreases. Digestion improves. And perhaps most importantly, your brain receives a message. It is safe enough to stand down.

But living with chronic pain and receiving that signal clearly, is comparable to listening to my grandkids’ secrets. 49% air, 50% spit and 1% information. (Toddler secrets are the best 💕)

I only hear about 1% of what they are saying. Similarly, only 1% of that parasympathetic signal was getting through my system.

So the question is, how does one fully activate that vagus nerve to allow the free flow of that signal? The equivalent of interrupting the air and blocking the spit? 😷 So the message can be clearly sent and secured.

Regulation is not forced. It is invited.

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An Overactive Detector

Growing up, we had one smoke detector in our old farm house. It was conveniently located in one of the entrances to the kitchen. Beside the stairway leading to the upper level. Where all the hot air travelled.

You can probably guess what happened every time we burned toast. Or overcooked anything. Or opened the oven after something spilled in there.

That overly sensitive smoke deterctor was great in theory. But in practice it did more harm than good.

Before checking if there was an actual emergency, family members would rush to grab the tea towel and shoo the smoke away.

Focusing on the alarm. More than what the alarm was trying to say.

Chronic pain is not just about injured tissues or structural problems. It is deeply intertwined with the nervous system. Especially when that system has been stuck in a prolonged state of vigilance. Forever running for the tea towel. 🏃‍♀️

When the vagus nerve is underactive (or when sympathetic “fight or flight” dominates), the body remains on high alert. Over time, this can:

Heighten pain sensitivity
Amplify inflammation
Disrupt sleep and recovery
Keep muscles in a semi-contracted, guarded state

Pain, in this context, becomes less about damage and more about protection.

Your nervous system is trying (often overzealously) to keep you safe.

The goal is not to force the pain away, but to gently teach the body that it is safe enough to soften its defenses.

A regulated body tells a different story than a protected one.

-Brittany McBride

And this is where the forest becomes more than scenery.

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Why Nature Activates the Vagus Nerve

Your nervous system did not evolve in traffic, under fluorescent lighting, or in the constant hum of notifications.

{Does anyone else feel like they constantly have 17 tabs open? One of them was really important but you can’t find it anywhere?}

Your nervous system evolved in relationship with the natural world.

When you step into a forest and begin to truly engage your senses, several things happen:

Your eyes relax as they take in natural, fractal patterns
Your ears shift from sharp alertness to soft, ambient listening
Your breath deepens in response to clean, oxygen rich air
Your body attunes to slower, more rhythmic stimuli

This sensory immersion signals to the vagus nerve that the environment is safe.

Not logically safe. But felt safe.

Your body is not working against you—it’s working overtime for you.

–Brittany McBride

The forest offers consistent, non-threatening input. No pop ups. No deadlines.

No one asking if you’ve ‘just tried stretching.’ 🤦‍♀️ Saints preserve us! Bless them for trying.

Suggested cheeky replies:

“You have such a unique way of understanding things.”

“I’m surprised you feel comfortable enough to say that out loud.”

And then come back to presence. Presence is the language of the vagus nerve.

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A Forest Therapy Practice:

Sensory Immersion for Vagal Activation

This is a simple, gentle practice you can do in any natural setting. A forest, park, or even your backyard.

The Invitation: “Let the Forest Meet Your Senses”

Arrive Slowly– Stand or sit comfortably. Notice your feet on the ground. No need to change anything, just arrive.
Sight (Soft Eyes)– Let your gaze widen. Instead of focusing on one object, allow your eyes to take in the whole scene. Notice colors, light, and movement without labeling them. Let your eyes receive, rather than search.
Sound (Layered Listening)– Close your eyes if it feels safe. Notice the closest sound… then the farthest… then everything in between. Birds, wind, distant traffic, your own breath. You are not trying to identify, just to hear.
Touch (Contact Points)– Bring awareness to where your body meets the world. Feet on earth. Air on skin. Clothing against your body. If you feel drawn, touch something natural. A leaf, bark, stone. Let the contact be mutual. You are touching, and being touched.
Smell (Subtle Scent)– Inhale gently through your nose. Notice any scent, earthy, fresh, faint, or even absent. There is no need to “find” anything. Simply notice what is.
Breath (Unforced)– Finally, bring awareness to your breath. Let it be exactly as it is. Often, by now, it has already softened.

Stay here for 5–15 minutes. No goal. No outcome to achieve. Just sensory conversation.

Stillness is not empty—it is full of signals your body understands.

-based on teachings of Eckhart Tolle

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The Genius Behind This Approach

This practice engages multiple sensory pathways simultaneously in a non-threatening environment. This combination is particularly powerful for vagal activation because it:

Interrupts repetitive thought loops
Anchors attention in the present moment
Provides steady, predictable sensory input
Encourages a shift from “doing” to “receiving”

Over time, these experiences build what is called vagal tone. Your nervous system’s ability to return to a state of calm after stress.

And with improved vagal tone, the body becomes less reactive… and more resilient.

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The Paradox of Stillness

There are people who don’t experience stillness as calming.

For them, slowing down can actually make things feel worse. The moment the body stops, tension rises. Pain becomes louder. The nervous system, so used to staying a step ahead, interprets stillness as vulnerability rather than safety.

I’ve walked with someone like this before, someone whose body trusted movement far more than pause.

So we didn’t begin with stillness.

We began with gentle movement. Walking slowly, letting the rhythm of steps create a sense of predictability. Just enough awareness to stay connected, but not so much that it tipped into overwhelm.

Over time, the environment began to do what it does best. Quietly influencing the pace. The quality of light, the steadiness of the trees, the soothing sounds of water. Just inviting. Nothing rushed.

Eventually, there was a natural moment to pause.

Not imposed. Not held too long. Just a brief stop in a place that felt neutral enough.

What stood out wasn’t what happened, but what didn’t.

The expected spike in tension didn’t arrive right away.

And in that small gap between what the body anticipated and what it actually experienced, there was space for something new.

Not relief, exactly.

But possibility. Hope.

Later, what they recognized wasn’t just the moment itself, but the pattern behind it. The way their body had learned to brace in advance, not just in response. (The run for the tea towel!)

That awareness didn’t erase the pain.

But it introduced a different relationship to it.

This kind of experience doesn’t feel like much until you realize your body stopped arguing with itself. And when you’re used to those arguments lasting 2-3 business days, the silence is sweetly deafening.

And when the nervous system experiences even a brief interruption to its usual pattern, it begins to update its expectations.

And that’s where change begins. Not in dramatic shifts, but in quiet moments where the body realizes:

this isn’t unfolding the way I thought it would.

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Thoughts to Take with You

The vagus nerve does not respond to force.

It responds to safety.

And safety is not something you can think your way into—it is something you feel your way into.

The forest, in its quiet wisdom, offers exactly that. No effort required. (Which, depending on your personality, may be the hardest part.)

In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.

–John Muir

Not because the forest fixes you.

But because it reminds your body of something it has always known.

How to come back to itself.

Gentle Consistency: Secrets to a Hopeful Mindset with Chronic Conditions

April 14, 2026April 17, 2026 pammunkholm

There’s a quiet truth many of us miss.

Your ability to hold vision, hope, and belief is not just a mindset. It’s a nervous system state.

When your body is overwhelmed, depleted, or in pain, the part of your brain responsible for vision and forward-thinking struggles to stay online. You can journal, visualize, and set goals all you want but if your body feels unsafe, your mind will keep pulling you back.

And if you live with chronic illness, chronic pain, or burnout, this is not new information.

You’ve probably had moments where:

• You want to feel hopeful, but can’t access it

• You know what mindset would help, but it feels out of reach

• You try to think positively, but your body feels tense, guarded, or braced

That’s not failure. As if our bodies are just waiting for us to say the right affirmation in the right font.

That’s actually physiology.

⸻

The Body Test: A Different Way to Measure Alignment

Here’s something simple but surprisingly powerful to try:

When you imagine the life you want. The healing, the work, the relationships, the version of yourself you’re moving toward,

Does your body soften… or does it brace?

That response is important information. That brace could be your body essentially replying: ‘Respectfully, no.’

Sometimes what we think we should want was actually handed to us by fear, pressure, or comparison. And chasing those things can give us the energy of pursuit but not the peace of arrival.

There’s a quieter, truer kind of vision.

One that comes from a regulated, grounded body.

And your body knows the difference.

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Why Mindset Feels So Hard with Chronic Conditions

Most of us were taught that results come first, and mindset follows.

“When I get healthier, then I’ll feel good.”

“When I have more energy, then I’ll be more positive.”

But if you’ve ever made progress on a health journey, you know the truth.

You had to start treating your body with care before it changed. You had to practice compassion before you believed it.

Mindset doesn’t come after results. It creates the conditions for them.

And when you’re living with chronic symptoms, this becomes even more important. Because your external results often change slowly. And beyond your control.

Little by little, one travels far.

_JRR Tolkien

So what carries you forward?

Not intensity. Not bursts of motivation.

But steadiness.

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The Power of Gentle Consistency

There’s a beautiful, often overlooked truth.

In the agriculture of the soul, flash floods are no substitute for regular irrigation.

–Neal A Maxwell

Big, dramatic efforts such as new routines, strict plans, sudden bursts of energy don’t sustain us. Sadly, healing is rarely impressed by one heroic Tuesday.

Especially not when our bodies are already working hard just to function.

What changes us is the steady trickle. Small, repeatable moments of regulation.

Tiny habits that teach the body. We are safe, we are supported, we can keep going.

Because in the end,

You don’t rise to the level of your goals. You fall to the level of your habits.

–James Clear

And when those habits are gentle, grounding, and consistent they reshape not just what you do, but how you feel.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

–Annie Dillard

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When the Past Blocks the Future

Another quiet truth.

Sometimes it’s not the future we’re afraid of but the past we’re still carrying.

Pain behind us can block the joy ahead. Does this feel true for you?

So what do we do about it?

We move forward anyway. In our best possible way.

And we build a mindset that asks a different question:

“Why not hope?”

Hope in healing. Hope in your best life. Hope in good things ahead.

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Where Forest Therapy Comes In

This is where forest therapy becomes more than a walk outside.

It becomes a bridge between body and mindset.

Because nature doesn’t demand that you think differently.

It helps your body feel differently first.

And when your body shifts, your mind can follow.

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A Simple Forest Therapy Practice for Mindset

Try this the next time you’re outside. A forest trail, a quiet park, or even your backyard.

1. Arrive (Nervous System Check)

Pause. Notice your body. Are you tense? Rushed? Numb?

No judgment, just be aware of those sensations.

2. Ground

Stand or sit still.

Feel your feet on the earth. No, you do not have to become a barefoot woodland mystic to participate.

Let your gaze soften. Take a slow breath in and a longer breath out.

Stay here for a few minutes until your body settles, even slightly.

3. Bring in a Vision (Gently)

Now, invite a small image of something you want. Not the biggest goal, just the next step.

A feeling. A way of being. A gentle hope.

4. Ask the Body

What happens inside you as you hold that image? Do your shoulders drop? Does your breath deepen? Or do you feel tight, braced, resistant?

Don’t force anything. Just listen.

5. Adjust Toward Ease

If your body braces, soften the vision.

Make it smaller, kinder, more yours.

Stay until your body feels even a little more at ease.

I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees.

–Henry David Thoreau

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This Is Where Mindset Begins

Not in forcing better thoughts.

Not in chasing someone else’s version of success.

But in creating a body that feels safe enough to hope again.

In choosing small, steady practices over dramatic change.

In building habits that nourish instead of deplete.

In letting your body have a vote in the life you’re creating.

Because when your body believes it’s possible your mind doesn’t have to work so hard to convince it.

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I taught piano lessons for years. I enjoyed working with kids. I enjoyed the lesson prep. I even enjoyed some of the music!

But in 2020 my body said, ‘no more.’ It could no longer do outward smiles and inward screams.

It said no to early mornings. And busy days. And constant focus. And sitting or standing. It said ‘stop!’

Eventually I chose to set aside my business. Then close it. I often consider, after having a couple of good days in a row, about teaching again.

Sometimes I start to think of how much I miss it and think perhaps I could just take a few students. I get excited thinking about it.

When I slow down my thinking enough to see how my body feels about this idea. It braces. It feels drained.

I see myself leaning forward over and over to show the place in the music I am referring to. The repetitive motion getting more and more painful.

I picture my fingers that can’t play more than a few minutes. And only simple songs. No reaching. No pressure. And how frustrating that can be when trying to demonstrate.

I think of the days I didn’t get any sleep and had to go to work anyway. And drag myself through the day. How can one person be so bad at both sleeping AND staying awake?

I have good days. That is true. But only because I’m not forcing my body and mind to work day in and day out in ways that do not support its healing.

I need time for exercise. And rest. And listening to my body. As hard as it is to listen to it at times. It really does know best.

The body says what words cannot.

–Martha Graham

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A Gentle Invitation

This week, don’t try to overhaul your mindset.

Instead, try this:

• Spend 10 minutes outside

• Let your body settle before asking it to believe anything

• Bring in one small hope

• And ask, quietly:

“Does this feel like peace… or pressure?”

Then adjust from there. Because maybe the question isn’t

“How do I think differently?”

Maybe it’s:

“How do I feel safe enough to hope?”

What makes your body feel safe enough to hope? I’d love to hear in the comments.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

–Emily Dickinson

You are Sea Glass

i hope you know you aren't broken glass
you are sea glass
shaped by the tides
softened by the waves
that once felt like they'd shatter you
what you've been through 
hasn't made you less
it has made you rare and luminous 

even the toughest waters can create
something beautiful 
and that's what you are...
a reminder that survival can turn into art

-Shelby Leigh

The beauty of you is how you wear who you are.

-Timothy Egart

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.

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.

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 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.

“Just Tired” Isn’t Even Close: Living with ME–CFS and Finding Healing

January 6, 2026 pammunkholm

The body is not an obstacle to the soul, but its instrument and means of expression.

— Pope Saint John Paul II

When I tell someone I have chronic fatigue, they often laugh softly, like I’ve made a dramatic overstatement.

Don’t we all have chronic fatigue these days? I imagine them thinking.

And I get it. Life is exhausting. The world is loud. Everyone is stretched thin.

But when you add the ME part. That’s the myalgic encephalomyelitis. Suddenly the picture changes. Here is a quick breakdown of ME and some of its symptoms.

ME–CFS isn’t about being worn out from a long day of being human. It didn’t start from lack of conditioning. I did not cause this.

It’s about being tired all the time.

Pushing through all the time.

And paying dearly for it afterward.

I like to share this graphic 👇🏼 that shows a breakdown of the name of the condition. More than a bad night’s sleep or a long, hard day. This isn’t a mindset problem. It’s not laziness. It’s not weakness. It’s a body that can no longer produce or distribute energy the way it once did.

And that comes with grief.

Grief for the skills and abilities I no longer have.

Grief for the version of me that could say yes without calculating the cost.

Grief for the way I worry I’ll be perceived (unreliable, flaky, distant) when really I’m just surviving in a body that demands a different rhythm.

Unmasking the True Price of “Energy Takes Everything”

I’ve had to pattern my life after my condition instead of pushing through like the rest of the world celebrates doing.

And some days, that still feels like failure. Even though I know it isn’t.

I’ve found a rhythm that works for me.

And I want to be confident in it.

It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.

— Confucius

But here’s the part people don’t see:

Everything takes energy.

Take the feelings you have at the very end of a long day:

Hard to find something to eat because every step feels heavy. Hard to have patience for the people in your space. Hard to think creatively or problem-solve.

Normally, you’d say: I just need a good night’s sleep. Then I will be myself again.

But when that good night’s sleep never comes. Neither does the motivation, the emotional regulation, or the clarity to solve even the smallest dilemmas.

And those complications build… and build… and build.

Then there’s the big life stuff I feel like I will never be able to address when I am always dealing with constant minor emergencies. A migraine. A vertebrae stuck out. Spasms.

What’s my purpose? How do I set priorities? How do I live well in this body? How do I figure it all out when my brain just wants to sleep?

Sometimes I end up spinning in a washing machine of choices that made sense in the moment:

Made sense in the moment: “I have to eat well.” I go get groceries. Get home. Collapse. Can’t get back up. Order pizza (the dirty laundry I get stuck in a spin cycle with).

Made sense in the moment: “I have to practice self-care.” I gather everything. Run the bath. Lay down… and don’t have the energy to actually do the care. Back to bed (the dirty sheets I get tangled up in).

Made sense in the moment: “I have to take care of myself.” Someone needs help. I don’t respond. Then guilt rushes in and it steals what little peace I had left. (those laundry items that always pass on a grease stain, no matter how many times its been washed)

So I’ve learned to live differently.

My rhythm now is:

rest
spiritual study
learning
creating
easy self-care
easy and somewhat healthy meals
visiting like-minded souls
serving where I can
protecting my peace

Nothing is set in stone.

Nothing is required.

It’s simply what works for me

My story of ME

It seems easy. I’m tired. I should sleep. But sleep doesn’t help. I just go between varying types of tired.

Nerves are easily triggered with this condition. So bringing the vibrating down and the peace level up is critical.

I enjoy baths. They initiate a truce with my body. Where the pain subsides. I can lay suspended and liberated.

When I am in need of one of these sessions I lay in bed and think about how wonderful it would feel.

Often I don’t have the strength to begin. To gather myself and my stuff. To stand while the tub starts to fill. To change temperatures by changing rooms. To rise and remember all the places in my body that are not aligned.

It all becomes too much. And the fabulous results are lost in the desire to conserve what little energy I have.

Your pace is not a moral issue.

— Devon Price

What the Science Says and Why the Forest Helps

As a forest therapy guide, I’ve seen again and again how nature meets people where their bodies are not where culture thinks they should be.

ME–CFS involves:

dysregulation of the nervous system
chronic inflammation
impaired cellular energy production (mitochondrial dysfunction)
heightened sensitivity to sensory input
post-exertional malaise, where even small effort leads to disproportionate crashes

This means the body is stuck in a protective mode, constantly conserving resources.

And here’s where the forest becomes more than beautiful scenery. It becomes medicine.

Nature’s Recharge: Forest Therapy’s Cure for ME–CFS and Exhaustion

1. Calms the nervous system

Time in natural environments lowers cortisol and shifts the body from “fight-or-flight” into “rest-and-digest.” For someone whose system is always on high alert, this is profound relief.

2. Reduces inflammation

Phytoncides, which are natural compounds released by trees, have been shown to support immune balance and reduce markers of inflammation. The body doesn’t have to work as hard to regulate itself.

3. Restores attention without effort

Nature offers soft fascination. A gentle sensory input that allows the brain to rest while still being engaged. This is vital when cognitive fatigue makes any thinking feel heavy.

4. Reframes worth and productivity

In the forest, you don’t have to prove anything. Trees don’t rush. Streams don’t apologize for slowing down. The environment itself models a different definition of enough.

For those of us living with ME–CFS, the forest reminds us:

We are not broken machines. We are living beings adapting to different conditions.

Embracing Serenity: Forest Therapy for ME–CFS & Deep Fatigue

This practice is designed for very low energy days. No hiking. No goals. No fixing.

The “Enough as I Am” Practice

Time: 10–20 minutes (or less)

Place: A bench, porch, backyard, park, or even near an open window

Arrive without performing
Sit or lie in a comfortable position
Let your body choose
Let one sense lead. Instead of scanning everything, pick just one: listening to birds or wind feeling air on your skin noticing light through leaves
Breathe like the trees. Inhale slowly. Exhale even slower.
Imagine your breath moving at the pace of a growing branch (not a ticking clock)
Offer yourself one true sentence. Silently say: “In this moment, I am doing enough.”
Leave before you’re tired. Ending early is not failure. It is wisdom.

There is a difference between resting and quitting. One restores you. The other abandons you.

— Bansky

Strength in Unexpected Places

Living with ME–CFS has taught me that strength doesn’t always look like endurance.

Sometimes strength looks like:

stopping early
saying no gently
choosing peace over productivity
letting the forest hold what I can’t

I am not lazy.

I am not weak.

I am not failing.

I am adapting.

Your best is what you can do without harming your physical or mental health. Not what you can accomplish when you disregard it.

-Unknown

And in the quiet wisdom of trees, I’ve learned something the world forgot to teach.

A life lived slowly is not a life lived small. Sometimes, it is the bravest life of all.

Us on New Year’s Eve before getting too tired and heading home around 10:00. Usually we are the people that when asked if we want to get together at 8:00 we wonder am?!? or pm?!? Actually never mind, both are a hard pass.

Happy New Year! To all those suffering, you are not alone, your worth is not diminished by your ability, you are seen and welcomed here.