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.
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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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Exhaustion from the constant battleFoot bones out Lower back muscle spasm keeping me mostly bed ridden, this was my short escapeA foot up as I pose with siblings to hold me balanced after a physio adjustment Rib out and going to watch a show, hoping I’ll make it. Right thigh stuck in spasm, nervous system in a flare. Depression, why bother trying? No matter how hard I try, I always have painful subluxations.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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:
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)
We all experience pain. For some, it’s a passing ache. For others, it becomes a constant companion — a reminder that life is not always as we hoped it would be. When pain becomes chronic, it’s easy to slip into resistance: wishing it away, fighting it, or resenting what it’s taken. But there’s another path — one that doesn’t demand perfection or control. It’s the path of acceptance, and nature is a powerful guide.
The Lens of Pain: Understanding Trauma’s Impact
Do not underestimate the power of gentleness, because gentleness is strength wrapped in peace…
In her podcast, Better Than Happy, Jody Moore talks about how we’ve all experienced trauma — some of us with a capital “T” and others with a lowercase “t.” The difference isn’t always about what happened, but how our minds and bodies interpret and hold it.
The same can be true for chronic pain. You get to decide whether your pain feels like Trauma — a life-altering event that defines you — or trauma — something you carry and work with, but not something that owns you. That choice matters deeply, because how we name our pain shapes how we heal from it.
In forest therapy, we slow down. We listen. We notice. The rustle of leaves, the way sunlight filters through branches, the steady rhythm of our breath — these moments invite us to be with what is, rather than against it.
Acceptance doesn’t mean giving up. It means softening our resistance. It means saying, “This is what my body feels right now, and I can still experience peace.” In the forest, we learn from the trees — rooted, resilient, unhurried. We begin to see that pain and peace can coexist.
Oleilu
Finnish. To relax and simply be. without any agenda. The quiet act of existing in the moment.
Don’t Let Pain Become Your Puppet Master
Pain already takes enough from us. When we let it dictate our thoughts, our plans, or our sense of self, our world begins to shrink. We start saying no to life before life even asks the question.
But you have a choice. You can decide not to give pain more power. You can choose expansion — moments of joy, awe, and connection — even in the midst of discomfort. The forest has a way of reminding us that there is always more life available than the pain wants us to believe.
Every time you choose hope, you widen the space inside you where light can live.
It is helpful to feel awesome when preparing for war.
For many of us living with chronic pain, that war happens quietly inside our own bodies. So ask yourself: what helps you feel awesome?
Maybe it’s standing barefoot in the grass.
Breathing in the scent of pine after rain.
Watching a chickadee tilt its head in curiosity.
These moments don’t erase pain — they remind you that you are more than it.
Nature’s Remedy: Healing in the Woods
Acceptance is not a single choice; it’s a practice. And nature gives us endless opportunities to begin again — with every breath, every sunrise, every step beneath the trees.
When you allow the forest to hold your pain alongside your hope, something shifts. You stop fighting your body and start listening to it. Healing begins in that stillness.
So go. Step outside. Let the forest teach you how to make peace with what hurts — and how to feel a little more awesome along the way.
SUNBEAM ACRES 