I’ve been to the mountains. I found towering trees, rushing water and the best campsite ever!
And I learned a few lessons along the way.
1)We don’t always know what the path will look like when we start. But trails can be both beautiful and hard.
Brent and I hiked a lot over the last week. Most of the trails started with barely an incline and on clearly marked, wide paths. Zero of them stayed that way. All of them led to exceptional views well worth the effort.
2)Nature can catch our attention with beautiful things when we don’t have energy for anything else.
On a hike I often get to the point when I’m not sure how much more I can do. I’m tired. My legs hurt. I’m sweating profusely and feeling gross. Then nature catches my eye and my focus shifts.
3)Who you choose to share the trail with is a serious decision. Choose those who lift you up and make you smile.
My trail partner for the last 27 years.
4)My nervous system requires times of being immersed in nature.
I feel stronger and healthier when I am on mountain tops and in quiet forests.
5)Some days are for exploring. Some days are for surviving. (Both can and should include trees)
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want to share forest therapy and life with chronic illness going forward. Less sitting at a computer trying to explain everything perfectly. More getting outside, walking trails, noticing things, experimenting, learning and bringing you along.
It feels like we’re all moving through life with our shoulders somewhere around our ears. Chronic illness, fear of aging, financial stress, uncertainty, bad news on an endless loop. Some people are simply trying to get through Tuesday with enough energy to make supper 🙋♀️ .
It doesn’t take much to tip us over.🐄
A few days ago, mine came in the form of a boat launch.
Anyone who’s spent time around a busy boat launch knows it’s a fascinating social experiment.
An overabundance of strong opinions and egos exists.
There are no rules. Written or unwritten.
Just enough ambiguity transpires, that everyone believes they’re right.
I’ve been launching boats for about fifteen years. I know the rhythm. I stay out of people’s way, wait until my truck is actually in the water before moving, and do my best to keep things safe and efficient.
Apparently one gentleman decided I’d “cut the line.”
Boat launches really do produce fascinating specimens of humanity.
I’ve learned that confidence can be surprisingly unsettling to some people. Especially when it arrives in the form of a woman who knows how to load the boat on the trailer without making a production of it.
It’s funny how a little perceived competition can bring out our inner third-grader.
The equipment may have six-figure price tags, but occasionally the conflict resolution skills still come from recess days gone by.
When I calmly explained why I was waiting where I was. And how the process normally works. He didn’t want an explanation.
He began clapping sarcastically.
The world doesn’t just wear us down through tragedy. Sometimes it does it one sarcastic clap at a time.
A man is rowing through thick fog when he notices another boat heading directly toward him.
The other boat is bigger. He should have the right of way.
He shouts. No response.
He waves. Nothing.
The other boat keeps coming.
His frustration turns to anger.
“Move!”
Just before the collision, he swerves.
As the fog clears, he realizes…
The boat is empty. No one was steering.
Instantly, his anger disappears.
Who was he angry with?
No one.
Since first hearing that story, I’ve asked myself this question.
Is the boat empty?
Not literally.
But is this personal?
Or am I assigning intention where there may be none?
Maybe they’re exhausted. Grieving. Terrified.
Maybe they simply don’t know any better.
Or maybe they’re carrying hurts I can’t see.
None of those possibilities excuse poor behaviour.
But they completely change where I direct my emotional energy.
Sometimes, seeing clearly dissolves the anger.
Pronoia
The opposite of paranoia. it is the belief that people or the world are secretly working in your favour. That events, people and circumstaces are somehow conspiring to help you.
That’s different from stuffing feelings down or pretending they don’t exist.
You can’t bypass emotions.
You can’t slap a positive quote over a nervous system that’s sounding the alarm.
But sometimes the alarm quiets on its own because you suddenly realize…
There isn’t actually an enemy here.
Just another imperfect human.
When the boat is empty, compassion often becomes easier than combat.
How will this feel next week?Next month? Next year?
It’s amazing how many mountains quietly shrink into molehills when viewed from a little distance.
Then she takes it even further.
She talks about astronauts experiencing the Overview Effect. Seeing Earth from space and returning with an entirely different understanding of what matters.
Imagine grandmother’s wisdom. Now multiply it by the view from orbit.
Our arguments. Our bruised egos. Our need to be right.
They suddenly become very small compared with this astonishing little blue planet we’re all sharing.
That doesn’t make our feelings unimportant.
It simply gives them context.
Another surprisingly effective tool?
Humour. Humour interrupts the story we’re telling ourselves.
We’ve all done it.
We become convinced we’ve been wronged in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.
Our spouse is over there admiring a duck while we have mentally drafted the closing argument for a trial that nobody else even knows is happening.
Sometimes all it takes is one ridiculous observation from them to break the spell.
I wish I could say I found “the funny” at the boat launch.
I wasn’t there yet.
Maybe next time.
One tool that has helped me far more consistently is asking:
Am I living this moment according to my values?
Not theirs. Mine.
I can’t control sarcasm.
I can’t control mockery.
I can’t control who decides to clap sarcastically at a stranger.
But I can decide whether I respond with kindness.
Integrity. Respect. Compassion.
Those are mine to keep.
The more our daily lives align with our values, the steadier we become.
Peace stops being something we chase and starts becoming somewhere we live.
The idea of felt safety is something we’ll explore more in the next post.
Felt safety isn’t the absence of fear.
It isn’t the absence of challenge.
It’s your nervous system recognizing that you have enough capacity to face what’s in front of you.
That you are enough.
That you can survive this moment.
Forest therapy has become one of the places where I practice exactly that.
The forest rarely requires me to react in the moment.
It stretches time. It expands perspective.
It reminds me that not everything deserves my nervous system’s full emergency response.
When someone steals my peace…
I take it to the woods.
There, I remember that I’m part of something much older than a rude exchange at a boat launch.
Much bigger than today’s frustration.
And much more beautiful than the story my anxious brain was writing five minutes earlier.
Eventually I remember that peace is a terrible thing to hand over to someone you’ve never met.
A Forest Therapy Invitation
If you’re new here and want to learn more about forest therapy and how it works, check out this page. The Gist
The next time something rattles you, resist the urge to replay it over and over.
Instead, head outside.
Find one tree that catches your attention.
Stand with it for five slow breaths.
Now ask yourself:
Is the boat empty?
Will this matter next year?
What would this look like from space?
What response best reflects my values?
How can I become the tenderness this moment needs?
Don’t force an answer.
Just notice what changes.
Sometimes the forest doesn’t solve the problem.
It simply reminds us that we are far bigger than it.
Forest therapy doesn’t help me escape the world. It helps me return to it without becoming like it.
Margaret Cullen ends her book Quiet Strength with words I borrow:
May each of us find a way to bring balance and tenderness to this floating world, moment by moment, drop by drop.
I can’t think of a better response to a world that is hard on beautiful things.
Let’s become one of the beautiful things that refuses to grow hard.
The world may be hard on beautiful things. That doesn’t mean beautiful things have to become hard.
When you’re living with chronic pain, migraines, fatigue, hormonal changes, or an autoimmune condition, every ounce of energy matters.
So it can be frustrating to discover that many of the products we use every day may be working against us.
The reality is that we live in a world filled with chemicals, pollutants, and environmental stressors. While our bodies are remarkably resilient, they weren’t exactly designed for a daily cocktail of synthetic fragrances, plastics, pesticides, and mystery ingredients with names that sound like they belong in a chemistry textbook.
I recognize that in speaking on this topic, I now resemble a kooky, woo woo spokeswoman for all things unconventional. But stick with me.
If you’ve ever looked at an ingredient label and thought, “I have no idea what any of these words mean, but I’m about to put them directly on my skin,” you’re not alone.
I’ve reached the age where reading labels is apparently one of my hobbies.
Welcome to the wacky world of hormone disruptors.
What Are Hormone Disruptors?
Hormone disruptors, also called endocrine disruptors, are chemicals that interfere with your body’s endocrine system, the network responsible for producing, transporting, and regulating hormones.
Think of hormones as your body’s communication system. They send messages that help regulate everything from sleep and metabolism to mood, reproduction, energy, and immune function.
Hormone disruptors can interfere with those messages by:
Mimicking natural hormones
Blocking hormone receptors
Altering hormone production
Affecting how hormones are transported or eliminated
In other words, they’re the equivalent of someone repeatedly hitting “reply all” on emails that were never meant for them.
My hormones wake up everyday and choose unpredictability. They have the organizational structure of a flock of startled geese.
Why Does This Matter?
For years, many people with chronic conditions have been told that their bloodwork is normal, their tests look fine, and everything appears to be functioning as expected.
Meanwhile, they’re exhausted.
They’re in pain.
They’re dealing with migraines, inflammation, brain fog, sleep disturbances, mood changes, or symptoms that don’t fit neatly into a box.
Hormone disruptors aren’t necessarily the cause of these conditions.
But if your body is already managing chronic inflammation, pain, migraines, fatigue, hormonal changes, or autoimmune symptoms, reducing unnecessary stressors may give your system one less thing to deal with.
It’s not a cure.
But every little bit of support matters.
Symptoms That May Be Linked to Hormone Disruption
Hormone disruption can show up in many different ways Some common symptoms include:
Fatigue
Brain fog
Sleep disturbances
Mood changes
Anxiety
Weight gain or difficulty losing weight
Headaches and migraines
Skin issues
Fertility challenges
Irregular menstrual cycles
Low libido
Increased inflammation
The challenge is that many of these symptoms overlap with chronic illnesses, making hormone disruption difficult to identify.
Which is somewhat rude, if you ask me.
My Experience
When I first started learning about hormone disruptors, I had two reactions.
First:
“Well, that’s concerning.”
Second:
“There is absolutely no way I can afford to replace everything I own, let alone find the time and energy to make everything!” (mentally checks out of this topic)
Thankfully, I’ve since learned that reducing exposure isn’t about perfection.
It’s about making practical choices that support a body that’s already working hard.
Because if the wellness industry had its way, I’d be replacing every item I own by Tuesday. And while I appreciate the enthusiasm, my budget and my sanity have other things to do.
Where Are Hormone Disruptors Hiding?
Unfortunately, they’re not hiding very hard.
Personal Care Products
Shampoo
Conditioner
Hair products
Lotions
Makeup
Perfumes
Deodorants
Nail polish
Household Products
Air fresheners
Scented candles
Dryer sheets
Fabric softeners
Cleaning products
Food Storage and Packaging
Plastic food containers
Plastic water bottles
Plastic wrap
Certain canned food linings
Some non-stick cookware
Environmental Sources
Pesticides
Herbicides
Some furniture treatments
Certain stain-resistant coatings
One of the most common concerns is simply the ingredient listed as:
Fragrance
That single word can represent dozens. Or sometimes hundreds of undisclosed ingredients.
The goal is reducing your overall toxic burden where you reasonably can.
Some labels contain enough syllables to qualify as a spelling bee challenge. At what point does an ingredient list stop feeling informative and start feeling mildly threatening?
A Gentle Approach to Reducing Exposure
Put your garbage bags down.
You don’t need to throw everything away and start making your own soap from dandelions and determination.
You cannot eliminate every toxin.
You cannot control every environmental exposure.
And honestly, trying to do so would probably create more stress than benefit.
The goal isn’t perfection.
Small, sustainable changes tend to be far more effective than dramatic overhauls.
Start with one product.
Then another.
And keep going at a pace that feels manageable.
Homemade Alternatives
One reason many people choose homemade products is because the ingredients are simple, familiar, and transparent.
When you know exactly what’s in something, there’s less mystery.
You may also reduce your exposure to fragrances, preservatives, and other unnecessary additives.
Here are a few of my favourite homemade recipes:
Homemade Deodorant
Recipe @ healthylifetrainer Note: Unlike antiperspirants, which block sweat glands, this recipe functions as a deodorant. It helps control odour while allowing your body to sweat naturally. The other thing to be aware of is its ability to turn into deodorant soup when stored above room temperature. Store it in the cooler if you go camping!⛺️
A Forest Therapy Practice for Simplifying Your Routine
One of the biggest challenges with reducing hormone disruptors is deciding where to start.
Forest therapy offers a different approach.
Rather than creating a long list of things you have to change immediately, begin with awareness.
Take a slow walk in nature.
Leave your phone in your pocket.
Notice what catches your attention.
Listen to the sounds around you.
Feel the ground beneath your feet.
Allow your nervous system to settle.
When you find a place that feels inviting, sit quietly for a few minutes.
Ask yourself:
What products do I use every day?
Which products spend the most time on my skin?
Which products do I inhale regularly?
Which product would be easiest to replace?
Which change feels supportive rather than stressful?
Then ask:
“If I could change one thing this month, what would make the biggest difference?”
Forest therapy reminds us that healing doesn’t always happen through doing more.
Sometimes it begins by slowing down enough to notice what our bodies have been trying to tell us.
When I started forest therapy the trees and I got along immediately. Unlike my hormones 😖 😡.
Perimenopause
Slowly losing every chemical that was helping me tolerate people.
Health Is More Than Avoiding Toxins
Removing unnecessary exposures can be helpful.
But building health is equally important.
Sometimes we become so focused on what we should eliminate that we forget what we need to add.
The foundations matter.
Prioritize Sleep
Sleep is when your body repairs, regulates hormones, supports immunity, and recovers from daily stress. Clean up your sleep routine.
Eat Nourishing Foods
Focus on foods that support your body rather than aiming for perfection. Slowly move towards the diet your body needs.
Move in Ways That Work for You
The best exercise is the one your body can recover from. That answer looks different for everyone.
Get Outside
Sunlight helps regulate circadian rhythms, mood, and overall wellbeing. Get out in the first minutes of your day.
Nelipot
English; a rare and poetic word that refers to someone who walks barefoot, one who feels than earth beneath their feet, often implying a connection with nature or a simple, grounded lifestyle.
Put Your Feet on the Ground
Whether you call it grounding, earthing, or simply standing barefoot in the grass, many people report feeling calmer and more connected afterward. I concur.
Spend Time in Nature
Nature lowers stress, restores attention, and creates opportunities for rest and reflection. More than getting outside it is connecting with the natural world.
The forest continues to offer something many modern products can’t: simplicity. The more time I spend in nature, the more I understand why my body keeps asking me to return. The message is clear.
Less fragrance. More forests.
My nervous system is a strong advocate for sunshine, birdsong, and not reading every ingredient.
Why Forest Therapy Matters
Forest therapy isn’t about replacing medicine, specialists, or common sense.
It’s about creating conditions that support healing.
I’ve seen it support people who were struggling.
I’ve also seen it elevate people who were already doing well.
Nature doesn’t ask us to be healthy before we show up.
It simply offers an environment that encourages restoration, resilience, and connection.
Whether you’re managing chronic illness or simply trying to feel your best, time in nature can be one of the simplest and most accessible forms of self-care available.
Turns out one of the healthiest things I can do is wander through the forest looking slightly lost.
Final Thoughts
Nature has never pulled me aside to discuss my skincare routine. I don’t have to be a perfect version of myself before I can join.
It simply reminds me to take the next step.
Sometimes that’s all healing requires.
We can’t control every toxin, every chemical exposure, or every challenge life throws our way. But we can support our bodies through simple, consistent practices.
Sleep. Movement. Nutritious food. Sunshine. Fresh air. Time in nature. Small choices made repeatedly over time often have the greatest impact
Not because they’re dramatic. But because they’re sustainable.
And unlike the mystery bottle hiding under your bathroom sink since 2014, those habits never expire.
Maybe living your best life just means slowing down enough to see how good it already is.
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.
Mother Nature 👆
Us 👆
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.
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.
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.
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.
In the beginning of my chronic pain, before I had language for it, I fought it.
I tried to outrun the agony.
I tried to out- power the fatigue.
I believed if I just pushed harder, rested less, proved myself more. I would get ahead of it.
Instead, the harder I tried, the further behind I seemed to fall.
What I didn’t yet understand was that I wasn’t battling weakness or lack of willpower. I was battling a body riddled with inflammation. A body asking to be soothed, not ignored. Not overridden. But met with compassion.
There likely will never be a cure for my condition.
But there can be healing. For myself and so many others.
For me, that healing began when I stopped fighting my body and started listening to it.
Healing in the Woods: A Transformative Quest
When I found forest therapy, I was still angry. Still confused by my disability. Still grieving the body I thought I should have. Trying to figure out exactly what steps to take to “get better.” Whatever that means.
Forest therapy didn’t fix me. But it slowed me down enough to meet myself honestly.
Walking slowly among trees, I began to notice how nature never rushes itself into wellness. Trees scarred by lightning still reach for the sun. Fallen logs don’t apologize for dormancy. Fallen leaves aren’t failures. Moss thrives not despite dampness but because of it. They are part of the cycle that nourishes what comes next.
In the forest, I learned to take time and space:
For my body.
For my care.
For myself.
I learned to soften.
The photo on the left was taken this Christmas. On the right is a shot from one of my highest pain and least support years. Do you see the softening that has taken place?
Nature became a mirror for self-compassion. Showing me that acceptance is not giving up, and rest is not weakness. That change is and always will be constant, and beauty is often found because of it.
Where do your forest reflections take you?
Tender and Fierce Self-Compassion: A Pathway to Healing Mastery
If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.
Psychologist Dr. Kristin Neff, a leading researcher on self-compassion, describes two essential forms. Tender self-compassion and fierce self-compassion. Healing (especially in chronic pain) requires both.
In the forest, tender self- compassion is offered effortlessly. Shade, stillness, permission to slow down. Tender self-compassion is the gentle response we offer ourselves when suffering arises. It sounds like,
In forest therapy, tender self-compassion shows up as slowing down. Sitting instead of pushing. Letting the forest hold us when our nervous system is overwhelmed.
But compassion is not only soft.
Fierce self-compassion is protective. In the forest, fierce compassion looks like a tree growing around an obstacle instead of breaking itself against it. It looks like roots lifting pavement. Life insisting on what it needs. It draws boundaries. It advocates. It says no to harm. Even when that harm comes from expectations we’ve internalized.
Fierce self-compassion involves taking action in the world to protect, provide, and motivate ourselves to alleviate suffering.
— Kristin Neff
For someone living with chronic pain, fierce compassion might look like canceling plans without guilt, choosing gentler paths, or refusing to prove pain through being productive. (Holy moly, have I ever been guilty of that last one!)
The forest teaches this balance effortlessly. Life adapts rather than destroys itself.
True healing lives in the balance.
Softness without surrender.
Strength without violent self talk.
I highly recommend looking at Dr. Neff’s research.
Beyond the Power of Positivity in Chronic Pain
One of the most harmful ideas placed on people with chronic pain is the demand to “stay positive.” It is a reality many of us are quietly living inside. Through good intentioned humans or when we place this expectation on ourselves. Either way.
This is not healing.
This is toxic positivity.
The forest is not positive all the time. It holds decay and beauty simultaneously. Rot feeds growth. Death makes room for life. Nothing is bypassed.
Embodied compassion, unlike forced optimism, allows pain and beauty to coexist. Forest therapy has taught me that I don’t need to pretend things are fine in order to find meaning, or hope.
Acceptance is not resignation.
It is honesty.
You don’t know this new me; I put back my pieces, differently.
Embracing the Wild: A Practice of Compassionate Forest Therapy
If you are able, try this practice in a forest, park, or any type of natural space.
Find a tree that shows signs of damage Look for scars, broken branches, or weathering. Notice how the tree continues to live.
Stand or sit nearby Place one hand on your body. Where you feel pain or tension most.
Name tenderness. Quietly acknowledge what hurts. No fixing. No reframing. Just noticing.
Name fierceness Ask yourself. What does my body need protection from right now? Fatigue? Expectations? Self-criticism?
Receive the lesson. Let the tree reflect back to you. Adaptation, not defeat. Presence, not perfection.
Take your time. Healing doesn’t rush.
Nature’s Note: A Message from the Forest to Your Body
Dear Body,
You are not broken.
You are responding to what you have endured. And we know you have endured much.
I have seen storms too. I have lost branches. I have rested longer than expected.
Still, I grow.
You do not need to push to belong here.
You do not need to prove your worth through endurance.
I hold decay and beauty at the same time.
You are allowed to do the same.
Rest when you need to.
Stand tall when you can.
Trust that healing is not the absence of pain, but the presence of care.
You are part of this rhythm.
You always have been.
— The Forest
That’s the thing about December: it goes by in a flash. If you just close your eyes, it’s gone . And it’s like you were never there.
Look into the mirror of forest therapy. Reflect where you need more self- compassion. Take time to recognize and lean into both tender and fierce. It will aid in all types of healing.
SUNBEAM ACRES 