Years ago, I became convinced I was getting less intelligent.
I would walk into a room and forget why. Lose all my trains of thought mid-sentence. Derailed. No coming back.
Iโd constantly search for words that had wandered off unsupervised. They would come back hours later, long after it was needed and with no apology whatsoever.
I blamed stress.
I blamed being busy.
I blamed getting older.
In reality, it was probably all of those things, mixed with hormonal changes I didnโt fully understand yet.
Female hormones are funny. Theyโre a bit like a Saskatchewan summer storm. One minute the sky is clear, the sun is shining, and life feels manageable. The next, the wind picks up, the clouds roll in, and youโre wondering if you should have brought a jacket, umbrella and storm cellar.
The weather didnโt become bad.
It changed.
Our hormones do too.
Female hormones are a bit like Saskatchewan weather. If you donโt like whatโs happening right now, wait ten minutes.
Most of us think of hormones as reproductive messengers, but they influence far more than our cycles. They affect sleep, memory, focus, mood, energy, and even how connected we feel to the people around us.
One of the most interesting ideas I encountered from a recent podcast interview with Dr. Anna Cabeca. While estrogen, progesterone, and testosterone get most of the attention, hormones like cortisol and oxytocin may have an even bigger impact on how we experience daily life.
Oxytocin is often called the love hormone. Itโs associated with connection, belonging, trust, laughter, affection, friendship, pets, nature, and community.
Likewise, oxytocin and cortisol tend to pull in opposite directions.
But the story doesnโt end there. The plot thickens.
As any prairie girl knows, sunshine and thunderstorms often share the same forecast.
When stress becomes chronic, such as in a body dealing with chronic pain, connection often suffers.
Many of us donโt just feel tired. We feel disconnected.
From ourselves.
From others.
From the things that once brought us joy.
Progesterone plays a role too. It supports sleep, cognition, brain health, and nervous system regulation.
Testosterone contributes to motivation, confidence, energy, and focus. Both naturally decline as we age, and both can be influenced by chronic stress.
Side note: I would like to point out that aging naturally isn’t nearly as freaky as whatever is happening with the people trying desperately to avoid it. Also, at what age do we start meeting for Bingo? Because I’m ready.
Progesterone naturally declines in women, typically beginning in the mid-thirties as ovarian function gradually changes.
My body got the memo that the warranty has expired. All systems started responding the way youโd expect at the end of a warranty. (despite the fact that I was built in the 70s and should have been made to last)
Looking back at my own health journey, I spent years trying to solve individual symptoms.
If I could just stop the migraines.
If I could just overcome the fatigue.
If I could just break the insomnia.
What I eventually learned is that the body doesnโt divide itself into neat little boxes the way we often do.
Sleep affects stress.
Stress affects hormones.
Hormones affect mood.
Mood affects relationships.
Relationships affect wellbeing.
Pull one thread and the whole thing unravels.
Thatโs why healing often requires support from multiple directions.
๐ Good food.
๐ Movement.
๐ Sleep.
๐ Stress management.
๐ Connection.
๐ Time outdoors.
The podcast also reinforced something Iโve known for years: nature has a remarkable way of helping us regulate.
Not because it magically solves our problems, but because it reminds our nervous systems what calm feels like.
Like sitting quietly in warm sunshine after a long winter.
Like hearing nothing but leaves rustle in the breeze.
The Practice
One simple forest therapy practice is this:
Stop
Notice 5 things moving around you (leaves, clouds, grass, insects, birds)
Listen for 3 sounds
Notice 2 scents
Take one slow breath
Itโs amazing how quickly the nervous system responds when we give it the chance.
The body benefits from movement, and the mind benefits from stillness.
This is the first post in a hormone series. Next week weโll look at hormone disruptors: where the biggest offenders are hiding, and what to use instead.
The longer I live with chronic pain, the more convinced I am that modern medicine is excellent at saving lives and often terrible at helping people live them.
That is not an attack on medicine.
I am deeply grateful for surgeons, emergency rooms, diagnostics, imaging, specialists, antibiotics, and every medical professional who dedicates their life to helping people heal. If my arm bone is hanging on by hope and duct tape, I am not reaching for turmeric and positive affirmations. I want a surgeon. Immediately.
My mom shattered her foot in multiple places in a car accident. Her toe was essentially powder. No longer a toe. She needed surgery, pins, screws, and acute medical care. No amount of herbal tea or breath work was going to fix those bones.
Conventional medicine is extraordinary in moments like that.
But chronic illness and chronic pain are often different beasts entirely.
My body failed to coordinate its symptoms in a way convenient for modern medicine.
This is where many patients begin discovering the enormous disconnect between conventional medicine and a more holistic approach to healing.
And by holistic, I do not mean anti-science wellness influencers waving potions around while trying to sell bottled mountain air and enlightenment in the same online bundle.
There is a fine line between integrative medicine and someone trying to sell you powdered optimism for $89.99.
I mean looking at the body as an interconnected system instead of isolated symptoms.
I mean considering nutrition, supplementation, nervous system regulation, sleep, movement, physical therapies, mindfulness, environmental stressors, and individualized treatment options alongside conventional care.
Not instead of medicine. Alongside it.
Because pain doesnโt stay politely inside one department.
The body cannot always be divided into neat specialties simply because the healthcare system is.
One point especially stood out to me. Roberts referenced pain scientist Lorimer Moseley from the University of Adelaide, discussing how conventional medicine often compartmentalizes the body into isolated systems. The gut, the brain, the joints. When chronic pain rarely behaves that neatly.
Pain spills into everything.
Your nervous system changes. Your sleep changes. Your digestion changes. Your stress response changes. Your sense of safety changes.
The nervous system remembers suffering long after scans stop showing it.
For years I was bounced between specialists who all told me some variation of, โEverything looks normal.โ ๐ ๐
Which was excellent news except for the small detail that I was getting worse.
Thereโs an exhaustion that comes from hearing โeverything looks normalโ while actively deteriorating.
Every appointment felt a bit like medical speed dating except nobody wanted a second date with my file.
I was essentially told to go back to physio. This wasnโt really a medical issue anymore.
I believe in physiotherapy. Deeply. It has helped me tremendously. But there comes a point where patients stop needing another treatment and start needing someone to ask bigger questions.
Nothing discourages a person quite like enthusiastically trying a stretch or strengthening exercise that immediately makes things worse.
Every specialist confidently searches for answers inside their own department like medical-themed escape rooms.
Somewhere between โtry yogaโ and โhave you considered drinking more water?โ I began expanding my own research.
And Iโve lost count of the books and podcasts that begin with the exact same storyline:
โI was trained in conventional medicine. I trusted the system completelyโฆ until I became the patient.โ
At first, these doctors often dismiss holistic approaches entirely. Patients mention supplements, meditation, dietary changes, nervous system work, or alternative therapies, and the response is cautious at best and dismissive at worst.
Snake oil. Pseudoscience. Non-compliance.
But then something shifts.
The doctor develops chronic pain. An autoimmune condition. A lingering injury. Burnout. A nervous system disorder.
And suddenly certainty cracks open into curiosity.
Chronic pain turns you into a part-time researcher, part-time philosopher, and full-time reluctant detective.
I have spent an unreasonable amount of my adult life trying to determine whether I am injured, inflamed, overtired, under-rested, dehydrated, stressed, or simply existing incorrectly.
Living with chronic pain means constantly performing the worldโs least fun science experiment on yourself.
By year three of unexplained symptoms, I could practically earn honorary medical credits.
To be fair, holistic spaces are not immune to problems either. There is misinformation, exploitation, fearmongering, and an endless supply of expensive miracle cures marketed toward vulnerable people desperate to feel better.
Pain makes people easy to manipulate. Both systems can fail people in different ways.
Thatโs why I donโt believe the answer is abandoning conventional medicine for holistic healing.
I believe the answer is integration.
An actual partnership.
Healing is bigger than symptom management.
Patients do not need doctors to be omniscient. We need them to be curious.
Surgeons are trained to operate. Doctors are trained to diagnose and prescribe. Specialists are trained to identify patterns within their specialty.
We need practitioners who understand both the power and the limitations of their training. And openly work with other practitioners, conventional and holistic, to find a root cause and treatment plan.
This matters enormously to a patient just trying to survive.
Chronic illness does not always fit neatly inside textbook timelines and diagnostic boxes.
Medicineโs symbol speaks of healing being available. Yet many people with chronic illness spend years moving through appointments feeling like fragmented symptoms instead of whole human beings.
Stacey Roberts described asking chronic pain patients to remember a time before they lived with pain. Then she asks them to imagine themselves in the future doing something that currently hurts. Picking up grandchildren. Bending over. Any repetitive movement, without pain.
And many people simply cannot picture it.
Their bodies have become so conditioned toward pain and protection that even imagining safety feels impossible.
This is your forest therapy practice for this week. Find a quiet place in nature and practice this visualization.
Chronic pain doesnโt only affect muscles and joints. It reshapes expectation. Identity. Fear. Hope.
Roberts discussed using visualization, breathing, mindfulness, and repetition to help retrain the nervous systemโs response to pain.
That idea connects to what Iโve experienced through forest therapy and time in nature.
Regulation comes while standing beneath trees while wind moves through their branches overhead. The nervous system seems to recognize something there before the mind does. The movement. The rhythm. The reminder that not everything in the world is bracing for impact.
Healing and pain elimination are not always the same thing.
Chronic pain teaches your nervous system to scan constantly for danger. Nature quietly teaches it another language.
No performance. No productivity. No pressure to fix yourself.
Just space to exist in a body that has spent far too long preparing for the next flare.
I appreciated many of the points Stacey Roberts made in the podcast. But I struggled with the title of her book, The Pain-Free Formula.
Not because I donโt believe improvement is possible. I do.
I absolutely believe there are things we can do to reduce pain, improve quality of life, calm the nervous system, support healing, and function better in our bodies.
But chronic illness eventually teaches many of us something medicine rarely does:
Sometimes the greatest medical harm is making patients feel invisible.
At some point I stopped obsessing over becoming pain free and started focusing on becoming supported.
I decided healing would come in time. And if not, I would still be okay.
Not because I had given up. But because I finally realized I had the tools, support, and guidance I needed to endure whatever my condition threw at me.
Ironically, that mindset shift brought me more peace than years spent desperately chasing the next solution.
Sometimes acceptance is more freeing than the absence of pain we searched for so desperately.
I hope Stacey Roberts never fully understands that distinction.
Because for her to truly understand it, she may have to suffer at a depth I would not wish on anyone.
At the end of the podcast, the host asked how she would redesign the healthcare system for chronic pain patients. Roberts discussed the need for more investment into preventative health, nutrition research, nervous system regulation, and understanding why certain non-pharmaceutical interventions help people heal.
And honestly, I think she raised important questions.
Because if someone improves through movement, nutrition, mindfulness, supplementation, therapy, nervous system regulation, or lifestyle change, why should that healing be dismissed simply because it did not originate from a prescription pad?
People in pain do not need to be fixed before they are worthy of compassion.
I do think our healthcare system needs to evolve.
Not because doctors are evil. Not because science has failed. Not because medicine lacks value.
To restore the human subject at the center. The suffering, afflicted, fighting human subject. We must deepen a case history to a narrative.
Patients with chronic illness need practitioners who are comfortable saying: โI donโt know.โ โTell me more.โ โI believe you.โ โLetโs keep looking.โ
Listen to your patient; he is telling you the diagnosis.
Listen. Not just for the keywords that trigger familiar treatment pathways. But for the whole story.
For the grief patients carry. For the exhaustion. For the devastation of losing trust in your own body. And for the courage it takes to keep asking for help after years of disappointment.
Healing should never have become a battle between conventional and holistic medicine.
People in pain deserve both.
And if youโve ever had to redefine what healing or success looks like inside a difficult body, I wrote more about that here as well. You Are a Success Story
Back in my day, some kids brought hockey cards and sticker collections to school. I brought an alarming range of ligament-based entertainment.
Sometimes hypermobility first appears as a child who seems unusually bendy or clumsy, often both at once. ๐โโ๏ธ
The child who sits in a W position on the floor because it feels natural. The one who, without pausing to question it, contorts themselves into strange positions during movie night.
What they may not see is the child constantly running into walls because their body struggles to map itself properly in space. Bruises appearing mysteriously across shins. Ankles rolling on flat ground. Sleeves chewed because pain and overstimulation are difficult to explain at seven years old.
And then there are the โgrowing pains.โ
Except many children with connective tissue disorders experience pain far beyond the occasional ache adults remember from childhood.
Deep bone pain at night. Legs throbbing so intensely sleep becomes impossible. Crying after gym class. Exhaustion after seemingly normal activities.
Many hypermobile children become experts at masking early. They laugh while joints slip. They keep playing while hurting because they assume everyone else feels this too.
Some become the โdramaticโ child. Others become the โtoughโ one.
Honestly, I was the child trying to survive in a body I did not yet have language for.
What am I even doing bending my neck like that?
The thumb that bends too far backward. The knees that point in unusual directions. The shoulder that clicks when slipping in and out. Being crazy talented in a yoga class my first day.
What people donโt see is that connective tissue is not merely a few loose ligaments behaving badly.
Connective tissue is infrastructure.
It is the architecture holding the body together. The webbing woven through blood vessels, skin, organs, fascia, tendons, heart valves, lungs, digestive systems, pelvic floor, eyes, nerves, and joints. It is scaffolding. Suspension bridge. Packaging tape. Elastic waistband. Shock absorber.
And when connective tissue is faulty, life can begin to feel like living in a house where every screw has loosened itself by half a turn.
Not enough to collapse all at once. Enough that everything creaks. And left unchecked, more and more areas become unstable, then require constant repairs. Eventually some rooms just become unusable.
A Sad Commentary: AKAMy Brush with Organized Sports
My joints approached organized sports with more enthusiasm than stability. More optimism than skill.
In a small town, everybody played volleyball or there simply wasnโt a volleyball team.
So I played volleyball.
I hated it.
Looking back now, I wonder why I stayed in as long as I did. Every practice left my forearms covered in bruises. Big ones, tiny ones, overlapping ones. I looked part Dalmatian. Nobody else seemed to bruise like that, so naturally the conclusion was that I was doing it wrong.
Turns out my connective tissue was doing it wrong. Not me.
I was terrible at volleyball. Not for lack of trying, either. I could picture exactly what my body was supposed to do, but the execution never matched the image in my head. It always felt like there was a lag between my brain and my limbs, like someone had replaced my coordination with an unreliable Wi-Fi signal.
The only part of volleyball practice I excelled at was stretching.
That should maybe have been a clue.
I could also run forever, but the muscle fatigue before, during, and after was brutal. My legs and ribs constantly felt tight and overworked, like my muscles were trying to compensate for a body that refused to stabilize itself properly.
The solution offered to me was always the same: โPractice more.โ โYou just need to focus, Pam.โ โTry harder.โ โDonโt give up so easily all the time.โ
My P.E. teacher, who was also my coach, and I were not exactly compatible personalities. I suspect I ranked fairly high on his โlazy kidโ list. My feelings toward him and his teaching style donโt need to be discussed for the purpose of this post. Perhaps he was doing the best he knew how ๐คทโโ๏ธ.
What hurt most was that I wasnโt used to being bad at things.
I excelled in music. Dance. Academics. If I tried something, I usually became good at it eventually. But anything involving proprioception. Balance, coordination, spatial awareness, reaction time, exposed a kind of weakness I couldnโt outwork.
No matter how hard I tried, my body never responded the way everyone elseโs seemed to. I felt like I was being asked to build a stable life with elastic bands where other people were given rope.
After enough years of that experience, something in me quietly stopped trying.
Not everywhere. Just there.
I realized I could put in enormous effort and still end up with roughly the same P.E. grade as the kid half-heartedly wandering laps around the gym. So eventually, I became that kid instead. The one at the back of the class who didnโt seem invested. The one teachers assumed didnโt care whether they passed.
Stemming from humiliation in trying my hardest while looking like a fool and as though I wasnโt trying at all.
Itโs an incredibly discouraging place for a young person to live.
Some kids are exhausted. Discouraged. In pain. Disconnected from bodies that refuse to cooperate. In retrospect, my body had all the stability of a shopping cart with one bad wheel.
The whole point of physical education is supposedly to encourage lifelong movement and confidence in your body.
Ironically, I now walk everywhere, go to the gym regularly, and deeply value movement. I suspect that may not be the case for those classmates that achieved gold stars for gym class back in the day.
Children are often graded on visible performance without anyone asking what invisible barriers may exist underneath it. ๐ ๐ ๐
And maybe that experience is part of why I later felt drawn toward educational support work. Because I remember exactly what it feels like to be misunderstood in a classroom. To be trying harder than anyone realizes while appearing like you are trying the least.
Some kids are not lazy.
Sometimes what looks like apathy is actually years of silent defeat.
So MuchMore Than Loose Joints
My body has taught me that fragility and resilience are not opposites. Sometimes they exist in the very same tissue.
People often imagine connective tissue disorders as orthopedic inconveniences.
A sore knee. An ankle sprain. Being exceptionally bendy.
Playing twister with my now-26-year-old. Not to brag, but I was very good.
But connective tissue does not politely stay in one department.
It influences how blood vessels constrict and relax. Why standing up can feel like gravity suddenly doubled. Why heart rates race while brushing teeth. Why exhaustion arrives not after effort, but before and during it.
It influences the skin. Fragile, stretchy, slow to heal, easily bruised.
It influences digestion. Because the digestive tract also depends on connective tissue and smooth coordination. Meals become negotiations instead of nourishment.
It influences breathing. Because the rib cage, diaphragm, and tiny structures supporting the lungs are all part of the same interconnected story.
It influences pain. Not only through injuries, but through a nervous system constantly adapting to instability. Muscles tighten to compensate. Fascia braces. The body learns vigilance.
Even sleep can become difficult when the body spends the entire night trying to hold itself together. Some people wake up refreshed. My body wakes up looking like Iโve been assembled with spare parts in low lighting. Like sleep happened near me but not directly to me.
There is loneliness in illness that hides in plain sight.
You may look healthy while internally calculating:
Can my hips handle this chair? Will my spine tolerate the drive? How long before the fatigue crashes in? Is today the day I sustain an injury that sets me back a year?
People see the smile at the gatherings. They do not see the cost afterward.
The Forest Never Demands Symmetry
One of the reasons forest therapy can feel so healing for those with any type of disorders is because the forest does not care about perfection.
Trees twist toward light. Branches split and regrow. Moss softens fallen things instead of condemning them.
In the forest, support is collaborative.
Roots intertwine underground. Fungi trade nutrients between struggling trees. Fallen logs become nourishment for future life. Nothing survives entirely alone.
For people living in bodies that require adaptation, slowness, pacing, and care, the forest offers a radically compassionate model of existence.
Nature does not measure worth.
Walking Practice: โBorrowing Stabilityโ
This forest therapy practice can be done slowly while walking a trail, sidewalk, park path, or even your backyard.
As you walk, notice what in the landscape appears stable.
Perhaps it is:
the rootedness of a tree
the reliability of stone
the rhythm of wind
the resolution of moss growing over rough surfaces
Without forcing positivity, simply observe.
Now begin walking more slowly.
As each foot touches the ground, imagine you are borrowing steadiness from the earth beneath you.
Not fixing yourself. Not overcoming your body. Borrowing support.
You may silently repeat:
Supported. Held. Connected.
If your body hurts while walking, let the practice include that truth instead of resisting it.
Forest therapy is not about pretending discomfort away. It is about allowing yourself to belong exactly as you are.
Pause occasionally and place a hand on a tree trunk, railing, stone wall, or your own chest.
Notice:
What supports you physically?
What supports you emotionally?
What support have you been refusing because you are used to surviving alone?
Continue walking without rushing toward insight.
Sometimes healing begins the moment we stop arguing with our pace.
The Grief No One Talks About
There is grief in becoming intimate with limitation.
Grief when your mind has cheques your connective tissue cannot cash.
Grief when symptoms multiply like unwanted groupies: fatigue, dysautonomia, chronic pain, migraines, digestive problems, instability, inflammation, sensory overwhelm.
Many connective tissue disorders do not travel alone. They tend to arrive in flocks.
Not the polished beauty of wellness culture that insists healing should look photogenic and triumphant. Complete. Universal.
But a quieter beauty.
The beauty of learning to listen deeply to others. The beauty of noticing small joys because large ones became inaccessible. The beauty of becoming tender toward bodies. Your own and othersโ. The beauty of discovering that a meaningful life was never dependent on being free from pain.
I spent years believing my bodyโs limitations were character flaws. Turns out that limiting belief was false. Those limitations have helped me become the person I am.
To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul.
Research continues to show time in forests can help regulate the nervous system, reduce stress hormones, lower heart rate, and support emotional well-being. But for those living with connective tissue disorders, the benefits often go deeper than measurable metrics.
Forest therapy gives permission to:
move slowly
rest without guilt
reconnect with sensory pleasure
soften hypervigilance
leave productivity behind temporarily
remember you are more than symptoms
When the nervous system lives in a constant state of adaptation, gentle sensory experiences matter.
The sound of leaves moving overhead. The coolness of shade on inflamed skin. Birdsong interrupting anxious thoughts. The visual softness of green.
None of these cure a connective tissue disorder.
But they can create moments where the body feels less at war with itself.
And moments matter.
Especially when stitched together over time.
A Beautiful Life Can Still Grow Here
Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. โ Mary Oliver
Living with a connective tissue disorder may mean your life unfolds differently than expected.
More pauses. More recalculating. More adaptation.
But different is not lesser.
Some of the most compassionate people are those whose bodies taught them interdependence.
Some of the most observant souls are those forced to slow down enough to notice life carefully.
The forest reminds us that resilience is not hardness.
Resilience is flexibility. Relationship. Return.
And perhaps that is fitting for people made of connective tissue. Those who understand, more than most, that life is ultimately about connection.
Not perfect strength. Not endless endurance.
Connection.
To the earth. To one another. To moments of beauty that still arrive, even here.
If youโve ever noticed your body relax the moment you step into a quiet natural space, youโve already experienced the vagus nerve at work.
That shift, subtle but undeniable, is your nervous system moving out of protection mode and into restoration. Itโs not โall in your head.โ Itโs 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 itโs technically relaxed but also ready to fight a bear or answer emails (same energy.)
I lived here for years.ย Me ๐๐ผ.
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 โwandering.โ 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, โHey guysโฆ maybe weโre okay?โ ๐คทโโ๏ธย
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 grandkidsโ secrets. 49% air, 50% spit and 1% information. (Toddler secrets are the best ๐)
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? ๐ทย So the message can be clearly sent and secured.
Regulation is not forced. It is invited.
โธป
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.ย
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. ๐โโ๏ธ
When the vagus nerve is underactive (or when sympathetic โfight or flightโ 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.
The forest offers consistent, non-threatening input. No pop ups. No deadlines.
No one asking if youโve โjust tried stretching.โ ๐คฆโโ๏ธ Saints preserve us! Bless them for trying.
Suggested cheeky replies:
โYou have such a unique way of understanding things.โ
โIโm surprised you feel comfortable enough to say that out loud.โ
And then come back to presence. Presence is the language of the vagus nerve.
โธป
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: โLet the Forest Meet Your Sensesโ
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 soundโฆ then the farthestโฆ 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 โfindโ 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 5โ15 minutes. No goal. No outcome to achieve. Just sensory conversation.
Stillness is not emptyโit is full of signals your body understands.
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 โdoingโ to โreceivingโ
Over time, these experiences build what is called vagal tone. Your nervous systemโs ability to return to a state of calm after stress.
And with improved vagal tone, the body becomes less reactiveโฆ and more resilient.
โธป
The Paradox of Stillness
There are people who donโt 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.
Iโve walked with someone like this before, someone whose body trusted movement far more than pause.
So we didnโt 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 wasnโt what happened, but what didnโt.
The expected spike in tension didnโt 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 wasnโt 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 didnโt erase the pain.
But it introduced a different relationship to it.
This kind of experience doesnโt feel like much until you realize your body stopped arguing with itself. And when youโre used to those arguments lasting 2-3 business days, the silence is sweetly deafening.ย
And when the nervous system experiences even a brief interruption to its usual pattern, it begins to update its expectations.
And thatโs where change begins. Not in dramatic shifts, but in quiet moments where the body realizes:
this isnโt unfolding the way I thought it would.
Itโs better.
โธป
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 intoโit 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.
Thereโs a quiet crossroads that people with chronic pain arrive at again and again.
In the small, ordinary moments of a day.
When your body says no again. When plans have to be cancelled. When energy runs out before the day even begins.
And at that crossroads, thereโs a choice. Not one I have always recognized. It begins with this question.
What will I do with this pain?
Not why do I have it? Not how do I fix it?
Butโฆ what can I make out of it? Today.
In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.
โ Albert Einstein
Pain, especially chronic pain, has a way of shrinking life if we let it.
It narrows what feels possible. It redraws the edges of our days.
And to be clear. This is not about pretending pain is a gift. It isnโt.
If it were, most of us would politely decline and slide it right back across the table. Thanks but no thanks.
Itโs hard. Itโs exhausting. Itโs unfair.
You are not here to be the perfect, inspiring example of someone who is chronically ill and somehow always positive.
But there is a difference between:
pain that isolates and
pain that becomes a bridge
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.
โ Kahlil Gibran
Anyone that knows me knows how much I adore my grandkids.
We live in the same house, which means I get to be part of their everyday world. If it were up to my heart, Iโd spend all my time with them.
But my energy doesnโt always agree with my heart.
Today, my grandson wants to go โhwimming.โ
And I want to go with him.
But I already have one โbig thingโ on my list today. And my body has made it abundantly clear, thereโs room for one big thingโฆ or a few small ones.
Not both. Never both! My body is many things, but it is not a reasonable negotiator.
The frustrating part? This is actually an improvement from recent years.
And stillโฆ it stings.
ELPIS– Greek (n) A quiet, persistent hope, even in dark times. It is the last light that refuses to go out, the promise that tomorrow still holds room for healing.
This is the crossroads.
I can let that moment turn into frustration, guilt, or the quiet grief of what I wish I could do.
Orโฆ
I can choose something else.
Maybe I sit with him while he plays. Maybe I listen to him sing from downstairs ๐ซ โค๏ธ . Maybe I ask him to snuggle.
Maybe I let myself feel both things at once:
I wish I could go. And Iโm still here.
Still loving him. Still part of his world. Still showing up. Just in a different way than I would choose, but a real one.
This probably seems trivial. It is. But a lifetime of lost trivial things somehow adds up over time. A succession of lost opportunities. Striking the same chord vibrating that heart string that is still inflamed from the previous strike.
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
โ Kahlil Gibran
Pain doesnโt just take.
Sometimes, quietly, over time, it teaches.
It teaches you how to notice what others miss. How to sit with someone without trying to fix them. How to love in ways that arenโt loud or impressive but steady and real.
How to recognize pain in others.
And some days, it teaches you how to lower your expectations to what is possible instead of what is perfect. The real over the ideal.
A forest therapy practice: โFollow What Still Movesโ
On days when your body feels limited, this is an invitation to gently reconnect with possibility.
Step outside. Your yard, a park, or even just one tree.
Begin a slow, wandering walk. No destination.
Let your attention be drawn to movement:
leaves shifting
branches swaying
light flickering
birds moving through space
When something catches your eye, pause and gently mirror it:
shift your weight like the tree in the wind
slowly move your hand like a branch
turn your head to follow light or shadow
Rest whenever your body asks.
This isnโt about pushing through pain.
Itโs about remembering,
Even when parts of you feel stuckโฆ life is still moving.
Thereโs a moment. Itโs often quiet, sometimes overwhelming. When emotion first arrives in the body.
It might feel like a tightening in the chest. A wave of heat. A heaviness behind the eyes. A sudden drop in the stomach.
Something Iโm learning? When this happens, nothing has gone wrong. My body is simply giving me information.
Experiencing big emotions is not a failure of regulation, character, or strength. It is part of being human.
Especially for those living with chronic pain, where the body is already speaking loudly, emotions often arrive amplified and harder to ignore, harder to name, harder to hold.
But after that first signal comes something powerful.
Choice.
Not whether you feel the emotion. But how you respond to it.
As Daniel Chidiac teaches, Not every emotion needs a reactionโbut every emotion deserves acknowledgment.
โธป
The Story We Tell After the Feeling
On the Better Than Happy podcast, Jody Moore offers a perspective that can feel both freeing and confronting.
Anger is optional.
Disappointment is optional.
Embarrassment is optional.
Humiliation is optional.
Not because we can simply turn emotions off. But because these emotions are often shaped by the meaning we assign to our experiences. Have you experienced any of the following?
You have been dismissed by a medical professional, again.
You didnโt reach the goal.
Someone saw you struggle.
Something didnโt go as planned.
Those are just events. Although they feel huge in the moment.
Disappointment enters when the mind adds the story.
โThis means something is wrong with me.โ
Embarrassment grows when the thoughts spiral into shame.
โThey must be judging me.โ
โI look foolish.โ
โI am foolish.โ
And hereโs the important nuance.
These emotions are optional. But not wrong.
Youโre allowed to feel them. Youโre also allowed to question them.
Nothing ambitious. Just a smidgen at a time. Slow and steady. The way Iโve learned my body needs things to be. Experience has taught me that enthusiasm and capacity are not the same thing.
But then life showed up.
The everyday mess. The dishes. The door in my room that was in desperate need of a good wipe down. The quiet realization that I couldnโt do both.
I had to choose. My body, which had just clocked in was now requesting a lunch break.
And then the grandkids came to โhelp.โ Which, as you can imagine, added more chaos than progress. At this point the mess was winning. And multiplying.
The vacuum stopped working. My arms started to burn.
And just like that, the thoughts came rushing in.
Iโll never catch up.
My house will always feel like this.
Why canโt I just keep up like everyone else?
Because, obviously, one unfinished chore means a lifetime of failure. ๐ฃ
I could see it happening, the spiral. I wasnโt unaware.
But stopping it? That took effort. A surprising amount of effort.
Excuse me while I parent my dramatic inner narrator.
Because even as part of me recognized what was happening, another part was pushing me harder.
Just keep going.
Finish what you started.
If you donโt do it now, it will never get done.
False. What was actually true was much simpler and much harder to accept in the moment.
I was tired. I was in pain. I needed to stop.
My body wasnโt failing me. It was asking me to listen.
And the real choice in that moment wasnโt about dishes or doors.
But this.
Do I keep pushing to meet an expectation I set for myselfโฆ or do I take care of myself?
Eventually, I chose to stop.
Not because everything was done. But because I was.
And that shift didnโt magically clean my house. But it did something more important. It brought me back to myself and my priorities.
Because your nervous system is already working overtime. Because your body has taught you that signals matter and often signal threat. ( If you want to learn how forest therapy supports the nervous system, check this out -> Mending Your Nervous System With Forest Therapy)
Pain doesnโt just exist in isolation. It interacts with emotion, memory, and meaning.
A flare-up can quickly become:
โIโll never get better.โ
โMy body is failing me.โ
โI canโt live the life I want.โ
This is where emotional dysregulation can take hold, much like how Brenรฉ Brown describes it:
Being overwhelmed by feelings that are hard to name and contain, driving behaviors and thinking that donโt align with who we want to be.
And suddenly, weโre not just in pain.
Weโre in a story about what that pain means.
Your body speaks in sensation. Your mind speaks in meaning. Learn to tell the difference.
Brenรฉ Brown shares a powerful story about recovering from injury and trying to engage muscles that simply wouldnโt respond. Her therapist kept reminding her to โfind your ground.โ
But she couldnโt feel it. She couldnโt even find her lats.
She was using her body while being disconnected from it.
That disembodiment, that moving without understanding, existing without connection, is deeply familiar for those with chronic pain.
You expect your body to respond one way. It betrays your expectations. Every time.
And over time, many people stop listening to their bodies with curiosity and start bracing against them with resistance.
Until one simple but profound instruction emerges.
Find your ground.
Not just physically. Energetically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
If youโre trying to find your way back to yourself, back into your body, the answer isnโt usually one big solution.
Itโs small, grounding practices.
Journalling. Meditation. Art. Spiritual connection. Time in nature.
Each one opens a door.
Forest therapy is where those doors meet, creating a space that supports not just awareness, but true reconnection.
โธป
The Tree as Teacher
In The Secret Therapy of Trees, Marco Mencagli and Marco Nieri describe the trunk of a tree as something remarkably similar to the human core.
It is a channel of connection. A stabilizing structure. A vital center.
If damaged, the whole system struggles.
Like the human torso, home to breath, circulation, and strength, the treeโs trunk is both anchor and conduit.
And yet, trees do something we often forget to do. They remain rooted while experiencing everything.
Wind. Storm. Drought. Seasonal loss.
They do not avoid conditions. They adapt within them.
โธป
What Actually Matters (Hint: Itโs Not the Dishes)
Another truth worth holding onto.
You cannot overestimate the unimportance of practically everything.
So much of what consumes our emotional energy, what people think, whether we looked polished, whether everything went perfectly, is, in the grand arc of a life, remarkably small.
This Spring is literally that friend who always says they’re, ‘on their way’ but hasn’t even left the house yet.
As a forest therapy guide, I spend my days watching the silent, slow-motion choreography of the woods. I see trees that have been bent by storms, scarred by fire, or crowded by neighbors. Yet, in the quiet of the understory, there is a profound truth that the forest whispers to those who listen.ย
A tree does not blame the wind for its lean; it simply grows where the light is.
In our human lives, we often find ourselves stuck in a thicket of blame. When we face chronic pain, illness, or the heavy consequences of past decisions, it is easy to retreat into a victim narrative.
We point to our circumstances, our upbringing, or our luck as the sole architects of our current reality.
But staying in that space is like a sapling trying to grow in the permanent shadow of a fallen log. It is exhausting, and eventually, it leads to stagnation.
The Forest of Our Making
Even when we are navigating the complex terrain of chronic conditions, we must recognize that our current reality is, in part, a map of the choices we have made. This is not about shame or self-flagellation. In fact, it is the opposite. To own our choices is to reclaim our agency.ย
To be clear. This is not to say that our choices have caused our chronic condition. (Despite what medical professionals tell us.) There is a level of listening to our bodies that leads to health and healing. But the way you have lived life is not always the answer to why your body has chosen this course of action. Often this is out of our hands.ย
Or as the 17th-century Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza noted:
The more you struggle to live, the less you live. Give up the notion that you must be sure of what you are doing. Instead, surrender to what is real within you.
This โsaving of circumstanceโ begins with the radical act of ownership. When we look back and see the moments where we acted to the best of our ability, even if those actions led to mistakes, we begin to see our humanity not as a flaw, but as a shared condition. We have all stumbled. We have all misread the trail. But there is no medicine in shame, and there is no repair in blame.
Rooted Connections: The Nervous System as Fertile Ground
For those living with chronic pain, this shift from victimhood to ownership is more than a psychological pivot; it is a physiological necessity. Our nervous systems are like the forest floor. A complex, sensitive network that requires the right conditions to repair and thrive.
When we are stuck in blame or victim mode, our system remains in a state of high alert (the sympathetic โfight or flightโ response). This internal friction creates a โnoisyโ environment where the body cannot easily access its natural repair mechanisms. By owning our choices, we create a clearing. We allow the โrest and digestโ (parasympathetic) system to take the lead.
Just as the forest brings our nervous systems to a natural state of regulation through phytoncides and fractal patterns, the act of self-forgiveness and ownership brings our internal landscape to rest. It provides the space required for the nervous system to settle and begin the slow work of repair.
A Forest Therapy Practice
The โStone and Streamโ Invitation
To help move through these human emotions with strength and confidence, I invite you to try this practice, whether you are in a literal forest or simply sitting by a window.
1. Find Your Anchor: Find a place where you can sit or stand comfortably. Notice the weight of your body.
2. The Stone of Choice: Pick up a small stone (or imagine one). Hold it in your hand. Let this stone represent a choice you have made that you currently carry with weight. Perhaps one you have blamed yourself or others for. Feel its texture, its coldness, its reality.
3. The Stream of Time: Look at a moving part of nature. A stream, the wind in the leaves, or even the movement of clouds. Recognize that like the water, time has moved on. The choice happened, but you are here now.
4. The Offering: Place the stone down. Not with a sense of getting rid of it, but with a sense of placing it in the landscape. Say to yourself: โThis was my choice. I acted with the knowledge I had. I am human, and I am here.โ
5. The New Growth: Notice a small sign of life. This is your next action. Trust in your experience. Trust that you can act again, informed by the past but not imprisoned by it.
Embracing the Quest
As Baruch Spinoza noted in his correspondence:
All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.
Owning our lives is an excellent thing. It is difficult because it requires us to look at our mistakes without blinking. But it is rare because it is the only path to true strength. And not everybody finds it.
When we own our choices, we stop fighting the terrain and start walking it. We move from a place of โwhy is this happening to me?โ to โthis is where I am, and this is how I choose to grow.โ In that shift, the nervous system finally finds the quiet it has been searching for. Just like the forest, we are always in a state of becoming.
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 Saskatchewanโs subtle, โPsyche!โ Mother Nature really needs to work on her comedic timing. Itโs not funny anymore.
Mother Nature ๐
Us ๐
Thereโs a particular kind of discouragement that settles in with such a turn. Itโs 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 โout of order.โ
Itโs 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 โsomeday I shouldโ checklist, and suddenly itโs interrupted, just as you were finding your rhythm again. That’s its own unique setback.
And if you live here, you know winter isnโt a one act play. It lingers. Itโs heavy. It tests you in ways that often go unseen. The cold that steals your breath before youโve 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 โjust get through this.โ
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? Youโre 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 thenโฆ 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; Iโm flying. Fall grants another five without much effort. And winter? Winter sends me back twenty-five. Every single time. Honestly, at this point, Iโd like a word with the game designer. Iโm pretty sure theyโre hoarding all the โGet Out of Jail Freeโ cards. Because it often feels like Iโm 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 doesnโt play that game. The trees arenโt measuring progress by who wins and who loses. They arenโt frustrated by yesterdayโs fleeting warmth. They arenโt disappointed because spring almost arrived then left.ย
When growing conditions are not ideal, trees slow down their growth and devote their energy to the basic elements necessary for survivalโฆ 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 whatโs unfolding out there right now. Nothing has gone backward. It is simply waiting for its time. Using this time to focus on whatโs beneath the surface.
Perhaps I can learn something there. When the timing I had planned doesnโt work out, thereโs likely a good reason. I can still find the ways to grow whatโs beneath the surface until the time is right.
Jody Moore speaks of the โriver of discomfort.โ The idea that we spend so much energy trying to stay on the banks, avoiding anything hard, cold, or limiting. But true growth doesnโt happen on the edge. It happens when youโre immersed in it.
When you stop fighting the current and allow it to move around you, even when itโs 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 donโt always navigate it gracefully.
Sometimes Iโm less โzen master floating downstreamโ and more โflailing raccoon caught in a current.โ Sometimes I resist. Sometimes I push. Sometimes Iโm frustrated to find myself โback here again.โ
But perhaps Iโm not returning to something amiss. Perhaps this isnโt 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
โธป
A Forest Therapy Practice:Exploring the Depths
You donโt need to venture far for this. You donโt 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, โWhy isnโt this getting better?โ try asking, โWhat might be needed for healing to take place here?โ
You donโt need an immediate answer. Just let the question settle. Andโฆ wait there with a small flicker of hope. No pressure. Just a quiet willingness to believe that something is still unfolding.
โธป
Try returning to this thought:
What if winter isnโt taking me backward?
What if itโs building something I couldnโt cultivate any other way?
Something slower. Something steadier. Something that wonโt 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) Iโm beginning to wonder if I wonโt actually be further ahead than I now imagine. Even if the board game of life never quite shows it.
March in Saskatchewan is a master of disguise๐ฅธ. And every year I am hoodwinked! *shakes fist*
The sun shows up brilliant and convincing. Like itโs finally time! ๐ ๐ฑ
You start to believe itโฆ๐ ๐ until the wind pelts you in the face and reminds you this is far from over ๐ฌ๏ธ๐ฅถ๐ข. ย
Honestly it feels like false advertising.
And somehow, thatโs not even the hardest part.
Every time I open social media my algorithm pulls an ultimate betrayal of trust and I end up watching everyone else step into spring. Bare ankles, running shoes, patios, fresh air that doesnโt hurt to breathe. I gotta say, Iโm a little jealous. ๐ก
Meanwhile, weโre still in boots and three layers. Bracing against the bitter cold.
It creates this quiet kind of rage.
Not just for warmer weatherโฆ
but for things to finally feel easier. Movement. Outdoor gear. Shivering. It all exacerbates the physical restrictions I am already battling.
โธป
Chasing the Unquenchable Longing ๐โโ๏ธ
Lately, Iโve realized that same feeling exists in my body too.
The desire to wake up and just go.
To follow through on plans.
To make goals and have a say over the outcome.
To move through the day without pain.
To go nap- free after an event and still pass as human.
To feel like Iโve rejoined the human race.
But I donโt make the rules. And my body isnโt in a state to join in any races.ย
Not against the clock.
Or expectations.
Or the version of life I thought Iโd be living right now.
Itโs asking for something completely different. My broad assessment is that every body is asking for something different than this โhuman racing.โ
Calm.
Quiet.
Attention.
Harmony.
Tranquility.
Stillness.
If youโve just tuned in. This is me in my slow- stroll era. A far cry from my past 100mph- blur era.
Nowadays is more comparable to a long drawn out forest walk.
โธป
A Shift in the Sands of Seasons
The other day, the sun was spilling in. The kind that makes you think, ๐ต Oh, what a beautiful morning.
So I put on a jean jacket and vest and went outside determined to feel the sun on my skin.
But within moments, the cold wind cut through my pathetic outer wear, and my body pushed back. Pain hit. Energy disappeared. Cramping like Iโve just run a marathon and forgot to stretch ensued. Then that familiar irritation right under the surface.
I thought,
Whatโs the hold up?
Yet instead of pushing harder, I tried something different.
I slowed down. I found another way.ย I went inside.
I sat by the window to feel the warmth of the sun (if not its actual rays).ย
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 yetโฆ 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 itโs changing?
The answer is not dramatic. It is steady.
Forest therapy does not promise cure. It doesnโt offer โcomplete and totally done with it all ๐๐ผ๐๐ผ๐๐ผ .โ
Thatโs 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?
๐ฒ โCan forest therapy help chronic pain?โ
As someone who lives with chronic pain, I donโt 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 hadnโt 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 thatโs 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 couldnโt go as far as Iโd planned. I couldnโt โachieveโ 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, โWhen will I be better?โ And started asking, โHow do I live well from this place?โ
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.
๐ฒ โHow do you practice forest therapy in winter?โ
Winter forest therapy isnโt about long hikes. Itโs 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 doesnโt 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 youโve seen is a spark.
That spark will become a light. That light will become a beam.
That beam becomes you, reflecting what youโve learned onto someone else.
๐ฟ A Simple Winter Forest Therapy Practice
Trusting the Season (10โ15 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.
๐ฒ What Makes Forest Therapy Different From Hiking?
Hiking is about distance. Forest therapy is about experiencing relationships.
You donโt 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. Itโs 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.
๐ฉถ If youโre 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.๐ฒโจ
The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.
SUNBEAM ACRES 