Inside me, the Protector, the Wounded Child, the Survivor, and the Healer all dance in a quiet circle. Each one longs to be seen, to be heard, to be held. And when I finally stop to witness them, their chaos becomes a rhythm… and their rhythm becomes my healing. -recoverytrauma.ltd
I heard something recently that has been rolling around in my head. It was a conversation about worry versus wisdom.
The idea was that worry keeps us stuck, while wisdom keeps us moving.
One of the concepts was this, sometimes we feel stuck because we want two things that can’t exist at the same time.
I want to be healthy, but I don’t want to change anything.
I want to feel better, but I don’t want to slow down.
I want to have more energy, but I don’t want to give anything up.
I want my nervous system to settle, but I keep filling every available minute.
And with chronic pain, there can be a whole extra layer of this.
I want to do the things I used to do, but my body can’t always do them.
I want to feel better, but I can’t control whether I have a good pain day or a terrible one.
I want answers, but sometimes there are no tidy solutions.
So I worry. I think. I analyze. I replay. I predict. (I’m actually a delight. But you wouldn’t know it because I’m so tired and irritated all the time.)
I consider every possible scenario until my brain has apparently opened approximately 47 tabs, and none of them are helpful.
And somewhere in all of that thinking, I can become very, very stuck.
But then I look at my grandkids.
They might know something I have forgotten.
They don’t spend nearly as much time worrying about what happened yesterday or what might happen tomorrow.
They deal with right now.
If they’re hungry, they eat.
If they’re tired, they lie down.
If they see a bug, suddenly that bug is the most fascinating creature on Earth.
If someone says something funny, they laugh.
If they fall down, they may cry. And then, remarkably, five minutes later they’re deeply invested in something completely unrelated.
They don’t seem to spend a lot of time thinking:
I really shouldn’t have fallen down yesterday.
Or:
What if I fall down again tomorrow?
They are busy being where their feet are. Kids have a PhD in being where their feet are. (Wise little beings.)
Not because the past doesn’t matter. Not because the future doesn’t matter.
But because this moment is the only one I can actually do anything with.
And I think that is part of the difference between worry and wisdom.
Worry keeps asking:
What if?
Wisdom asks:
What now?
What if I stopped trying to solve tomorrow?
One of the things I love about forest therapy is that nature gives me a place to practice being present.
Not by sitting perfectly still and trying to empty my mind.
My brain 🧠- Director of Unnecessary Mental Load 🪪
Instead, I can go outside and let my attention wander.
I call this a sensory wander.
Rather than walking with a destination in mind, I slow down and follow whatever catches my attention.
Maybe it’s the shape of a leaf.
The sound of something moving in the grass.
The smell of wet earth.
A tree with strange bark.
The way sunlight hits one little patch of moss.
A bird I can’t identify.
A spider web I would have walked right past.
I don’t have to figure anything out.
I don’t have to make the experience meaningful.
I don’t have to turn it into a lesson.
I just notice.
What has my attention right now?
Then I follow that.
And when something else catches my attention, I follow that instead.
It’s quite simple.
I don’t have to live three days ago. I don’t have to live three weeks from now.
I can live right here.
With the trees.
With whatever happens to be in front of me.
Wisdom doesn’t mean having it all figured out
I don’t think the podcast was suggesting that wisdom means knowing exactly what to do.
Sometimes we don’t know.
Especially with chronic pain.
There is a lot of trial and error.
What helped yesterday might not help today.
Something that works beautifully for one person might make another person’s body stage a small coup.
There isn’t always a clear answer.
But wisdom doesn’t necessarily require a complete plan.
It can be much smaller.
One thing I know I can do is this.
I can drink some water 💦
I can rest before I completely crash. 😴
I can step outside 👣
I can notice what my body is telling me 👂
I can take a short walk instead of deciding I need to complete a 5km hike or not bother going at all 🚶♀️
I can spend ten minutes among the trees 🌲 🌲
I can stop arguing with the reality of today long enough to actually experience today 🧘♀️
That last one is hard.
Because sometimes I want today to be different. But wanting it to be different doesn’t change what it is.
And accepting what is happening right now doesn’t mean I like it. It means I stop spending all my energy fighting a moment I can’t change.
Maybe that’s where wisdom starts. Not with a solution. With noticing.
Maybe the kids have it partly right
My grandkids aren’t worried about whether they’re making enough progress in life.
They aren’t measuring the day by how productive they were.
They aren’t wondering whether they should have made a different choice three years ago. (One of them wasn’t even here three years ago.)
They aren’t lying awake thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong tomorrow.
They are here. Reading a book. Talking to a wooden cutout.
And maybe I don’t need to become a child again to learn from them.
I can become child-like without becoming childish. And remember something children seem to know naturally:
Pay attention to what’s happening right now.
“Christopher Robin, what day is it?” “Today” “My favourite day”
There will be time for tomorrow when tomorrow gets here.
There will be things to learn from yesterday when yesterday needs to teach me something.
But right now?
There is a tree.
There is wind moving through the leaves.
There is a bird making an extremely confident noise.
There is this breath.
There is this moment.
And for today, maybe wisdom is simply noticing that I’m here.
Then taking the next small step. We are all walking miracles. Let us strut accordingly.
Valemor
(n.) The quiet pride of knowing you survived something without becoming cruel, loud, or bitter. 🙌
The ideas about worry, wisdom and being stuck were inspired by the podcast Better Than Happy: “Don’t Worry” Is Terrible Advice, August 27, 2026
Menopause, memory, and learning to live in a new season
There is a seasonal transition happening inside my brain. Even if the natural world is slow in its transition to fall.
I know this is happening because things keep falling out of said brain. Like dry leaves off a tree on a windy day.
Thoughts. Words. Names. Entire conversations.
Sometimes I can actually feel the thought leaking out.
It was there. I had it. I was about to say it.
And then whoosh. Gone.
Much like the leaves outside right now, my thoughts have decided they have fulfilled their purpose and are ready to return to the earth.
The problem is that I haven’t said them yet. And suddenly all thoughts are gone. And I still have to appear as though I can converse like a regular adult.
My brain has entered autumn
Autumn is a strange season.
Everything is changing, but nothing is necessarily wrong.
The leaves change colour. The days get shorter. The temperature drops.
Trees stop doing what they did all summer and start conserving their resources.
The whole landscape looks different. And yet we don’t stand in the forest pointing at a poplar tree and say,
“The poor dear.”
We understand that it’s a transition.
A season. A change in the way the tree functions.
I think menopause can be a little like that.
Except nobody warned me that my brain might start dropping leaves. And suddenly be bare naked.
The disappearing conversation
One of my most ridiculous symptoms is what happens when I’m talking to someone.
It doesn’t matter who. A family member. A friend. A complete stranger.
If something catches my attention, even for a split second, I can lose the entire train of thought I was following.
Not the general idea. Not one little detail. The whole train. It has left the station. Immediately derailed. No survivors.
So I’m standing there looking at another human being vacantly and frantically wondering:
What was I talking about?Two seconds ago!
I imagine this does very little for the other person’s confidence in my abilities as a functioning member of society.
That’s fair.
If someone did that to me, I’d probably wonder if I should quietly take their car keys.
Then there was Nemo.
The other day I was telling my mom a story about a friend. In front of this friend.
Except I had ALL of the facts mixed up.
I got basically every piece of information wrong.
This friend, sitting there while I told the story corrected me.
I continued. She corrected me again. I continued. She corrected me again.
Five corrections in three sentences?!?
It gave strong Finding Nemo vibes. Remember when Dory is telling a school of fish passing by about Nemo while Marlin repeatedly corrects her?
“His son Fabio” “Nemo” “Nemo. Right.” “His son.” “Nemo.”
It was basically this scene. Except this time I was Dory, my friend was Marlin, and my mom was the poor unsuspecting school of fish.
I was one correction away from jumping in the lake.
There are days when my brain is so foggy from medication, exhaustion, hormones, or some magical combination of all three that I sound less like regular Dory and more like Dory speaking whale.
I think it’s important to laugh.
Because if I don’t laugh, I might start Googling early-onset dementia every time I forget the name of a friend I’ve had for 20 some years.
I’m not broken.
This is the part I wish more women heard. I’m not broken. And neither are you.
We are not pathetic. Ridiculous. Deficient.
Brain fog is a real and common experience during the menopause transition.
The Menopause Society reports that roughly 40–60% of midlife women experience cognitive symptoms, including forgetfulness, difficulty concentrating, distractibility and trouble finding words. These changes can be frightening because they can feel like something really serious is happening.
But the cognitive changes typically associated with the menopause transition should be mild, and dementia at midlife is rare. (The Menopause Society)
That doesn’t mean we’re imagining it. Or that our challenging experience isn’t valid.
And it doesn’t mean we should simply shrug and say, “Oh well. I’m old now.”
No. Our brains are changing.
There can be a loss of confidence that comes with this.
You know you’re capable. You’ve spent decades accumulating knowledge and experience.
You’ve solved problems. Raised children. Built careers. Managed households. Made decisions.
Remembered 47,000 things nobody else even noticed needed remembering. And then suddenly you’re getting an Error 404 message every time you try to access the frontal brain.
Or you’re halfway through a sentence and all suitable words abandon you in an ultimate betrayal of trust.
Or someone is looking at you while you desperately try to retrieve the thought that was just there.
And you start wondering:
Am I losing it?
There is an actual biological reason for this.
Estrogen receptors are widely distributed throughout the brain, including areas involved in memory, mood and other cognitive functions. During perimenopause, estrogen levels can fluctuate considerably before eventually settling at a much lower level after menopause. Research has found changes in brain structure, energy metabolism and blood flow during this transition, particularly in areas involved in memory and executive function. (The Menopause Society)
And then there are all the other things menopause can throw into the mix.
Hot flashes. Night sweats. Poor sleep. Anxiety. Mood changes. Stress. Fatigue. 💀
All of those things can make it harder to concentrate and remember.
So sometimes the problem isn’t that your brain has forgotten how to work.
Sometimes your brain is working while simultaneously dealing with approximately seventeen other things.
No wonder it occasionally says,
“You know what? I’m putting this thought down and walking away.”
But it could work on its timing.
Disclaimer: If something is interfering with your ability to work, function, communicate or enjoy your life, it’s worth talking to a healthcare professional. Especially if the changes are sudden, severe, progressively worsening, or feel very different from your usual brain fog.
The invisible part
I think the hardest part isn’t always the forgetting.
It’s what the forgetting can do to your confidence.
Because women are still expected to function.
We still have jobs. Families. Parents. Grandchildren. Appointments. Bills. Groceries. Passwords.
We have spent decades proving that we’re capable.
Then suddenly we can’t remember the word we have used approximately 900 times in our lives.
And that can mess with your head.
You begin wondering whether other people notice. Whether they think you’re less capable. Whether they’re quietly questioning you. Whether you’re losing something you aren’t going to get back.
That fear is hard. And so is the embarrassment.
Experiencing brain fog does not mean you’ve become less intelligent.
It doesn’t erase everything you’ve learned. It doesn’t erase your competence. It doesn’t erase the person you have spent your entire life becoming.
You are not broken.
You are living through a biological transition that can affect the way your brain functions.
That’s very different.
My experience is a little more complicated than the average menopause story. Perhaps yours is too.
Mine was surgical menopause, so there wasn’t a gradual transition. My ovaries were removed and my body went from producing its usual supply of hormones to suddenly having to figure out life without them.
I also had a bad reaction when I tried hormone replacement therapy, so that isn’t an option for me. Which means some of the symptoms that can be mildly annoying for one woman can feel like they’ve been turned up to eleven for me.
The brain fog, the temperature swings, the sleep disruption, the whole neurological circus can be a lot 😵 . I’m not saying that for sympathy. It’s simply part of the landscape I’m learning to navigate.
And then there’s the fact that I generally look fine.
That’s the slightly ridiculous thing about invisible conditions.
From the outside, I look like a perfectly ordinary woman going about her day. You can’t see the pain, the nervous system overload, the fatigue, the brain fog, or the amount of energy it can take just to appear like a functioning adult.
Add menopause to the mix and there’s even more happening behind the scenes that nobody can see.
Until I overheat.
Then suddenly my body’s commitment to being discreet completely falls apart.
I can go from looking perfectly normal to sweating so profusely that I resemble the co-pilot in the movie Airplane. Ridiculously conspicuous, completely unable to pretend everything is fine. As the sweating and heat achieve new heights people wonder what’s happening. While I am left wondering if anyone has a towel.
It’s almost impressive. If it weren’t so disgusting.
And there is something isolating about looking fine when you don’t feel fine. People naturally respond to what they can see.
If you look healthy, capable and put together, it’s easy for everyone, including yourself, to forget how much work is happening underneath the surface.
So yes, I might look fine. My brain might seem fine. My body might look fine.
And yet sometimes the inside is working through some stuff.
The forest doesn’t panic when the leaves fall
This is one of the reasons I keep coming back to the forest.
The forest is remarkably good at transitions. It doesn’t fight autumn. Or apologize for losing its leaves.
It doesn’t stand there trying to tape them back onto the branches. It lets them go.
And then it changes how it spends its energy.
There is something I need to learn from that. Because when my brain isn’t behaving the way it used to, my first instinct can be to push harder.
Try harder. Remember harder. Concentrate harder. Be more productive. Fix it. Get back to normal.
But I don’t think this season is asking me to get back to normal. I hear it asking me to learn a new normal.
That doesn’t mean accepting every symptom without question.
It doesn’t mean ignoring significant changes or assuming everything is menopause.
New, severe or progressively worsening cognitive symptoms deserve that conversation with a healthcare professional.
Then there’s forest therapy.
***Forest therapy does not replace medical care.***
But i have found it to be an effective tool for managing some of the symptoms that can accompany menopause.
Numinous
(Adj) the feeling that something sacred and mysterious is present in nature.
So what can the forest actually do?
A forest can’t restore my estrogen. It can’t remember Fabio’s name for me. It can’t make a hot flash disappear on command.
And it definitely can’t stop me from walking into a room and immediately forgetting why I’m there.
But it can give my nervous system a break from the constant demand to perform.
Forest bathing research has found short-term reductions in cortisol and other indicators associated with stress (PubMed)
And that matters because stress, poor sleep, anxiety and other menopause symptoms can all pile onto cognitive difficulties.
Sometimes managing the environment around the symptom is useful, even when you can’t eliminate the symptom itself.
The forest gives us an opportunity to slow down.
To pay attention without having to accomplish anything.
To move gently.
To breathe.
To notice.
To let the nervous system come down a notch.
And sometimes that is enough to make the brain feel a little less like the squirrels are running the office. 🐿️ 🥜
Try a seasonal brain reset
The next time your brain feels particularly autumnal, find somewhere outside where you can sit comfortably.
You don’t need a spectacular trail. A backyard will do. A park. A quiet corner under a tree.
Then try something I call Let the Leaves Fall.
Sit somewhere you can see a tree. Don’t try to clear your mind.
That is entirely too much pressure for a brain that currently can’t remember what it was doing three seconds ago.
Instead, notice the tree. Look at the leaves. Find one that is still attached. Find one that has fallen. Notice the movement. The colour. The texture. The spaces between the branches.Then notice your own body.
Where are your shoulders? Your jaw? Your hands? Your feet?
Take a slow breath and feel your feet against the ground.
Then ask yourself:
What am I holding onto that I don’t need to solve right now?
You don’t need an answer. That’s the point. Let the question sit there. Let your thoughts come and go without chasing them.
If a thought disappears, let it. If another one arrives, notice it.
You’re not trying to force your brain back into summer. You’re practicing being present in autumn. And that’s what regulation sometimes looks like.
Not fixing. Not forcing. Not fighting.
Just creating enough safety and quiet that your brain doesn’t have to work quite so hard.
Every season asks something different of us
The forest reminds me that change doesn’t always mean decline.
A tree losing its leaves isn’t dying.
It’s adapting. Resting. Reallocating. Preparing for what’s next.
Maybe we can offer ourselves the same grace. I don’t need to be embarrassed every time I lose a thought. I can simply say,
“Hang on. My brain just sprung a leak.”
And laugh.
I can ask someone to remind me what I was saying without assuming they’ve lost faith in my ability to function.
I can stop measuring this version of myself against the woman I was before my hormones decided to rearrange the furniture.
And maybe, when my brain won’t brain, I can remember:
I’m not broken.
I’m in a season of change. The leaves are falling. The landscape looks different.
Some things are harder. Some things may need more rest. Some things may need more support.
And some things might surprise me by growing in ways I couldn’t see coming.
I don’t have to love every part of the season. But I can learn to live in it.
And maybe, every once in a while, I can go sit beneath a tree and let the forest remind me that changing doesn’t mean failing.
It just means the season changed. And so did my memory.
I hear the word retreat and my brain starts packing a bag.
Preferably for somewhere with trees, a mountain, a few trails and nobody asking me what’s for dinner.
A retreat sounds lovely.
It also sounds like something that requires time, money, planning, a reservation, and quite possibly a whole new wardrobe.
But what if retreat doesn’t have to be a big event?
What if it can be ten minutes? A half hour? Or an afternoon?
What if you don’t have to go anywhere?
I’ve been reading Caroline Sylge’s How to Retreat, and I love the idea that retreat can be much more accessible than we tend to make it. A retreat can be a deliberate step away from the noise of ordinary life, and it can look very different depending on what you need.
Which got me thinking about a question I probably need to ask myself more often:
What does my soul need today?
Not what does my calendar say? Not what am I behind on? Not what would make me feel impressively productive?
What does my soul need today?
And sometimes the answer is surprisingly simple.
Āloka
Sanskrit and Pali. Meaning light, brightness, vision or enlightenment. When something inside you finally becomes clear.
Yesterday, apparently, my soul needed to get rained on.
I woke up thinking I should go to the gym.
That meant walking there, working out, and walking home again.
Then I looked outside. It was cloudy and raining.
My immediate response was something along the lines of, Excellent. Perhaps I shall simply allow these blankets to absorb me.
But eventually I got myself moving. Rain gear on. Out the door.
Only a few minutes from home, I noticed something. I was enjoying the rain. I could feel it on my hands. I could hear it hitting my hood. The air smelled different. The whole world seemed quieter.
By the time I reached the gym, I was more than ready to move.
I hadn’t needed to convince myself. I just needed to get outside long enough for my nervous system to catch up with the plan.
Sometimes we don’t need a retreat just a walk in the rain on the way to the gym. And sometimes we need the gym.
That’s the tricky thing about asking what your soul needs.
The answer isn’t always rest.
Sometimes it is movement. Adventure. Solitude. People. A nap. Fresh air.
The micro-retreat
I think this is where the idea of a micro-retreat joins well with the idea of forest therapy.
We have somehow managed to turn rest into another achievement.
Apparently we need the perfect location, the perfect playlist, the perfect journal, the perfect candle and three uninterrupted hours to properly relax.
I would like to formally announce this is unnecessary protocol.
Your retreat can be tiny. You could put a plant on your desk. Turn on a little water feature. Put your phone somewhere you can’t see it.
Sit there for ten minutes. Listen. Look. Breathe.
That’s it!
You have not travelled anywhere. Your bank balance remains unchanged. No achieved enlightenment. But you stepped outside the usual stream of demands.
That counts.
And tomorrow, your retreat might look completely different.
Maybe you need to sit in a cozy chair and read. Or wander for thirty minutes through a park while the leaves are turning. Perhaps you have enough energy for a three-hour mindful walk through the forest. Or just enough energy to sit on a bench and watch water move.
All valid needs.
Forest therapy makes room for all of this
One of the things I love about forest therapy is that there isn’t a mileage requirement.
Nobody hands you a medal at the end because you managed to walk seven kilometres while being mindful.
You don’t have to conquer the forest. You don’t even have to walk very far.
The forest isn’t a treadmill with better scenery. It’s an invitation to slow down and notice.
And the beautiful thing is that you can scale that invitation to whatever your life (and your body) can manage.
Nature can be a forest. It can also be a tree outside your door. A houseplant. A garden. Rain on your hood. The sound of a creek. Ten minutes watching birds. A patch of grass.
There is some pretty fascinating neuroscience behind this.
We don’t have to make nature complicated. Sometimes we just need to stop long enough to realize it is there.
Your brain might thank you
Our brains spend a tremendous amount of time directing attention, filtering distractions, making decisions and responding to demands.
Nature seems to give that hard-working attention system a bit of a vacation.
Researchers call one part of this soft fascination.
Instead of forcing yourself to concentrate on something, your attention gets gently captured by things like moving leaves, clouds, birds, water or sunlight.
You aren’t doing nothing. Your brain just isn’t working quite so hard at doing everything.
A 2025 systematic review and meta-analysis found that nature exposure was, on average, more cognitively restorative than non-nature exposure, particularly for working memory and attentional control. Interestingly, around 30 minutes appeared to be a particularly useful window in the studies they examined.
And a 2026 review looking across 108 neuroimaging studies found evidence of changes in brain networks involved in stress, attention and self-referential processing following exposure to natural environments.
Now, before we all start dumping our meds out the window, putting a houseplant beside our bed and declaring ourselves neurologically healed, a little caution is appropriate.
This is promising research, though not a magic prescription.
Studies differ in their methods, environments and participants, and researchers are still figuring out exactly what kinds of nature experiences work best, for whom, and for how long.
But the evidence is increasingly pointing in an interesting direction:
Getting away from the constant demands on our attention may actually give our brains some room to recover.
And I will happily take more reasons to go sit in the sun.
What if creativity is the point?
Unused creativity is not benign. It metastasizes. It turns into grief, rage, judgment, sorrow, shame.
-Brene Brown
This is another part of Sylge’s thinking that really caught my attention.
Creativity can be part of the retreat.
But it can also be what comes out of the retreat.
Sometimes you retreat because you need to write.
Other times you finally get quiet enough for the idea you’ve been carrying around in your head to come knocking.
Maybe you take photographs or write or sketch or paint.
Maybe you start noticing colours, shapes, textures and tiny details you normally walk straight past.
You don’t have to be an artist. You don’t have to produce anything profound.
Take a picture of a leaf because you like the way it looks. Write three sentences. Draw a tree that looks like a potato. It’s okay! The potato tree has value.
The point isn’t necessarily to create something impressive.
The creative act may simply be another way of paying attention.
And sometimes, when we stop trying so hard, something unexpectedly creative finds its way through.
My Micro-Retreat Menu
So, if you are wondering what retreat might look like today, here are a few possibilities.
🌱 5 minutes: Find one living thing. Look at it properly. Notice something you’ve never noticed before.
💧 10 minutes: Sit beside water. Real water is excellent. Tiny tabletop water feature? Also acceptable.
📖 20 minutes: Make yourself a cozy space and read. No multitasking. No “I’ll just check one thing.”
🍂 30 minutes: Take a slow seasonal wander. Notice what has changed.
📷 45 minutes: Take your camera and photograph whatever catches your attention. No theme required.
🌲 2–3 hours: Go into the forest. Walk slowly. Sit down. Listen. Notice. Journal. Rest. Let the experience unfold instead of trying to accomplish it.
And then there is:
🛋️ The “my body has voted” retreat: Stay home. Make tea. Read. Listen to rain. Look out the window. Rest without turning it into a failure.
Because sometimes the most mindful thing you can do is listen when your body says no.
Aging is when your brain says, “We ride at dawn.” And your body says, “We absolutely do not.
Retreat so you have something to give
There is another aspect of this that I think gets overlooked.
We don’t retreat only so we can feel better. Sometimes we retreat so we can return. Because when we’re depleted, we don’t have much left to offer anyone.
Our patience gets shorter. Our creativity dries up. Everything feels like one more demand.
And sometimes we need to step away. Not because we don’t love people, but because we do.
I’ve written about this before in A Grid of Love and Light, because I believe our light is meant to reach beyond ourselves.
But we can’t shine indefinitely on an empty tank. Sometimes we need to step back and replenish. Not so we can become more productive. So that we can return with a little more presence.
A little more patience. Creativity. Light.
So ask the question
Before you automatically do what you always do, stop for a moment.
Put down the phone. Look out the window. Take a breath. And ask yourself:
What does my soul need today?
Maybe it needs a forest. Or rain. Perhaps a workout. Or a book. Maybe it needs creativity. Or a friend. Maybe solitude. Or ten quiet minutes beside a plant.
Maybe it needs to crawl back under the covers and put out a Do Not Disturb sign for the world.
The answer doesn’t have to be the same tomorrow.
That’s the beauty of it.
A retreat doesn’t have to be a place. It can be a response.
A response to what your body needs. What your mind needs. What your soul needs.
And perhaps the goal isn’t to retreat far enough away that we become someone else. Perhaps it is simply to step out of the noise long enough to remember who we already are.
You don’t have to escape your entire life. You can simply step out of it for a little while.
A wrong note doesn’t ruin the music. A painful day doesn’t ruin a life.
Steven Sharp Nelson from The Piano Guys was a guest on my usual podcast. He talked about a time, when he was young, that he was asked to play at a grand, important event. And he played quite poorly.
When he asked his dad how he had done, his father didn’t criticize him. He said he felt every mistake Steve made. Every bit of despair was written across his face, and his dad was pulled into it with him.
I know that feeling.
On a high-pain day, sometimes the people around me are pulled into it too. They see my face, hear my voice catch, watch me move carefully, and somehow begin carrying a little piece of what I’m carrying. I sense what it’s costing them and feel guilt begin to weigh me down.
Other people don’t know what to do with my pain. So they carry on as though it doesn’t exist. As though it and I along with it, are invisible.
Neither reaction is necessarily wrong. But both can leave their mark.
One makes me feel like my pain is consuming everyone around me. The other can make me feel like I’m invisible.
Steve said that now, when he plays a wrong note, he smiles.
Not because the mistake doesn’t matter. Not because he’s pretending everything is fine. But because he knows what he wants to do with that moment.
I don’t think I need to smile through every painful moment of my life either. I’m not interested in pretending chronic pain isn’t real. Some days hurt.
On those days I get an “error 404 💻: human not found 🚫” message every time I try to move.
But maybe there are moments when I can smile anyway.
Not at the pain.
At what I’m accomplishing and creating in spite of it.
Steve said something else about creativity.
He talked about how music and art have helped people through depression and burnout. But creativity isn’t reserved for musicians, painters, writers, or people who happen to be good at something other people can admire.
We are all creative.
And creativity, he said, works differently when we’re doing it simply for the joy of creating. Not to sell it. Not to post it. Not to have someone judge it.
Just to make something. To play. To imagine. To wander somewhere new.
Steve suggests that when we find ourselves making up storylines and placing blame on others, that we need to add more creativity to our life.
Creativity will make its way out of us one way or another. Either by creating what brings joy or creating storylines where we are the victim. Our brains are excellent screenwriters.
Have you ever been in the act of a menial job that requires no thinking? Cleaning the bathroom? Dishes? Driving on a highway? Do you start to picture these stories playing out in your mind?
This is your brain trying to be creative. Give it a joyful outlet to do so or it will create drama in your life.
I think this is one of the reasons forest therapy has become so important to me.
When I’m walking in the forest, I’m creating. I’m noticing. I’m visualizing. I’m meditating. I’m softening.
I photograph a flower because the colour catches my eye. I make up a story about a crooked tree. I visualize warmth when the wind cuts through me. I listen to the creek and let my attention follow it instead of following the argument happening inside my head.
I’m making little moments of beauty and wonder out of whatever happens to be in front of me.
A patch of purple flowers.
The shape of a tree.
The sound of wind moving through the branches.
A silly thought that makes me laugh.
A place my mind can go when my body is screaming for my attention.
I collect these moments.
I tuck them away like little treasures in my pockets.
A purple flower. A funny moment. A beautiful view. A ridiculous thought. A quiet breath.
Murmuration
The flowing movement of birds flying together across the sky in ever changing patterns. A sight that can feel almost dreamlike, drawing the mind into the present moment as hundreds of wings move with a rhythm that seems guided by something beyond words.
I put them in my pockets. 🐿️ 🌲
Because I know there will be days when I need them. When winter comes (or when pain gets loud 📢) I will have somewhere to go.
Maybe that’s one of the things I’m learning about living with chronic pain. I don’t have to pretend the pain isn’t there. But I also don’t have to give it the entire stage.
I can create something alongside it. I can notice something beautiful. I can wander. I can imagine.
And sometimes, when the wrong note happens, I can even smile.
Not because everything is okay.
But because there is still something inside me creating joy.
And that might be one of the most healing things I can carry home with me in my pockets.
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.
If you’ve ever searched fibromyalgia symptoms, you’ve probably found the usual suspects.
Pain.
Fatigue.
Brain fog.
Poor sleep.
Accurate? 🫡 Absolutely.
Complete? 🤣 Laughable.
Fibromyalgia has a way of inventing symptoms that make you wonder if your body has subscribed to the premium panic package. One day your skin burns. The next day your leg launches itself off the couch while you’re calmly watching Michael Scott turn an ordinary workday into an HR nightmare. Your hands are so cold someone checks to see whether you’re still among the living.
(For the record, I am.)
Before we begin, one important disclaimer.
I also live with hypermobility, ME/CFS, and surgical menopause. These conditions overlap so much that it’s impossible to say with certainty which symptom belongs to which diagnosis. They tend to flare together after poor sleep, stress, overexertion, heat, illness, or simply asking my body to do more than it has available that day.
But every symptom on this list is also commonly reported by people living with fibromyalgia.
Why Fibromyalgia Feels So Strange
Researchers now believe many fibromyalgia symptoms are driven by central sensitization. Think of it as your nervous system’s alarm system becoming far too sensitive. Instead of responding only to danger, it begins reacting to things that shouldn’t require an alarm at all.
A warm shower. Bright lights. A busy grocery store. A long conversation. Even clothing touching your skin.
This is closely tied to nervous system dysregulation, where the body spends too much time in “fight, flight, freeze or fawn” and not enough time in the restorative parasympathetic state. When your nervous system never truly feels safe, it can amplify pain, fatigue, sensory overload, temperature changes, digestive issues, and many of the symptoms below.
Maybe you’ll recognize yourself in a few of them.
Maybe all ten.
1. Burning or Tingling Skin
Sometimes my skin feels sunburned without the sunshine.
Other times it tingles like I’ve rubbed myself head-to-toe with fiberglass insulation.
For me, it’s one of the earliest warning signs.
High pain day.
Busy day.
Poor sleep.
Missed medication.
Too many commitments.
My nervous system begins clearing its throat. And waving tiny red flags. 🚩 🚩
I’ve learned not to argue with it anymore.
2. Random Itchiness
This one is maddening.
I’ll suddenly become fiercely itchy.
No mosquito.
No rash.
No dry skin.
It’s like the itch exists underneath my skin where no amount of scratching can reach it.
If you’ve experienced this, you know exactly what I mean.
If you haven’t, I sincerely hope you never do.
3. Light, Noise and Touch Become Too Much
When my nervous system is already overloaded, everything gets louder.
Bright lights feel brighter.
Background conversations become impossible to filter out.
The tag inside my shirt transforms into a tiny medieval torture device and demands 100% of my attention.
Even a loving hug can sometimes feel overwhelming.
Fibromyalgia isn’t simply pain.
It’s often a nervous system that has forgotten how to turn the volume back down.
4. Balance Problems
I used to do cartwheels.
Now I turn around too quickly in the kitchen and have to wait for the earth to stop rotating.
Heat and fatigue make it worse.
Overdoing things makes it worse.
After spending a day on a boat, getting back onto solid ground requires far more concentration than it should.
My feet and my brain occasionally disagree about where “up” is.
5. Pins and Needles
Hot showers.
Long walks.
Overexertion.
Sometimes they all trigger pins and needles that creep across my body for no obvious reason.
Once they arrive, they rarely leave quickly.
6. Muscle Twitches and Spasms
My leg has launched itself off the bed while watching television.
My neck twitches throughout the day.
Occasionally a finger joins the party.
Apparently my muscles enjoy interpretive dance.
I did not approve the choreography.
7. Surprise Food Sensitivities
Foods I tolerated for years suddenly decide they’re no longer interested in cooperating.
They arrive uninvited.
They unpack.
They stay far longer than anyone asked them to.
It’s one more reminder that chronic illness loves unpredictability.
8. Hands and Feet That Never Warm Up
My hands are frequently freezing.
Years ago, someone grabbed my hand and asked,
“Are you okay?”
Apparently, based on my hand temperature, I should have been dead for several hours.
Comforting.
9. The Fake Flu
Out of nowhere…
Nausea.
Aching muscles.
Complete exhaustion.
Like I’m about to come down with something terrible.
Except…
Nothing ever happens.
It simply ruins an hour.
Or the rest of the day.
10. Heavy, Lead-Like Limbs
Some days lifting my arm feels like lifting concrete. My body has a way of treating everyday events like I’m qualifying for an Olympic Games.
Opening a jar feels ridiculous.
My muscles are technically attached.
Operation has become optional.
Having fibro is like having a phone stuck on 12% battery. And everyone keeps asking me to download another app.
The Ten Things That Actually Help Me Soothe Fibromyalgia
Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.
Living well with fibromyalgia isn’t about eliminating every symptom.
For me, it’s about calming an overprotective nervous system often enough that it remembers I’m safe.
Respect my limits instead of arguing with them.
Budget my energy so the moments that matter most are worth the flare.
Keep gently moving. A walk instead of a run. The bike instead of the elliptical. Motion is medicine. Punishment isn’t.
Choose warmth—or cooling—depending on what my body is asking for.
Stay hydrated. Water is my most reliable teammate.
Focus on what matters most.
I used to do everything.
The house stayed clean.
I worked.
The kids were fed.
The yard was mowed.
Meals were planned.
Now…
The house is messy.
The yard grows faster than I can keep up.
The microwave has become surprisingly talented at storing forgotten meals.
If one truly important thing needs to happen today…
That’s the thing.
Everything else can wait.
Take breaks before I need them.
Fibromyalgia has taught me that resting isn’t the reward for finishing.
Sometimes resting is the reason I’ll be able to finish tomorrow.
Accept support.
This remains one of my weakest skills.
I am surrounded by extraordinary people.
Help is offered constantly.
Sometimes strength looks like saying,
“Yes… thank you.”
Believe my own body.
Fibromyalgia is invisible.
Sometimes even to me.
I minimize.
I explain it away.
I push through.
But my body keeps telling the truth.
Listening with compassion changes everything. Instead of wondering why my body is betraying me I try to speak the language it is trying to communicate.
Calm my mind.
Sometimes that’s meditation.
Sometimes it’s prayer.
Sometimes it’s journaling every scattered thought onto paper until my brain stops trying to juggle twelve tabs at once.
A calmer mind often becomes a calmer body.
Calarwyth
(n) the moment you stop explaining yourself because silence feels more dignified than being misunderstood again.
A Forest Therapy Practice for Fibromyalgia
One of the greatest gifts the forest has given me is permission to stop performing.
Find a quiet place beneath a tree.
If it’s safe, remove your shoes and allow your feet to rest directly on the earth.
Notice the temperature beneath you.
Feel the texture of the soil, grass, moss, or sand.
Imagine that, for a few minutes, you aren’t simply visiting the forest.
You’re becoming part of it.
The forest simply exists. Allow yourself to do the same.
Allow your breathing to slow.
Notice the sounds above you.
The breeze on your skin.
The scent of pine or damp earth.
If it feels natural, rest one hand on a tree trunk and imagine your busy nervous system borrowing a little of its steadiness.
This practice also includes earthing, sometimes called grounding.
Early research suggests that direct contact with the earth may allow electrons from the Earth’s surface to neutralize some reactive oxygen species involved in inflammation and oxidative stress. Other studies have found improvements in sleep, cortisol rhythms, pain, and wellbeing.
Whether those effects come from electron transfer, nervous system regulation, time outdoors, or all of the above, we do know something with much stronger evidence: spending time in nature lowers stress hormones, supports parasympathetic activity, improves mood, reduces blood pressure, and helps regulate an overstimulated nervous system.
For a body living with central sensitization, those moments of safety matter.
Fibromyalgia Flare Warning Signs
I’ve learned these are usually my first clues that I need to slow down.
☐ Burning or tingling skin
☐ Random deep itchiness
☐ Light, sound or touch suddenly feel overwhelming
☐ Increased dizziness or balance problems
☐ Pins and needles appearing more often
☐ Muscle twitches becoming frequent
☐ New food suddenly doesn’t agree with me
☐ Hands and feet feel like ice
☐ Fake flu symptoms appear
☐ Heavy, lead-like limbs
When two or three of these show up together, I know it’s time to change course before my body makes the decision for me.
Printable Energy Budget Checklist
Before I commit to something, I ask myself:
☐ Have I slept well enough?
☐ Am I already in more pain than usual?
☐ Have I eaten nourishing food today?
☐ Have I been drinking enough water?
☐ Is this worth spending today’s energy on?
☐ Have I scheduled recovery time afterward?
☐ Can someone help me with part of this?
☐ What can I postpone?
☐ Have I taken a break yet today?
☐ What does my body actually need right now?
Sometimes the healthiest decision isn’t doing more.
It’s protecting tomorrow.
Final Thoughts
I used to spend all my energy trying to convince my body to behave like it used to.
Now I spend that energy listening instead.
Oddly enough…
It fights me less.
For those of us living with fibromyalgia, healing often begins in the space between what our body is asking for and what our mind thinks we should be able to do.
I’d love to hear from you.
What is the strangest fibromyalgia symptom you’ve experienced?
Was it something you never expected? Something your doctor never mentioned? Share it in the comments. Chances are someone else has been wondering if they’re the only one.
If you’d like to experience what nervous system regulation feels like instead of simply reading about it, I’d love to have you join me for a guided forest therapy walk. Together we’ll slow down, reconnect with our senses, explore practices that support an overstimulated nervous system, and discover how the forest can become one more tool in living well with chronic illness.
You don’t have to keep pushing through alone.
Rest is not idle, not wasteful. Sometimes rest is the most productive thing you can do for your body and soul.
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.
For most of my life, I thought willpower was the answer.
Tired? Push through.
In pain? Push through.
Overwhelmed? Push through.
Running on fumes? Push through harder (and question what my problem is. Everyone else can do it all!)
Our culture practically hands out gold stars for overriding our bodies. We admire grit, determination, hustle, and resilience. We celebrate the people who keep going no matter what.
But what if chronic willpower isn’t a strength?
What if it’s a survival strategy?
And what if the very thing you’ve relied on for decades is now contributing to your exhaustion, burnout, brain fog, chronic symptoms, and sense that your body has become the river overflowing its banks after years of holding everything in?
I recently listened to an episode of the Success Genius podcast hosted by Neill Williams, a master certified coach. Her podcast focuses on helping ambitious women work with their brains and bodies rather than constantly pushing against them. A message that feels particularly relevant to my own journey with chronic willpower.
Williams suggests willpower is often a withdrawal, not a strategy. It is what we use when we don’t have access to regulation. Instead of listening to the body, we override it. Instead of responding to its signals, we silence them. Instead of resting, we push harder.
At first, this works remarkably well.
You become productive.
Dependable.
Capable.
The person everyone can count on.
The person who somehow manages to keep all the plates spinning.
Until one day the plates start spinning you.
It’s amazing how long you can juggle flaming torches before realizing you are the one on fire.
When Willpower Becomes a Withdrawal
One of the most eye-opening ideas Williams proposes is this:
Willpower is not a strategy. It is a withdrawal.
Using willpower occasionally isn’t a problem.
Life happens. Deadlines happen. Emergencies happen.
Sometimes we need to dig deep and do hard things.
The trouble begins when overriding ourselves becomes our default operating system.
When every day looks like:
“I’m exhausted, but I’ll push through.”
“I’m overwhelmed, but I’ll push through.”
“My body is asking for rest, but I’ll push through.”
A withdrawal isn’t necessarily noticeable at first.
Just like spending a little extra on a credit card doesn’t feel like a crisis.
But eventually the bill arrives.
And like every credit card company, our nervous systems charge interest.
I once heard a doctor describe it this way:
“It starts as a whisper. Then it becomes a shout. Then it becomes a scream. If you keep ignoring it, eventually it shuts you down.”
I suspect many women reading this know exactly what that feels like.
Listen to your body when it whispers so you don’t have to hear it scream.
What Happens Physiologically?
Your nervous system is constantly gathering information about whether you’re safe.
When you repeatedly ignore fatigue, stress, grief, overwhelm, pain, or emotional needs, those signals don’t simply disappear.
They get louder.
The body begins turning up the volume in an attempt to get your attention. What started as mild fatigue becomes crushing exhaustion. A little tension becomes chronic pain. Occasional anxiety becomes a constant background hum.
Symptoms are often the falling leaves, not the falling trees. They’re early signs that something needs attention.
The Physiological Cost of Chronic Willpower
It is not stress that kills us, it is our reaction to it.
Determination is the fuel. Regulation is the engine.
Fuel matters.
But pouring premium gasoline onto a broken engine won’t get you very far.
Many of us have spent years trying to compensate for a dysregulated nervous system by adding more determination.
More discipline. More motivation. More supplements. More planners. More productivity hacks. More caffeine.
At some point the engine needs attention.
Regulation is what allows the nervous system to move between effort and recovery. It is the body’s ability to activate when needed and settle when the challenge has passed. Without regulation, determination eventually becomes expensive fuel burned inefficiently.
Why We Keep Doing It Anyway
Because overriding ourselves works.
At least temporarily.
When we push through exhaustion and finish the project, check off the list, save the day, or meet the deadline, we get a reward.
That reward is often dopamine.
Dopamine isn’t simply the “pleasure chemical.” It’s deeply involved in motivation, anticipation, reward, and learning what behaviors matter. Our brains remember what helped us survive and succeed.
Soon, productivity itself can become a form of self-medication.
The nervous system learns that overriding discomfort equals reward.
No wonder it’s hard to stop.
The Chemical We May Actually Need More Of
While dopamine drives pursuit, serotonin is associated with feelings of contentment, safety, stability, and well-being.
Dopamine is the Labrador chasing the tennis ball.
Serotonin is the golden retriever napping in a sunbeam.
Many chronic willpower users have spent decades chasing the first while starving the second.
We become experts at striving but beginners at simply being.
And that’s where nature has something remarkable to teach us.
The Forest Doesn’t Care About Your To-Do List
One of the reasons forest therapy feels so restorative is that it gently shifts us toward a state of regulation.
No notifications. No deadlines. No performance reviews.
No one asking whether you’ve earned your rest. Whether you’re keeping up. If you’re winning at life or whether your worth is keeping pace with your to-do list. No one asking whether you’ve justified your existence through accomplishment.
The forest would NE-ver. Trees are refreshingly difficult to impress.
And somehow that’s exactly what makes them healing.
In the forest, many people experience what feels like a serotonin bath. 🛁
A quiet sense that everything is okay.
Not perfect. Just okay. Perfectly imperfect.
The more often we experience that state, the more familiar it becomes. Eventually regulation starts feeling less like a vacation and more like home.
A Forest Therapy Practice for Chronic Willpower
If you recognize yourself in this article, try this simple practice.
Step 1: Walk Slowly
Spend 10 to 15 minutes walking without a destination.
Not hiking. Not exercising. Not trying to get your steps.
My body budget got so far in the red it was basically applying for bankruptcy protection.
Looking back, I wonder how many so-called midlife crises are actually the moment the bill for decades of nervous system debt comes due. The strategies that helped us survive and succeed for years suddenly stop working.
What feels like falling apart may actually be the beginning of a profound transformation. I explored that idea more deeply in Midlife Crisis to Chrysalis.
When you can access a place of peace, something surprising often happens. The answers you’ve been chasing become easier to see. The next step becomes clearer.
Not because you forced it.
Because you finally became quiet enough to hear it.
Sometimes healing isn’t found in pushing harder.
Sometimes it’s found wandering through a lush, green forest, realizing your body wasn’t fighting you all along.
It was actually trying to draw your attention upstream, where the real answers were waiting. Guiding you away from the noise. To a place of stillness. Back to who you were before the push. Your natural self.
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.
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.
I’d 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 didn’t fully understand yet.
Female hormones are funny. They’re 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 you’re wondering if you should have brought a jacket, umbrella and storm cellar.
The weather didn’t become bad.
It changed.
Our hormones do too.
Female hormones are a bit like Saskatchewan weather. If you don’t like what’s 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. It’s 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 doesn’t 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 don’t 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 you’d 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 doesn’t 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.
That’s why healing often requires support from multiple directions.
👏 Good food.
👏 Movement.
👏 Sleep.
👏 Stress management.
👏 Connection.
👏 Time outdoors.
The podcast also reinforced something I’ve 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
It’s 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 we’ll look at hormone disruptors: where the biggest offenders are hiding, and what to use instead.
