Iโve 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 donโt 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 donโt have energy for anything else.
On a hike I often get to the point when Iโm not sure how much more I can do. Iโm tired. My legs hurt. Iโm 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)
Iโve 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 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.
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.
Ever notice how the word rich instantly makes people picture a yacht, a corner office, or at least a pantry where I have everything I need from chocolate to chia seeds?
Meanwhile, some of us are over here feeling wealthy because we found a position that doesnโt make our back yell at us.
Welcome to redefining abundance.
When you live with chronic issues, the cultural picture of โthe good lifeโ can feel like a club you donโt get invited to. My body has very strong opinions. And she will not yield. And yet, many people walking this road discover a strange, stubborn truth.
Richness is not a circumstance.
Itโs a way of seeing.
Better Than Happy host Jody Moore distinguishes between two kinds of discomfort. One is fueled by resistance and the belief that life should be different. The other is accompanied by gratitude and a desire to create meaning from what is here.
In the latter, action becomes possible. In the former, people often remain stuck.
For those with chronic pain, discomfort is not optional. The choice lies in how we relate to it.
Gratitude does not deny suffering. It widens the field of attention so that suffering is not the only occupant.
There is the ache that says,
โWhy me? This ruined everything.โ
And there is the ache that whispers,
โGiven that this is here, what life can I still grow?โ
The first freezes us in place.
The second opens a path.
A rich life might include money. It might include health. It might include work you love or a family that grows together. Or it might be something far less Instagrammable and far more sustaining. Presence, meaning, connection, small mercies, deep seeing.
Gratitude has a way of turning what is here into enough, and from that soil, more becomes possible.
Not because your nerves suddenly behave.
But because your mind has room again.
As Meister Eckhart wrote,
If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.
Gratitude is not pretending pain is lovely.
It is noticing pain is not the only thing present.
Nature’s Secret Calculus
In the woods, a tree with a twist in its trunk is not considered a failure.
It is considered interesting. Strong. Adapted.
No straight lines required.
Chronic pain can feel like the bend you never asked for. But bends create habitats. They slow us down enough to notice moss, breath, companionship, the sacred ordinariness of being alive.
What if the detour is also the destination?
Chronicles of My Journey
Some days my life feels like a series of unfortunate events. Many of those events are inconsequential to the general population. But to my loose joints they are devastating.
Last August I was enjoying a beach day with friends. Enjoying isnโt a strong enough word. These are the days I live for.
In my rush to support my mom getting off the boat, I slipped. My leg hit twice. On the back of the boat. Then scraped down the ladder.
The pain sent me into waves of nausea. Darkness of passing out kept threatening. I refused to surrender because that seemed embarrassing in the moment.
I was rushed off the beach as my leg swelled into two big lumps. Once I got it raised, it started to stabilize and my senses returned. In the end we decided to wrap it and I got to stay at the beach. But my summer was over.
More devastating was what it did to my gym workouts. I try to get to the gym a few days a week to keep my muscles strong enough to hold me together.
I was finally to a place where I could hold most major joints in for a week or more. This incident set me back months.
The bruise went through the ankle bone and wrapped almost completely around my shin. My tan is hiding most of the damage.
I am pleased to say I am finally back to a place where I can run almost the distance and pace I had before the damage to my leg. But it took all of those 6 months. The rest of my body has yet to catch up.
These setbacks are frequent and challenging. But I am learning there is peace and hope available on all days. No matter what is happening or not happening. And the sunshine will return.
Finding Wealth in the Woods: A Forest Therapy Practice
Go somewhere with trees or sky.
Let your pace match what your body can honestly do today.
Arrive. Feel your feet. Or your walker. Or the place you are sitting. Let the earth hold some of your weight.
Notice three forms of wealth already present. Warmth on your face. Air entering lungs. A sound that is gentle.
Place a hand on your heart or thigh and ask, โGivenmylimits, what is still possible for me?โ Donโt demand a big answer. Let something small come. A phone call. A rest. A moment of beauty.
Say, quietly, thank you.
Thatโs it. Tiny riches count. And this practice opens doors for more riches to enter your presence.
Navigating the Path Ahead: A Thoughtful Analogy
Imagine inheriting land you didnโt choose. Some of it is rocky. Some days it floods. You can spend years arguing with the mapโฆ or you can learn what grows there.
Blueberries love poor soil.
Certain pines only open after fire.
Some of the most resilient beauty requires harsh beginnings.
As Rainer Maria Rilke advised:
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Where Forest Therapy Carries Us
At the outset, when life no longer looks like it did, when identity is disrupted, the forest helps us find where we fit now. Not who we were. Not who others are. Who we are today.
In the middle, when the physical and mental anguish feels loud, nature gives our nervous system something steady to lean on. Wind continues. Chickadees continue. Light continues. We borrow their rhythm.
And at the end, or at least with distance, we often see that pain brought unexpected inheritances. Tenderness, clarity, reprioritized love, a fierce ability to notice what matters.
A different kind of fortune.
You may never get the yacht.
But you might receive awe. Intimacy. Meaning.
Moments of real rest inside the storm.
That is wealth no market can crash.
And forest therapy walks with you through the whole thing ๐ฒ
The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
I am made of words & rivers & winds & wildflowers. I am part grief & part hope & all love.
-Victoria Erickson
From the outside, my life still looks mostly the same.
I still show up. I still smile. I still walk in the woods.
What people donโt see is the calculation behind every choice. The energy budgeting, the quiet bargaining with my body, the grief that comes when the answer is no again. Chronic pain didnโt just change what I can do. It changed how I think, how I hope, and how I understand myself.
I didnโt lose my old self all at once.
She left in pieces. First the bounce in my step, then the spontaneity, then the confidence that tomorrow would feel better. Chronic pain has a way of rearranging your life while pretending nothing has changed. And somehow, youโre expected to adapt quietly and keep smiling like you didnโt just lose someone important.
There is a quiet kind of grief that comes with chronic pain. Those of us who know can see it in the eyes. In the bouncing leg when sitting too long. In the little noises and facial expressions that most people miss.
This is not a grief that comes with casseroles or sympathy cards. Not the kind people know how to name.
Itโs the grief of losing someone very important. You.
The body you trusted. The energy you assumed would always return. The way ordinary days felt doable.
Back in the day when your consequences had actions. Now it takes nothing to set that pain- train in motion.
Chronic pain doesnโt just hurt. It rearranges your identity. Like a Mr Potato Head put together by a little one. Totally unfamiliar from what itโs โsupposed to be.โ
Purpose feels unfamiliar. Hope has to be redefined. Can one even set goals anymore? And from the outside, nothing looks different at all.
You still look like you.
But internally, everything has changed.
Thatโs why community matters more than advice.
What a fragile, tender gift it is to be invited into another’s wounds.
Advice tends to arrive loudly and unsolicited. (Often with links. ๐คญ)
What actually helps is something quieter. ๐คซ
Not people who argue your reality. (๐ณ โIโm surprised you feel comfortable saying that out loudโ ๐คฃ)
Not people who say, โHave you triedโฆ?โ like theyโve just cracked the code. (๐จ As though the slightest change in your world will not usher in all of your chronic megadons! ๐คฏ )
Not people who look sideways at your therapy choices. (๐ โBe gone, foul thingโ ๐)
But people who,
Cheer when something finally settles back into place ๐
Take your call when you have nothing left ๐ค
Help recalibrate the distorted lens pain creates ๐
Invite you in without being offended when you decline ๐ซด
Donโt judge your sleep, your limits, or your pace ๐โโ๏ธ
They understand one sacred truth:
You are the only person who lives in this body.
And when you reach out, they show up.
Trees of Solace: Earth’s Embrace in Times of Grief
Forest therapy doesnโt try to fix you.
Which is refreshing, to be honest.
It doesnโt rush the process or demand improvement. No gold stars. No timelines.
It simply offers a place where you can grieve. Because this life is tough.
Trees donโt ask who you used to be. They have been pretty quiet during a conversation, in my experience.
They donโt compare you to your past. They are really good at living in the now.
They donโt need you to be productive. Their progress is very slow. They respect your pace as well.
They just let you be you. Whatever version of you that may be.
And when youโre grieving your old self, that is the miracle worker you need.
To be idle is a short road to death; to be contemplative is a short road to life.
โ Unknown, attributed to early monastic writings
Stillness is not stagnation. In the forest, stillness becomes listening.
The Garden Path: Shedding the Old Self to Bloom Anew
1. Hold a โLetting Goโ Walk
Walk slowly and name (quietly or aloud) what you are releasing. Old expectations, former timelines, borrowed definitions of success.
Leave something symbolic behind. A stone, a leaf, a breath, writing in the snow.
Grief likes ceremony. Even small, slightly awkward ones.
2. Practice Observing Instead of Fixing
Sit and observe without correcting your thoughts.
Notice what hurts.
Notice what doesnโt.
Notice what still feels alive.
This is harder than it sounds. Most of us are very committed to fixing ourselves.
Do not ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do that.
โ Howard Thurman
3. Let the Landscape Mirror Change
Forests are experts in adaptation.
Storm damage. Regrowth. Fallen trees feeding new life.
Your body is not failing. It is reorganizing.
Messy? Yes.
Meaningless? Not even close.
4. Replace Focusing on the Yield with Yielding
Some days the win is sitting.
Some days itโs noticing birdsong instead of pain for ten whole seconds.
That counts.
It all counts.
Celebrate small victories shamelessly. Pain already takes enough. Donโt let it take joy too.
5. Create a New Self Narrative
The old self doesnโt disappear. It composts.
Strength becomes discernment.
Speed becomes awareness.
Achievement becomes alignment.
And occasionally, dark humour becomes a coping skill. (Highly recommended.)
Because if you can laugh when your body sends mixed signals, youโre still very much alive.
You Are Not Becoming Less
You are becoming different.
And different doesnโt mean diminished.
The forest reminds us that worth is not measured by output, endurance, or even consistency.
Itโs measured by belonging. By heart beats. By the current of our perceived experience.
You belong here.
In this body.
On this path.
And when youโre ready, the forest will help you meet the version of yourself that knows how to live well. Within the limits. Without shame.
This January, if you feel low and heavy and unready- please remember that in nature, the new year begins in spring. January is not nature's reset. March is. In a few months' time, temperatures will rise and the days will be long enough to actually do things. Nature is still unwinding. It's okay if you are, too. -srwpoetry
Opacarophile
(n) someone who finds deep comfort, solace and profound peace in sunsets
As a forest therapy guide, I spend a lot of time listening. Not just to birds and wind, but to the quiet wisdom that surfaces when life slows down. Recently, while listening to the Follow Him podcast with guest Dr. John Hilton III, I was struck by how clearly their insights mirrored what I see every day in nature-based healing.
The Silent Saboteur of Greatness: Settling for “Good Enough”
Dr. Hilton shared a story Warren Buffett once told about his pilot, Mike Flint. Buffett asked Flint to list his 25 most important goals, then circle the top five. Flint assumed the remaining 20 would simply be addressed later, as time allowed.
But Buffett surprised him.
Those other 20 goals, he said, were not โlaterโ goals. They were avoid-at-all-costs goals. Why? Because what most often pulls us away from our very best work isnโt something bad. Itโs something good. Interesting. Worthy. Pretty good.
And thatโs the danger. Pretty good competes quietly. It distracts us without alarming us. It drains time and energy while convincing us weโre still doing something valuable.
Choosing Wisely: Balancing Big and Small in a Limited Jar
Youโve probably heard the โbig rocksโ analogy: if you put the big rocks in the jar first, then the small rocks, then the sand, everything fits. Itโs a powerful visual reminder to prioritize what matters most. In a day. In a year. In a life.
But Dr. Hilton pointed out something that often gets overlooked. In real life, no one measures out the rocks and dirt ahead of time so it all fits. Neat and tidy. Many of us simply have too many big rocks.
The daily work.
The self care.
The appointments.
The responsibilities we canโt opt out of.
At some point, the work becomes less about fitting everything in and more about asking a braver question:
Which rock is the biggest?
And then: Which one comes next?
For those of us living with chronic pain or limited energy, this question isnโt philosophical. Itโs survival.
The real work is not to prioritize whatโs on your schedule, but to schedule your priorities.
โ Stephen Covey
Near Enemies: The Perils of Almost Right
Psychologist Kristin Neff teaches about near enemies. Qualities or choices that look helpful on the surface but quietly undermine what we actually need.
In compassion practice, for example, selfโcompassionโs near enemy is selfโpity. In mindfulness, it might be zoning out instead of being present. Near enemies are dangerous not because they are wrong, but because they are convincing.
They imitate wisdom.
They borrow the language of care.
They feel responsible.
And yet, they subtly pull us away from what truly nourishes us.
Familiar Foes: Chronic Pain’s Close Encounters
When you live with chronic pain or chronic illness, near enemies show up everywhere:
Filling your day with โusefulโ tasks instead of the few essential ones that protect your health.
Trying every therapy instead of committing energy to the one or two that truly help.
Positive thinking that bypasses your bodyโs real signals.
Staying busy so you donโt have to feel how tired you actually are
Even healing practices can become near enemies when they cost more energy than they restore.
In these seasons, discernment matters more than discipline.
Unearthing Clarity: The Truth of Forest Therapy
Nature has a way of clarifying what belongs and what doesnโt.
In the stillness of the forest, the nervous system softens. The noise quiets. And without effort, priorities begin to rearrange themselves.
Here, the biggest rocks often reveal themselves as simple, foundational truths:
Enough sleep
Nourishing food
Gentle, appropriate movement
Nervous system regulation
Emotional safety
These are not optional extras. They are the largest rocks.
From there, we can begin to see the next biggest rocks. Helpful therapies, meaningful connection, creative expression, without confusing them for the foundation itself.
And finally, with compassion, we can begin to sift out what simply does not fit in this season of life. Not forever. Just for now.
Arabic proverb: Sunshine all the time creates a desert.
Perhaps, in the storms, roots deepen and rain helps us grow.
The Significance of Near Enemies
Near enemies are dangerous because they:
Masquerade as wisdom
Drain limited energy
Keep us busy instead of well
Pull focus from what truly supports healing
For those living with chronic pain, the cost of mistaking a near enemy for a true ally is high. Energy is precious. Attention is finite. Choosing the wrong โgood thingโ can mean losing access to the best thing.
There was a season when I was frantically searching for a diagnosis. Searching not just for answers, but for validation. I was living with constant, invisible pain that no one could see and few seemed to understand. And so I chased understanding wherever I thought it might live.
I pursued every avenue. Every referral. Every therapy that sounded even remotely promising. I read, researched, pushed, argued, advocated. Believing that if I just searched hard enough, fought clearly enough, or proved my case convincingly enough, I would arrive at the answer. A conclusion. A resolution. A moment where someone would finally say, โYes. This is real.โ
What I didnโt recognize at the time was my near enemy.
On the surface, what I was doing looked responsible. Even admirable. I was being proactive. Informed. Determined. But underneath it all, my hope had quietly become tangled up in outcomes, test results, and external validation. The search itself, though it looked like healing, was slowly exhausting me.
I needed to let go of the illusion that my life might have been different.
It’s in my eyes. I tried to hide it. But I see now I was not overly successful in that attempt. Through that time, I could best be explained. By these words someone wrote, “she’s got the hospitality of a Southern belle and the emotional stability of a raccoon in a Dollar General.” Or these accurate words, “I’m currently looking for a moisturizer that hides the fact I’ve been exhausted since 2019.”
Each clear test result landed not as relief, but as another erosion of trust. My pain was getting worse, not better. And I suspect my medical charts were, too. Notes growing heavier, more complicated, perhaps less in my favor as frustration mounted on both sides.
Still, I kept searching. Because stopping felt like giving up.
Eventually, I had to face the truth. This relentless pursuit wasnโt leading me toward healing. It was pulling me away from it.
I still donโt have clean answers or a tidy diagnosis. But something essential has shifted. I no longer outsource my validation. It doesnโt come from a test, a label, or a professional conclusion. It comes from listening to my own lived experience.
These arenโt the only people. But itโs a good chunk of them.
Iโm deeply grateful for the people in my life who try to understand my pain, even when they canโt see it. They may not witness the pain itself, but they see me. And that has mattered more than I once believed possible.
Some answers have arrived gently, settling on me soft as a sunbeam. Others have been harder, more confronting. But I no longer search frantically.
That frantic searching. The goodโlooking, wellโintentioned chase for certainty was my near enemy. And laying it down made space for something quieter, truer, and far more healing.
What you tend grows. What you ignore fades.
Forest Reflections
Near enemies are not mistakes. They are invitations to deepen our discernment.
When we learn to tell the difference between the important and the essential. Between the helpful and the healing. We begin to live with greater integrity toward our bodies and our limits.
And often, it is the forest. Quiet, patient, and uncompromising that helps us remember which rock truly belongs in our hands today.
Rest is not idleness. Sometimes lying on the grass under trees on a summerโs dayโฆ is hardly a waste of time.
SUNBEAM ACRES 