Don’t Walk Through the Forest—Walk In It
- missy moo
- Jan 21
- 2 min read
I used to move through life the way I walked through a forest—eyes forward, mind busy, feet always heading somewhere else. I treated the trees like obstacles and the path like something to conquer. My body was there, but my spirit was already worrying about what came next. I thought if I just kept moving, I’d find peace at the end.
But the forest taught me something different.
When I walk through the forest, everything blurs together. The birds fade into background noise. The ground beneath me feels distant. That’s how I lived for a long time—task to task, worry to worry, carrying my anxiety like a heavy bag I never set down. I was surviving, sure… but I wasn’t settling. I was functioning, not feeling whole.
Now, I am mindful to walk in the forest.
When I slow down, I notice how the light spills through the leaves, how the air changes as I breathe it in, how my pace softens without me forcing it. Nothing asks me to be productive. Nothing needs fixing. I’m simply allowed to be here. In those quiet moments, my nervous system exhales. My thoughts loosen their grip. I stop chasing peace and realise I’m already standing inside it.
I used to think mental health was something I had to fix or overcome. But rushing through my inner world only made it louder. I’ve learned that my anxiety, sadness, and fatigue aren’t enemies blocking my path—they’re signals, like rustling branches, asking me to pay attention. When I walk gently through the forest of my mind, I listen without judgment. I let my feelings sit beside me instead of trying to escape them.
The forest reminds me that healing isn’t neat or linear. There are fallen branches, uneven ground, light and shadow living together—and still, everything grows. My mind is like that, too. Good mental health doesn’t mean I’m always happy or clear. It means I’m resilient. It means I’m kind to myself. It means I stay present even when the path ahead feels uncertain.
There’s humility in walking in the forest. I remember that I’m part of something bigger, not separate from it. That sense of connection—to nature, to others, to myself—keeps
me steady. Loneliness softens when I remember my struggles are human, shared, and survivable.
So now, when I feel the urge to rush, I remind myself: I don’t have to get through life. I get to live in it. I choose presence over pressure. I choose to feel instead of numb. I choose rest without guilt.
And maybe that’s where my healing truly began—not somewhere far ahead, not at the end of the trail, but right here… among the trees… breathing slowly… exactly where I am.
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