How Nature Became My Sanctuary

I didn’t go looking for healing in nature. I wasn’t someone who grew up hiking or instinctively knew that the outdoors could offer me something more than just a nice view. I was just… lost. Trying to figure out who I was. Trying to make sense of things that had broken me in ways I didn’t fully understand.

Then, in the middle of it all, the world shut down. The pandemic came, and everything that had already felt heavy became unbearable. I know I wasn’t alone in feeling that way. Isolation does something to you—it forces you to sit with yourself in ways you might not be ready for. And I wasn’t.

That’s when a close friend of mine, someone who knew what it was like to carry things too heavy to hold, asked me to go on a hike. I almost said no. I was exhausted, mentally and physically, and the idea of climbing a mountain sounded like the opposite of what I needed. But something in me whispered, Just go. So I did.

That first hike didn’t fix me. It wasn’t some epiphany where all my problems melted away. My legs burned. I was out of breath. And for the first twenty minutes, I regretted every step. But something happened along the way. The silence of the trees, the steady rhythm of my feet against the dirt, the way my thoughts, usually so loud, started to quiet—it did something to me. I realized I didn’t have to have it all figured out. I just had to keep moving. Step by step, breath by breath.

And when I reached the top, standing there with the whole world stretched out before me, something in my chest loosened. The weight I’d been carrying didn’t disappear, but for the first time in a long time, it felt… lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, I could keep going.

Life, Mountains & the Power of Rest

Hiking has taught me a lot about life.

You start at the bottom, unsure if you’ll make it to the top. There are stretches where the path is easy, and you think, I’ve got this. Then there are steep inclines that make your legs shake and your chest burn, and suddenly, you don’t know if you can take another step.

And that’s when you realize: you don’t have to rush.

You can stop. Catch your breath. Take in the view. You can rest without guilt, without feeling like you’ve failed. Because the journey isn’t just about the summit—it’s about every moment in between.

I used to think I had to push through everything. That slowing down meant weakness. That if I wasn’t constantly moving, I was failing. But nature, in all its wisdom, taught me that rest is not the same as giving up. It’s just part of the climb.

The Ocean & The Art of Letting Go

If hiking taught me how to move forward, the ocean taught me how to let go.

Growing up, we never traveled much, so the first time I saw the ocean, really saw it, I was already an adult. I remember standing at the edge of the water, waves rushing over my feet, and feeling something I couldn’t explain.

I didn’t understand it then. I thought maybe it was just the excitement of being somewhere new. But the more time I spent by the water, the more I realized—it wasn’t excitement. It was relief.

The ocean is always moving, always shifting. It doesn’t hold onto things the way I do. It doesn’t clutch its mistakes or replay its worst moments. It just is. The waves crash, the tide pulls away, and then it all starts over again.

I’ve spent countless sunsets sitting in the sand, watching the sky melt into the horizon, listening to the rhythm of the water. And every time, I feel it—the reminder that life moves forward, whether I’m ready or not. That I don’t have to hold onto everything so tightly. That sometimes, healing is just learning to let the waves take what no longer serves you.

The Quiet Answers in Nature

The thing about nature is that it doesn’t demand anything from you. It doesn’t ask for explanations or force you to be anything other than what you are. It just gives you space.

Whenever I step outside—whether it’s into the woods, up a mountain, or just a quiet path near home—my mind starts to wander. Not in a chaotic, overwhelming way, but in a way that feels… free. Like my thoughts finally have room to breathe.

Some days, that space is exactly what I need. Other days, it forces me to confront the things I’d rather avoid. But nature has this way of holding you in that discomfort without judgment. You can sit with your sadness under the trees, scream your frustrations into the wind, or let the rain mix with your tears—and nature will still be there. Unmoving. Unbothered. Offering you a place to feel it all.

I used to think healing was about fixing myself. About finding the “right” way to move on. But now, I think healing is just about making peace with the fact that some things will always be unfinished. Some questions will never be answered. And maybe that’s okay.

Healing Isn’t Linear—And That’s Okay

I wish I could say I found peace in nature and that was it—end of story, happily ever after. But healing doesn’t work like that. There are days I feel grounded and strong, and there are days I feel like I’m right back where I started. And that’s okay.

I’ve learned that healing isn’t a straight path. It’s a winding trail, full of detours and dead ends and moments where you swear you’re lost. But even then, even when it feels like you’re going in circles, you’re still moving forward.

Nature has been my greatest teacher in that way. It’s taught me patience. Presence. The art of slowing down. It’s reminded me that I don’t have to have all the answers, that I don’t have to rush my way to healing, that I don’t have to be anywhere other than where I am.

So if you’re in the middle of it—if you’re carrying something heavy, if you feel lost, if you don’t know what comes next—I hope you step outside. Take a breath. Let the wind move through you, let the earth hold you. You don’t have to figure it all out today. You just have to keep going.

One step at a time.