I grew up in a small village partly surrounded by forest. Since childhood, the woods have been my playground, my secret hiding spot, my temple. I used to wander off with friends into the trees, laugh until the air turned golden, build kingdoms of branches and bark. We even have a celebration stage hidden deep in the forest, yes, we party in the woods. Nature wasn’t just part of my life. It was life.

Even now, when I walk into a forest, it feels like a part of me dissolves, melts into the ground, into the roots, into the rhythm. The old energy starts flowing out, and something fresh, healing, and ancient flows in. There’s always a moment, usually within the first few steps, where it feels like Mother Nature wraps her arms around me and whispers, “You’re safe now. You’re home.” It’s the only place I’ve ever felt I don’t have to perform, prove, or play a role. I can just be. Messy, wild, magical, raw.

Nature has always given me everything I need. I’ve picked flowers and berries, laid in fields, sat by lakes in silence, watched the wind dance through the leaves like it was composing a language just for me. And even now that I live in the city, where trees are more often seen as obstacles to development than sacred beings, I still seek out the woods that remain. Though they’re being chopped away bit by bit (thank you, capitalism), I return to them like a ritual. Because I need that space. To breathe. To grieve. To remember.

Where I live, we have the gift of four seasons. Each one teaching in its own way. Spring-hope, beginnings, the planting of seeds. Summer-growth, joy, vibrant expansion. Autumn-harvest, preparation, reflection. Winter-darkness, stillness, the sacred inner world. Nature reflects our own cycles so perfectly. After every burst of light comes the dark. After every storm, a clarity. The rain doesn’t just soak us, it cleanses the sky, resets the rhythm.

Living in alignment with nature’s cycles has helped me understand that nothing is linear. Healing, growth, love, pain, all of it moves like the moon. I’ve always felt connected to her, especially the full moon. That’s when my emotions rise like tides, often to overwhelming levels. I cry the most during full moons. My partner lovingly calls it my “moon madness.” But each time, after the tears, I come back lighter, truer. I see myself more clearly. New moons give me that flicker of hope again, the sense that maybe I can begin anew. Our internal worlds follow the moon, just like the oceans do.

Nature holds a spiritual weight for me that no church ever could. It’s the one place where my energy feels limitless. Where anything feels possible. The longer I stay, the less I want to leave. Watching insects work, birds glide, animals go about their lives in this intricate, self-sustaining ecosystem, it’s humbling. No one’s trying to dominate or conquer. No one’s crushing another to feel more powerful. The forest just is. In its own rhythm. In deep intelligence.

I’ve always found it laughable, tragically laughable, how humans convince themselves that we’re somehow above nature. That we can dominate her, reshape her, strip her down and believe there won’t be consequences. We’ve built a system that worships profit over balance, power over wisdom. But nature doesn’t forget. Nature doesn’t play favorites. And we’re not outside of her, we are her.

If we allowed the earth to be our teacher instead of our slave, we’d be mentally and spiritually healthier. If we honored the cycles of day and night, the truth of our own seasons, our bodies and minds would thank us in ways modern medicine never could replicate. When we bring nature back into our daily lives, not as a Sunday hike but as a conscious rhythm, life starts to feel different. Fuller. Softer. Truer.

So go outside. Walk slowly. Feel the sun on your skin. Listen to the birds argue and sing. Let the wind mess up your hair. Pay attention to how nature shows herself—powerful, gentle, unapologetic. There’s no pretence there. Only presence.

I will always believe, and continue to believe, that the moment we reweave nature into our everyday lives, our health, our minds, and our hearts will begin to heal. Not in abstract terms, but in the very real sense of remembering who we are and where we come from.

We’re not above nature.
We are nature.

So I invite you—no, I dare you—to reconnect.
Go outside. Not to get somewhere. Not to burn calories. Just go.
Sit under a tree. Put your hands in the soil. Let your feet touch the earth.
Don’t take your phone. Don’t take your expectations. Take your presence.
Let nature hold you like the child of hers you are.
Let yourself remember.
That you belong here. That you are part of this vast, breathing, ancient dance.
The forest isn’t asking you to be perfect. Just to be.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s where you’ll start to hear yourself again.

With Love, Sofy