What Mother Nature Has Been Trying to Teach Me All Along

I used to turn to nature as a last resort.

When life felt too heavy, when the grief was too much, or the noise of life was too loud. I’d escape to the trees, the water, the sun. I’d beg:

Heal me. Calm me. Take the pain away.

Nature always met me with comfort. But lately, I’ve been wondering:
What if she were offering something more than just relief?
What if I stopped asking her to fix me—and started listening to what she’s been trying to teach me all along?

This post is for anyone who’s ever escaped into nature for peace. You’ll walk away seeing her not just as a place to reset, but as a teacher with wisdom for the messy, uncertain, and beautiful human experience.

When Nature Met Me in My Pain

Not long after my daughter Adeline was stillborn, my husband and I took a trip to Lake Tahoe. My body ached from sleepless nights, and my heart cracked wide open. We needed to be outside with nature.

That trip helped us ground ourselves.

We found a small trickle of a stream—barely there. We lay on the rocks, our backs heated by the stone, and listened to the soft gurgle of water for nearly 45 minutes. No words. Just presence.

There was another moment, sitting on the hotel balcony with the sun shining down. I remember silently pleading: “Swallow me up. Take me somewhere it doesn’t hurt so much.”

But what I received instead was warmth, not as an escape, but as a reminder.

The rays that touched my skin were invisible, yet undeniable. I couldn’t hold them, but I could feel them, just like her.

The sun didn’t take the pain away—but it reminded me of her presence. That kind of love doesn’t disappear. It nourishes in quieter, more profound ways.

In the decade after Adeline’s death, we were hit with wave after wave of loss; job loss, my stepdaughter’s mom passing, my father-in-law dying—and again and again, I turned to nature for relief.

But what I didn’t realize at the time was that nature wasn’t just soothing me.

She was reflecting something back to me.

And only now—years later—am I starting to hear her message.

She was inviting me to build a life I didn’t have to escape from.

A life where I’m not running to her, but with her. Where we notice her rhythms and live in flow with them.

Lessons from the Backyard Oak

Like the moments I spend in our backyard—watching the squirrels chase each other up and down the limbs of our big oak tree.

That tree has lived at least twice as long as I have—majestic, wide-limbed, and sacred in its presence.

Last year, after months of designing our outdoor space, I was told we’d have to cut one of its largest branches for insurance purposes. I was devastated. I cried when they trimmed it.

I asked the arborist, “Will it grow back?” “No,” he said. “That limb is done.”

But nature is resilient.

This spring, a new branch started to grow—against expectations, against odds.

Nature doesn’t return to what was. She doesn’t hold onto old stories. She creates something new.

Even when something is taken, beauty can return—not in the same form, but maybe in a more rooted, more resilient one.

An Invitation to Listen Differently

For years, I looked to nature as my remedy.

But now I see her as something far more sacred: a steady witness, a patient teacher, and a mirror to my inner wisdom.

She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t explain. She simply is. And in that, she invites us to meet ourselves—not with fixes, but with deep remembering.

Maybe you don’t need another answer. Maybe you just need to notice nature’s rhythm.

It’s moments like these when I realize: maybe the real wisdom isn’t in doing more, but in noticing what’s already here. If you’re feeling that too, my ebook the 5 Gentle Ways to Break Free from Autopilot is a beautiful next step.

It’s a free guide designed to help you soften back into presence—without forcing a plan or performing your way through healing.

Just like nature, it meets you right where you are.