Forest Rituals: Finding Home from the Wilds Within

Most days, sitting down to write comes naturally. Creative phrases tumble through my mind like water over a cliff—pooling, then bursting forth into adventures that carry you somewhere magical. I live with one foot always in a landscape I’ve created, and the many lives that inhabit that space have comforted me through dark days. Art became a refuge and a place of safety while the world around me frayed, unravelling at the seams; it was a space I could shelter from the trauma of the life I was born into. For much of my life that secret world resided only inside my head, because releasing it felt like inviting cruelty to be used against me. So my vast wildlands, gorgeous mountain vistas and the characters who live there remained locked away—until I found room to heal, to grow, and to be vulnerable while still wearing the armour of survival.

Deep in the forest, the silence was swallowed by fresh snow, blanketing the earth as it slept in winter slumber while the mountain peaks kept watch over the stillness. Only when the wind spoke did the trees answer in song and dance, gently swaying or violently twisting, their roots held by the frozen soil in a firm embrace. As quietly as snow kissing the ground, the spirit of my soul stirs. Mother Earth softly beckons, “It is time to reveal yourself. Stay silent and hidden no more, my child.” I untwist, slow and tentative, rising from my nest and emerging toward the softly diffused light. “I am ready,” I whisper, as delicate as the breeze ruffling the leaves in my hair.

During an intense May blizzard, I stepped fully into my life, aware that the path laid before me was vast. From a young age I knew my trials would be earth-shattering, but the knowledge and momentum I gained would test my strength and resilience to live a life far greater than my circumstances. I chose to allow the trauma I endured shape me into someone who loves deeply, remains vulnerable, and aches at the world’s injustices—qualities that have kept me kind, overflowing with compassion, and committed to living authentically and passionately.

At Mother Nature’s urging, I rose from the deepest winter, stitching the torn and shattered pieces of myself back together with small rituals until each gentle gesture became a stepping stone on a path that softened my edges and formed the mosaic of glittering starlight I am today. My forest rituals—morning coffee by a frost-laced window with a crackling fire, tracing the curve of a distant mountain peak with my fingers, speaking my truths onto fresh paper until the edges softened—transformed my trauma into warmth and honoured my scars as windows of my survival. In that space I found my solace and my direction, and I turned my story outward, lighting the lamp in the lighthouse to illuminate the storm for those still wandering in darkness.

Now and then, when a fierce storm rolls in and the world grows cold and harsh, I stand with my feet firmly in the earth, carrying the lantern’s glow — not unbroken, but recreated — offering my light to anyone who needs a hand. The mountains still watch silently, the forest still listens intensely, and my voice, stitched from winter and warmed by ritual, carries outward: a quiet invitation to keep walking, to trust your path, and to believe that tiny rituals will move you toward your sanctuary.