There’s something about this season that tightens everything.
The days shorten. The pace quickens. The noise rises.
The lists get longer, the inbox louder, and our breath—without us realizing—gets caught somewhere high in our chests.
And yet, beneath all that urgency, there’s often a quieter signal pulsing beneath the surface.
A soft, persistent whisper from the nervous system: Slow down. Come home. Choose softness.
Most people think healing is supposed to be hard. That we only heal and evolve through effort, excavation, and emotional labor. And yes, sometimes that’s true. I’ve walked those valleys through illness, through unraveling, through rebuilding my life. But the older, wiser version of me knows something else just as true: some of the deepest healing doesn’t come from working harder. It comes from surrender. From play. From coming home to joy.
For over 35 years, I carried a quiet ache in my heart. A longing I didn’t always speak aloud, but that lived in my bones. A longing for a life with horses once again. Not just to ride again—but to be with them. To breathe with them. To return to a rhythm and a relationship that once shaped who I was.
As a little girl, horses were my refuge. They were more than animals—they were presence, regulation, stillness. They were the first beings to show me that it was safe to just be. Riding wasn’t about sport; it was about coming into coherence with something bigger than myself. The barn was my sanctuary, and the horses—my therapists, long before I knew what trauma was.
But life swept me in other directions. College. Career. Motherhood. Building a business. Holding space for others as they healed. And though it was a beautiful, purpose-filled life, that longing stayed with me like a quiet ember, glowing beneath the surface, waiting for the conditions to be right.
This year, I stopped waiting. I chose to answer the call.
Walking into that barn for the first time in decades was nothing short of sacred. The moment I opened the doors, time collapsed. The scent of hay met me first—earthy and sweet, like the inhale of a memory. Then came the smell of leather—rich, worn, sun-warmed tack that whispered of a thousand rides before mine. The air was cool and still, the kind of stillness that only exists where large, gentle animals live.
The horses turned toward me one by one. Not with excitement, but with presence. The kind that stops you in your tracks. Their eyes were soft and knowing, their breath slow and steady. One leaned into me, offering a soft nuzzle—a “horse kiss,” as I’ve always called it—her warm muzzle pressing gently to my cheek like she had been waiting for me too.
I reached out to stroke her neck, whispered to her without thinking. I loved on her, and she responded—not with performance, but with quiet welcome. The others came forward too. Curious. Calm. Connected.
By the time I climbed into the saddle, something inside me had already shifted. I wasn’t trying to be present. I was present. My breath deepened. My thoughts fell away. My nervous system didn’t need convincing. It simply said: There you are.
It was like plugging a lamp back into its source.
My body remembered this rhythm.
My soul remembered this home.
And here’s what I want to say, especially in a season when everything tells you to do more, be more, give more: healing doesn’t always arrive through intensity. Sometimes it comes through a moment of safety so profound, your body can finally let go.
What followed in the days after that reconnection with these beautiful beings surprised me—not because it came, but because of how gently it did. A memory surfaced. I was maybe six or seven, tugging on my dad’s arm while he watched football. I wasn’t asking for much—just to be seen. To be chosen in that small moment. He wasn’t cruel. He just didn’t turn his focus to me.
It wasn’t a flood of grief that rose. It was a soft ache—something that had waited a very long time to be acknowledged. And because I had already reconnected with joy and safety, there was now room for it. The memory didn’t overwhelm me. It moved through me.
Greg was with me. He didn’t offer solutions. But what he did offer was his presence—attuned, patient, steady. And later that evening, we laughed. Deep, silly, belly laughter that made us both feel like kids again. And in that laughter, she arrived—the little girl who once waited to be seen.
But this time, she wasn’t outside the moment. She was the moment. Fully with me. Fully alive. Fully home.
That is what integration can feel like. Not always dramatic. Not always hard. Sometimes it giggles. It exhales. It finds you in a barn, or at the edge of a field, or barefoot in your backyard, looking into the light-filled sky.
It finds you when you remember joy.
Biologically, it all makes sense. When we reconnect with safety and pleasure, our parasympathetic nervous system activates. The brain and gut communicate clearly. Inflammation lowers. Emotional memories rise, not to haunt us, but to be witnessed and woven back into wholeness.
The body doesn’t just heal through deep shadow work. It heals through deep welcome, love, play, and joy.
So this season, before you fill your schedule, ask yourself:
What joy have I tucked away for later?
What softness is my body quietly asking for?
What part of me is waiting to come home?
You don’t need another strategy right now. You need space.
You don’t need to go deeper. You may need to go gentler.
Light the candle. Step outside barefoot. Let the laughter rise without explanation. Wrap your arms around a horse’s neck if one shows up for you. Or maybe just wrap your arms around the part of you that’s been waiting the longest.
Because healing often finds us not through striving, but through surrender.
Not through pushing, but through presence.
And not in the noise—but in the stillness we dare to make room for.
