The Things That Live Below: Badgers, Hidden Selves, and the Quiet Work of Healing

Some things don’t ask to be seen. They live below the surface—quiet, hidden, and necessary.

There’s a badger set just beyond the old beech line. I’ve never seen them, not directly. But I’ve seen the signs: fresh earth, narrow tracks, a clump of bracken pressed into a trail. Foxes move through, too, and snails spiral slowly over fallen bark. A whole world that thrives without needing to be witnessed.

This part of the woodland is always quieter. Denser. It feels like a secret kept by the land. And something about it reminds me of the parts we carry inside. The ones we learned to tuck away. The instincts we stopped trusting. The griefs we buried because there was no space to hold them.

There’s a quiet power in the unseen. A dignity in not performing.

Walking here, I feel those parts of myself stir. The memories that don’t always make sense. The sensations without a story. The unnamed longings. Not everything needs to be analysed. Some things just need to be acknowledged.

As a therapist, I’ve learned that transformation often starts in the shadow places. Not in breakthroughs or epiphanies—but in the decision to simply stay. To be with the parts of ourselves that have gone underground.

Because healing doesn’t always come in bright flashes. Sometimes it’s a shuffle in the dark. A quiet return to the places we’ve kept hidden—even from ourselves.

And when we honour those parts, something in us breathes a little easier.

The wild parts of you? They matter too. You’re not broken. You’re buried. Let’s start unearthing.

Trust the quiet that stirs beneath the surface.

Sarah