Forget-Me-Nots and the Morning Run: How the Small Things Anchor Us

This morning I ran through the woods. Early enough that the light hadn’t quite made up its mind. The dogs charged ahead, wild and full of purpose, while I found my rhythm slowly—breath, footfall, heartbeat, repeat.

There’s something about running in the woods that settles me. It isn’t about the pace. It’s about returning to something older than thought. Body forward, mind quiet, soul listening.

And then, just as the trail curved, I saw them. A scatter of forget-me-nots tucked into the roots of a fallen tree.Tiny bursts of blue with golden hearts, like memory made visible.Each one a soft reminder that beauty often hides low to the ground.

I paused, breath fogging slightly in the cool, and crouched to look closer. The seed pods of the flowers were heart-shaped. Not perfect. Not polished. But unmistakably there. Like the woodland was offering me something. A message, maybe. Or just a moment.

It made me think about how healing often works—not in the big breakthroughs, but in these small, almost-missed things. The flicker of a feeling. The unexpected softness. A pattern that shifts slightly. A memory that surfaces and doesn’t sting quite so much.

Forget-me-nots.Of course, that’s what they were.A whisper from the natural world to pay attention. To not forget the parts of ourselves we’ve buried or run from. To keep coming back. To let movement and stillness sit side by side.

Therapy can be like that too. A run through tangled thoughts. A breathless pause to notice what’s blooming at your feet. A reminder, again and again, that healing lives in the body as much as the mind.

I ran on after that. But lighter. More awake.

And I’m still carrying those heart-shaped pockets of gold with me.