The Mole, the Rabbit, and the Ones Who Walk Their Own Way

I’ve been spending more time than usual on the forest floor lately.

Not metaphorically, though that’s probably true too. I mean literally. Hands in the soil, boots on moss, tracking signs of life that usually go unnoticed. Just beyond the track where the woods deepen, the ground is coming alive again—scattered molehills, soft eruptions of earth.

Tiny volcanoes. Quiet upheavals. The unseen made visible.

There’s something strangely moving about a molehill. This soft protest against the surface. No spectacle, no sound—just the slow insistence of something underground needing to breathe.

And then there’s the rabbit.

She doesn’t belong here. At least, that was my first thought.

Small, white and grey, almost delicate. At first glance, she looked like a Dutch Dwarf: a house rabbit, the sort of creature you’d expect to find curled up on a child’s lap or safe behind wire, not darting through the undergrowth of an ancient woodland.

I assumed she was an escapee. Someone’s lost pet. Too pale, too soft, too visible to survive. I caught myself worrying she wouldn’t last the week.

But here’s the thing, she did.

And not just one week. Week after week, month after month, she’s still here. Still alert. Still very much alive.

Not every survivor looks the way you expect them to

When I first saw her, I projected fragility onto her body, onto her difference. But she has her own kind of knowing. She’s not trying to blend in. She’s not trying to become like the others. She’s found her own rhythm. Her own hiding places. Her own way.

It turns out she’s likely second or third generation. Born wild, but marked by something domestic in her lineage. Neither fully one thing nor the other.

And maybe that’s her strength. Maybe that’s what makes her able to adapt.

Some of us are moles. Some of us are rabbits. Some of us are both.

The more I think about it, the more I realise how many of us move through the world like this—unseen, misread, or marked out as ‘not quite right’.

You might be someone who lives mostly underground, like the mole, quiet, inward, reshaping your life slowly from beneath the surface.

Or you might be like the rabbit, visible, soft, and always a little outside the pack. Too sensitive. Too intense. Too emotional. Too different.

Or both.Underground one day. Out in the open the next.

Either way, there’s courage in both. In tunnelling. In darting. In staying alive when the world tells you you shouldn’t.

Rewilding the Self

The world trains us to believe that safety comes from sameness. That we must blend in, perform, protect, and behave.

But what if real safety comes from knowing yourself deeply enough to live differently?

That rabbit in the woods doesn’t blend in. Those molehills ruin the smoothness of the lawn.

And yet—this is life happening, wild and unscripted. Just like you. Just like me.

Field Notes: Becoming Yourself

When I work with clients, this is often where we begin, not with fixing, but with noticing. With making space for the parts of ourselves that have been burrowed away or shut down. With learning how to stand out again without apology.

That’s why I’ve created the Field Notes: Becoming Yourself journal—a space to gently explore your own way of being, your rhythms, your story.

Because becoming yourself isn’t about striving. It’s about remembering. It’s about noticing your own molehills. It’s about watching the woods and realising you were never meant to blend in.

With soil on my hands and deep respect for your wild,

Sarah x