The Mud Shows Everything: A November Reflection

The woods feel quieter now.

Not empty—just hushed.The kind of quiet that sinks into your skin. The kind that comes after something has shifted, even if you can’t quite name what.

And underfoot, the ground has softened. The rain has done its work. Mud clings to boots. Pools gather in hoof-prints. And every creature that’s passed through here has left something behind.

Deer. Fox. Rabbit. Bird.

This morning, I traced the winding prints of a muntjac, so slight they almost vanished in the leaf-fall. I spotted the bold loops of our wild rabbit, the grey-and-white one looping through bramble as if she owns the place (and maybe she does). And, near the edge of the field, the clear, narrow-pointed paw prints of a fox—placed with purpose, like a story written in silence.

The mud shows everything.

It doesn’t judge.

It just holds.

What We Leave Behind

It’s easy to think we pass through this world unnoticed. That our small actions don’t matter. But the woodland says otherwise.

It remembers.

The broken twig. The pressed earth. The shape of movement in the soft places.

And in our own lives, we leave tracks, too.

In someone’s memory. In the energy we bring to a room. In the silence we hold, or the warmth we offer, or the care we show in small, quiet ways.

Even the choices we make when no one’s looking leave imprints.Especially those.

We don’t always know what our presence means to others. But that doesn’t mean it’s not felt.

The Ground Is Soft for a Reason

There’s something therapeutic about this season.

The way everything softens.The way the land receives rather than resists.The way we’re asked to see more carefully—to notice what's often invisible in harder, faster months.

In the therapy room, this softness shows up too. Moments where something sinks in.Where the defences drop.Where the impact of a story—yours or someone else’s—makes itself known.

This is the season of tender evidence.

The kind you can’t always explain.The kind that lingers under the surface, asking to be honoured.

The Wild Ones We’ve Met Before

I think of the creatures we’ve seen before.

The fox, agile and alert, leaving his signature on the edge of the woods. The rabbit, unusual in colour but bold in spirit, doing life her own way. The muntjac, solitary and cautious, but never absent.The birds that come and go, weaving flight paths above the trees.

Their tracks tell me that presence doesn’t need to be dramatic to be real. That movement matters, even when it’s quiet. That something of us always remains.

We are never as invisible as we think.

We mark the ground. We shape the season. We leave something behind—sometimes beautiful, sometimes messy, always true.

Let the soft earth hold what you’ve lived. Let your footsteps mean something, even if no one else sees them.

Sarah x