This Is How the Forest Changes: Slowness, Seasons, and the Grace of Staying Put

I walk the same path almost every day.

A loop through the woods, across the field, past the alder line and back again. It’s nothing spectacular—no sweeping views or dramatic cliffs. But it’s where I notice the small things.

The bramble that wasn't there last week. The patch of mushrooms rises overnight. The way light filters differently through the same trees.

Nothing happens quickly here. And yet, everything changes.

In therapy and in life, we often crave big transformations. Moments that shift everything. But the forest teaches a different rhythm—one of tiny movements, barely visible at first, that slowly become undeniable.

A fallen branch decomposes. A fern uncurls. A deer path appears over the weeks.

Maybe healing is like that, too. Maybe we’re not meant to leap. Maybe we’re meant to stay, and watch, and let ourselves change in ways we can’t measure.

There’s no urgency here. No demand for reinvention. Just the quiet grace of staying put.

Maybe this is the most important work of all. Learning to stay. To notice. To let the quiet moments change us. The forest teaches it every day. I’m still learning how to listen.

Slow isn’t stuck. It’s sacred. You’re not late. You’re just in season.

Let the season do its work.

Sarah