Come Home to Yourself: Not to Answers, But to Your Roots

I I just returned from the Pacific Northwest—where everything smells like memory and moss. The forests of Olympic National Park held me in a way the desert never has.

Somewhere between moss-covered roots and the hush of Olympic rain, I stopped, trying to understand. I just listened.

The desert teaches you how to survive. The forest reminds you how to receive.

In Joshua Tree, everything is bone and sky. Clarity. Silence. A kind of holy emptiness that strips you down to the bare truth. That’s where I built my dome. That’s where I learned how to hold space for pain, release, and breath.

But in the forest… things were different. Mossy, mysterious, its truths wrapped in shadows and fog. The trees don’t speak clearly, but they whisper in a language that stirs the old stories inside us.

Olympic National Park, WA

There, healing wasn’t sharp. It was soft. Not a letting go—but a letting in.

Old memories didn’t rise to be burned away. They curled around me like smoke from an ancestor’s fire—curious, familiar, even kind.

I walked through trees older than memory. And somewhere between the ferns and the fog, I felt it:

You don’t have to always clear.

Sometimes you just need to sit still and let the forest grow around you.

Many of you came to me this season holding not just your own weight, but that of your lineage. Your mother’s ache. Your grandmother’s silence. A river of stories that never got to rest.

I watched you breathe it out, sip tea with trembling hands, or simply sit and cry in the quiet. And still, something in me kept asking:

Is healing always about releasing? Or is it sometimes about calling something home?

That’s what the forest told me.

I’m not done with the desert.

Both heal. And I took them all in—letting the wild honesty of the desert and the quiet generosity of the forest move through me.

But I’m no longer afraid to be softened.

To receive.

To welcome the mess, the moisture, the layered mystery of what lives inside the body when we stop trying to fix it.

Maybe that’s the new moon gift—Not clarity, but permission. To begin again. To come home to yourself, not with answers, but with roots.

Wherever you are—Whether in the dry heat of your ownbe

coming, or walking a damp path of remembering—I hope you know this:

You’re not broken.

You’re growing in a thousand unseen ways.

Wherever you are on your healing path, may you know this: the earth offers many medicines. You don’t have to choose just one.

And I’ll be here, breathing beside you, with a kettle on.