Holding Ground, Not Holding Back

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Hey Reader 🌿

Welcome to this month’s edition of Coming to Our Senses.

If March was a love letter to emergence from the shadows, then April is the chapter where we admit—we’re not quite out of the woods yet. We’re in the thick of it, babe. The fog is clinging, the ground is squishy, and the so-called map we packed seems to be... emotionally unavailable.

But here’s the message I’m sitting with: presence doesn’t always look like peace. It isn’t always calm waters and gentle sighs. Sometimes it’s showing up anyway, heart thumping, breath tight, eyes wide open—choosing not to bolt when everything in you wants to escape.

We’ve been spoon-fed this myth that being “present” means we’re supposed to be serene and glowing and drinking ceremonial cacao on an altar perfectly curated for Instagram. But what about when you’re shoulder-deep in the muck? What about when you’re staring down a bank account you’d rather not look at, or walking into a conversation that knots your belly? That, too, is presence.

So let this be your exhale. Your sacred permission slip to stop pretending you’re supposed to have it all figured out. Find a spot—your favourite corner, a sunny patch of floor, the back step with a blanket—and drop in. Take a sip. Crack the spine of your journal. Let the truth of where you are right now spill onto the page without censorship or shame.

There is medicine here. Even in the mess. Especially in the mess.

"presence isn’t stillness.

it’s sensation. and presence doesn’t mean peace.

sometimes presence feels like panic,

like a scream lodged under the sternum,

like rage that’s been celibate for years

and suddenly begs to be danced out

in the dark."

- @christhecocreator

We all know that kind of presence. The kind that isn’t photogenic. The kind that doesn’t sit cross-legged in a sunbeam, humming affirmations and sipping tea. No—this kind of presence grabs you by the shoulders and throws you into the arena. It’s the pounding of your heart in your ears. The sharp inhale before the next wave hits. The full-body tremble that reminds you: I am still here. I am still choosing to stay.

This is the presence that surfaces when our nervous system flares. When our animal instincts of fight, flight, freeze, or fawn rise to the surface. It’s easy to talk about regulation, but what we’re really aiming for is resonance—a relationship with our internal landscape that allows us to move with the current, not just brace against it.

This isn’t about bypassing the discomfort or pretending everything’s okay. It’s about asking, “How am I meeting the moment I’m in?” Are we stuck on the sidelines, sitting at the edge of the riverbank waiting for the storm to pass—or are we willing to swim to the middle and learn from the current?

I have a story I want to share with you.

It takes place on the shores and in the waters of Lake Pukaki and the maunga Aoraki (Mt. Cook). That glacial water, an unreal blue that makes your eyes sparkle just looking at it. Saaschi and I had pulled up after a long road trip and some back-to-back work days. I was depleted, scattered, and craving clarity—the kind only a nourishing nap under the trees can bring.

It was scorching that day, and the coolness under the trees was enough to send us both into a slumber. When I awoke and looked out the water was still. Glass-like. Not a breeze in the air. I’m a strong swimmer with deep water training—I’ve done scuba, freediving, the works. Swimming to the little island out in the middle didn’t even register as risky. It was instinctual. Healing. A fun challenge perhaps.

So I waded in and began the journey out. Stroke after stroke, body slicing through the still teal blue, my mind emptying. It felt rejuvenating and playful. I felt free. When I reflect, I also felt a bit of a competitive edge to make it to the island. I could have just swam a bit and returned to shore. No, my ego wanted to meet my edges.

I reached the island. Climbed up on the rocks. Let the sun thaw my skin and meditated there, facing Aoraki, eyes closed, heart full. I felt as if I was conversing with the mountain. Energy surging through my body.

And then it changed.

Not gently. An immediate shift.

What had moments ago been a flat, shimmering expanse suddenly started to churn. It was subtle at first—the kind of subtle your primal body clocks before your mind catches up. I heard the slap of water on rock in front of me. Not a rhythm I expected. When I opened my eyes, I saw it: the far-off haze thickening, moving like a wall toward me. The wind had arrived—fast and without warning—and with it, a heaving energy that flipped the entire landscape.

It was like the lake had exhaled, hard.

And I was out in the middle of it.

Alone on an exposed rock, with my dog on the distant shore and a thousand meters of open water between us, I watched the stillness unravel. Small waves building into surges. The kind of movement that tells you this is not your domain anymore.

I scanned the shoreline. No boats. No people. No one to yell to, no backup plan. Just me, a glacial-fed lake suddenly roaring, and a thick knowing settling in my gut: this is going to be a fight.

Every survival instinct in my body lit up like a flare.

Now, I’m not new to risk. I’ve trained for this. I’ve navigated rough seas, dropped into silence underwater, handled myself in situations where panic isn’t a luxury you can afford. But something about this moment—maybe the solitude, maybe the suddenness—struck a nerve I didn’t know was exposed.

Panic flirted at the edges. I felt my breath catch and skip, my muscles brace and tighten.

I needed to get back. So I started my swim into the waves.

Struggling to catch my breath with mouthfuls of water incoming. Panic no longer at the edges but fully enveloping me. I started to think I might not make it. Even if I could call out, who would come and rescue me? No one. I couldn't catch my breath. My heart was pounding.

That was the moment. The threshold between survival and surrender.

I decided to lay back in the water and floated. Letting my spine stretch long, my ribs rise and fall with the breath I could control. I started scanning—first my breath, then my limbs, then the story in my head. I knew the waves were getting rougher, but panic would only make me a liability to myself. I tapped into every tool I’ve ever taught or practiced—somatic awareness, breathwork, tapping, resourcing and pep talking all parts of me to join forces.

I reminded myself: you are not a tourist in this body. You’ve trained for this, you are more than capable. Trust it.

I kept moving. Slow, deliberate strokes. The waves slapped at me like they had something to say. But I wasn’t trying to dominate the lake anymore, the competitor part of me had met the edge it was looking for and now my ego was bowing to the natural elements I was immersed in—I was moving with it all, adapting. Floating when I needed to. Pushing when it felt right. Timing the breath. Talking to myself aloud like a coach, a mother, a friend: We’re okay. You’ve got this. Breathe. Scan. Adjust. Again.

As I neared the shoreline, the rocks became visible—sharp and unwelcoming. The waves were dumping hard now, like the lake had grown impatient with my return.

I waited. Timed the sets like a surfer. Chose my moment and swam straight into it.

When my feet finally scraped stone and I dragged myself out of the chaos, my whole body shook. With relief. With exhaustion. With adrenaline. I looked up, water streaming down my face, heart still rattling in its cage—and there was Saaschi. Hiding in the trees, tail tucked, watching the whole thing. She hadn’t come to the water. Not like her at all. She knew.

We both stood there, eyes wide. Two creatures pulled from the edge of something unseen. The lake had spoken.

And the word still etched in my bones & churning in my belly?

Taniwha.

Myth as Mirrors

The Taniwha of Lake Pukaki—once a guardian, a mover of tides, a sacred protector of flow—now trapped. Blocked from his ancestral path by hydro dams, cut off from the rivers that once led him home to the sea. What happens when a force of nature is caged?

He grows restless. Frustrated. Fierce.

And I can’t help but see myself in that.

How many of us have felt the same? Suppressed. Silenced. Dammed at the source.
Taught to be tame when we were made to be tidal.
Taught to sit pretty, when really we were meant to move mountains.

This isn’t just a story about a mythical beast being trapped in glacial waters—it’s about the parts of ourselves we’ve had to shut down to be accepted, to belong, to survive.
The rage that’s gone unexpressed.
The grief that had no place to land.
The wildness we tucked away to keep the peace.

But those parts haven’t gone.
They’re still moving under the surface, like the Taniwha beneath the blue.
Pressing up against the edges.
Waiting for us to notice.

We don’t always realise how much power we hold until we feel what it’s like to have that power contained. To hit the wall of expectation. To wake up one day and wonder: Where did I go?

The invitation here isn’t to fear the fire, or the flood.
It’s to honour it.

To let it move.
To feel it fully—not to explode or collapse, but to reclaim.

We are not broken because we are angry. We are not weak because we grieve.
We are not less than because we can’t hold it all together anymore.

That’s your Taniwha calling.
Not to destroy—but to free.
To return you to your waters.

Reflections to Rewild Your Inner Waters

• Where in your life do you feel dammed or blocked from your natural flow?
• What part of you has been screaming quietly for space to exist?
• Can you remember the first time you were told to “calm down” or “be good”? What did you have to suppress in that moment?
• Where do you need to build the courage to move as you were meant to—not as you were moulded to?

Somatic Practice: Releasing the Waters Within

This is a Taniwha invocation of sorts. A way to meet the parts of you that have been trapped beneath the surface, and let them move, with reverence and care.

🌀 What you’ll need:​
– A space where you can move freely
– Something to ground you (bare feet on earth, hands on heart, or back against a wall)
– A few uninterrupted minutes

Step 1: Orient & Ground​
Stand or sit in a way that feels rooted.
Notice what’s holding you—your feet on the ground, the seat beneath you, the wall behind your spine.
Let yourself lean into that support. Let it hold the parts of you that are tired.

Step 2: Breathe Into the Deep​
Place one hand on your chest, one on your belly.
Close your eyes if it feels safe.
Take a slow breath in through your nose. Hold it gently.
Exhale through your mouth with a sound—any sound. Sigh, growl, hum.
Let the breath carry you. Do this 3–5 times.

Step 3: Shake the Dams Loose​
Start gently bouncing on your heels. Let your knees stay soft.
Allow your arms to swing a little. Let your jaw slacken.
You’re not performing—just releasing.
Shake your shoulders. Your spine. Your fingers. Let the energy move.
If emotion rises—tears, laughter, sound—welcome it.

Step 4: Place Your Hands Where It Hurts​
Slow down. Place your hands on the part of your body that feels heavy, tight, or tender.
Breathe into that space.
Say (out loud if you can):
​“I see you. I hear you. You are allowed to be here.”​
Repeat until something shifts—even just a little.

Step 5: Stillness, Integration​
Lie down if you can—or stay seated with your spine supported.
Close your eyes. Listen.
Notice what’s changed. Even if it's subtle.
Ask: What part of me feels more free right now?​
When you're ready, open your eyes and place a hand to your heart.

This is a practice you can come back to whenever the pressure builds. This isn’t about fixing yourself. It’s about tuning in—gently, consistently—so your system can remember it’s safe to feel.
When the world feels loud and fast and the old patterns want to kick in, this practice becomes a threshold.
A space to notice the subtle cues:
The tightening in your jaw. The flutter in your chest. The clench of your belly.
These aren’t inconveniences—they’re messages. Invitations.
Your nervous system doesn’t need you to override. It needs you to attune. To assess. To say: I hear you.

Because healing isn’t always a dramatic breakthrough.
Sometimes it’s a tiny shift in breath.
The softening of your shoulders.
The moment you choose to stay with yourself instead of disconnect.
This is how we begin to move from survival into resonance.
Not all at once—but breath by breath, moment by moment, choice by choice.

Floating Through the Current: What the Taniwha Taught Me

When I felt the panic start to rise in that lake—when the distance back to shore suddenly stretched longer than I expected—I didn’t force myself to push harder. I floated.

I scanned my body. Noticed the tension in my jaw, the clench in my belly, the flutter in my chest. I told myself: Breathe. Feel. Resource. Regulate.​
This is what we practice for.
Not for the perfect sunrise yoga session, but for the moment your nervous system starts screaming.

And here’s what I know now: I didn’t need the water to calm. I needed me to find resonance within it.

That’s what presence really is.

To notice the parts of us that might be cheekily pushing our edges out of pride.
Not the absence of chaos—but the capacity to meet it, with something deeper than panic.
To trust your own pulse.
To hear the signal underneath the noise.
To float until your feet find ground again.

This is what I teach. Not just through words, but through the body. Through the lens. Through water. Through wilderness. Through art.
It’s not about bypassing the storm. It’s about learning to move with it, to dance with the currents, to know which parts of you sink and which parts rise.

So here’s the invitation, dear one:

• Notice when your breath shortens.
• Notice when you clench or numb or detach.
• Ask yourself: Am I present because I’m calm, or because I’m willing to be with what is?
• And then: What would it take to feel safe enough to stay?

This is the work of a lifetime.
And it’s not one we’re meant to do alone.

Upcoming Ways to Rewild With Me

If you’re ready to go deeper, here are the doors currently open:

🌿 Rewilding Mastermind | August to September
An 8-week immersive journey to nourish your nervous system, reignite your creative fire, and realign with the wild pulse of your life. Includes weekly group calls, somatic + creative practice, and your very own portrait experience to integrate all that we've worked through.

🌿 The Art of Rewilding Workshop | West Coast, Aotearoa​
Return to the land. Return to your senses. A guided retreat in the wild rainforest of the South Island for those seeking creative expression through portrait photography, deep inner work through somatic movement, expression, and embodiment. No set dates, we build this around your schedule and curate something unique to your journey.

🌿 Custom Rewild Portrait Experience​
You, as art. A portrait session designed as ritual, reclamation, and remembering. Shot in the landscapes that feel like home to you. Let yourself be seen—fully.

If you are resonating with any of these offerings, let me know and I can send you more information.

Final Reflections: The Shoreline Between What Was and What’s Becoming

These autumnal & winter transitions—of eclipses, of descent, of shedding—have brought with it an undeniable intensity. Agitation. Resistance. Old patterns resurfacing just when we thought we’d “dealt with them.”

And yet… something softer has also emerged. A listening. A presence. It doesn’t demand immediate clarity or solutions, but instead says: stay close. Be with what is. Even if it trembles. Even if it aches.

I promise you this is where the medicine lives.

As I reached the end of writing this, I pulled a collective oracle card to ground us—and of course, it was the Shaman’s Death.

Not a death to fear, but a rite of passage.

A call to honour the parts of ourselves that are ready to go—old identities, outdated stories, survival strategies that no longer serve the person we’re becoming. It’s the sacred pause before the rebirth. The space between exhale and inhale.

And so, as we descend deeper into winter, I invite you to lay it all down. Not in defeat, but in devotion. Let what’s no longer aligned return to the soil. Compost it. Bless it. Let it feed the next season of your becoming.

Whatever you’re navigating right now, may you remember this:
You do not have to feel calm to be whole.
You do not have to be fearless to move forward.
The current may shift—but you, wild one, know how to float.

So take a breath.
Soften your jaw.
Release your shoulders.
And come back to the body that carries you.

I’ll meet you at the shoreline.

From my wild heart to yours ❤️‍🔥,

Kass ✨

​www.kassandralynne.co.nz​

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