Last time we met in this space, I was burnt out and systematically unraveling.
There wasn’t much poetry in me—just a deep, bone-heavy knowing that something needed to shift.
So I packed up Petra, my pups, and my mess of a mind and drove to the edge of the map.
To Paradise.
I’ve made this winter pilgrimage for seven years now. Same hut. Same valley. Same winding road that floods, freezes, and threatens to cut me off from the world.
And every single time—I go. Because something sacred always meets me there.
This year, it was ceremony.
To engage in conversation with the plant medicine. My allies. The kind of real talk that strips you bare. A ritual bathed in intention—to sit in silence, surrounded by the warmth of a rustic cabin, a crackling fire, and a wildly whipping storm outside. To listen to the questions that stir your soul awake and bring you to your knees in earth shattering grief.
It had me thinking about the resilience of these old huts—battered by seasons, still standing. Still holding. Like us.
And like every winter before, I returned raw. Months of burnout. Too many plates overflowing. Too much pushing through.
But also… a flicker of light. An internal voice that said: You’re nearly there.
So I lit the fire. Spoke my intentions into the air like a prayer. And I let the medicine take me.
The fire crackled like a heartbeat, and the medicine came not in answers— but in the questions I dared to ask.
Questions you speak firmly into the warm cup of sacred tea and brace yourself to hear back.
I closed my eyes and saw what I’d been avoiding. Because busyness—god, it’s seductive. It masquerades as purpose. But it’s just another distraction from the real work. The truth-sitting, shadow-facing, ego-burning kind.
To shift the narrative, we have to understand the script. To rewrite the story, we have to name where we played both the villain and the victim. We tell ourselves we’re doing our best—and we are. But are we thinking it all the way through?
How often do we sit with the seven layers of why?
Why we act the way we do.
Why we push so hard.
Why we settle.
Why we self-sabotage just when we’re getting close to what we want.
This Matariki, I’ve been reflecting on that. On the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. On the stories we bury, the ones we resurrect, and the seeds we dare to plant in the frost of midwinter. It’s a time to slow down and look up. To mourn what’s gone, give thanks for what remains, and realign with what truly matters.
My own resolution this season isn’t a hustle. It’s a remembrance.
That I am already enough. That joy is not frivolous. That rest is not a reward for productivity. That this body, this breath, this presence—is the miracle.
That’s where the plant medicine comes in—my oldest allies. Twenty years of learning their language & being in relationship with this mystical realm.
They don’t let me hide. They unearth what’s buried. They hold up the mirror and whisper, Look. Remember this?
So I sat.
In the stillness. In the myriad of emotions seeping from my pores. In the knowing that I had to burn off some old skin if I was going to step fully into the next version of myself.
What I experienced wasn’t just a detox from tech, clients, or emails.
It was a detox from the internalised belief that I must struggle to succeed. That I must grind to be enough.
And goodness me—what a lie that is.
Our bodies are not machines. Our souls are not made to sprint toward milestones without ever touching the earth.
This is the rebellion:
To rest. To receive. To move from devotion, not desperation. To stop abandoning yourself just to keep up. To stop burning the candle at both ends hoping you’ll arrive faster.
Because even if you do… you’ll be too exhausted to appreciate the view.
And likely too conditioned to move onto the next thing without even asking: why did I want this in the first place?
This winter, I’m moving differently.
Developing my purpose. Understanding my why. The essence of my offerings. The wisdom in my bones.
Allowing myself to experience more.... More connection. Long walks without my phone. More pleasure in my body. More presence with the people I love. Less proving. More truth.
I’m rebuilding from stillness. From discernment. I’m letting the medicine shape me. Letting the questions stir me. Letting the fire tend what still needs to burn away.
And somewhere in the stillness, I felt it rise again— Dignity.
Not as an armour. Not as a concept. But as a way of being in the mess.
To hold yourself with dignity means not flinching when the truth knocks. It means standing inside the storm and not shrinking from what it asks of you. It’s looking yourself dead in the eye when your edges feel frayed and saying— We’re still here. And we’re still whole.
It’s not about being composed. It’s about being anchored. It’s walking back into your own arms with softness, even when everything inside wants to bolt. It’s asking hard questions—and answering with compassion.
Dignity says: You don’t have to collapse to be honest. You don’t have to shatter to be real. You get to meet yourself, exactly as you are, and choose love anyway.
So I ask you:
What’s one old pattern you’re ready to release?
What does rest feel like in your body when you stop trying to earn it?
What if you didn’t need to struggle to be worthy of good things?
I didn’t take many photos this time around. I was too busy being. Speaking to the trees.
Dipping naked into icy rivers. Reconnecting with the channel that guides me. And receiving the kind of guidance that doesn’t arrive in words—but in feeling.
Maybe these glimpses will stir something in you too: A memory. A longing. A possibility.
Right now, I’m consciously integrating what came through.
Bringing some things to a close. Making space for what’s next. Letting the potency of that fire shape my offerings, my decisions, my way of being.
There’s big energy moving through. And I’m ready for it—not because I’m rested… but because I’ve remembered what matters.
This is our invitation. To reclaim what has always been ours:
Time. Pleasure. Peace. And the power to begin again—no matter where we’re starting from.
“Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach.” - Clarissa Pinkola Estés
