You Cannot Be Lost

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Hey Reader 🌿

It has been a powerful month of activations, intense energies, and huge shifts. Has anyone else been going through the muck? I sure have. This month's journal is dedicated to those in the thick of it. Feeling the pressure of being in a tight spot. Needing to pivot. Realising that circumstances aren't unfolding as they had hoped. Looking for the medicine in the current state of affairs, and feeling tired of being tired. Life feels relentless, doesn't it?

This is our chance to collectively pause and find presence within the daily grind of our lives. A way to carve out moments of awareness, to create islands of peace amidst the chaos.

It’s easy to move through life on autopilot, to get caught up in meeting expectations, in the hum of urgency that modern life demands. But here, we practice something different. We practice presence. We practice noticing. We practice reconnecting with the wild parts of ourselves that still know how to listen.

So let this be your invitation: Find a moment. A notebook. A quiet place where your mind can ripple and expand. Let yourself soften. Let yourself wonder. There is something inside you waiting to take shape, to spill over the edges and find its own form. Creation is already happening—you just have to plant the seed and let it grow.

"The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering."

- Ben Okri

Being vulnerable and honest with ourselves is the first and foremost port of call for our ultimate healing. If we can't be honest with ourselves, then when are we ever letting the mask down? Our wild self stays caged—pacing, restless, waiting for the moment we finally let it breathe. We are never giving our wild self the chance to expand and shake it off. And ultimately, when are we allowing ourselves space to create? to explore?

Honesty isn’t always comfortable. When I look back, I see the missteps, the hard lessons, the choices I wish I’d made differently. I’ve walked through circumstances that tested me in ways I never expected, spent years clawing my way out of the trenches. There is wisdom in those struggles—wisdom still unfolding—but I won’t pretend it’s been easy. I’m grateful to be nearing the end of a long road, but I’m weary from constantly walking the edge, always bracing for the next wave. This bracing feels heavy, a weight that I've been bearing for a long time.

I hold space for a lot of people. I’m the one who says, It’s going to be okay. Look for the light. Keep going. And yet, sometimes the most honest thing we can do is admit: It’s not okay. Not yet. Maybe that’s where the medicine is—in the raw acceptance of what isn’t working, in allowing ourselves to pause long enough to feel what’s out of alignment before we push forward.

Now, I can feel the tide turning. The weight is easing, though the pressure still lingers. And while the journey isn’t over, for the first time in a long time, I’m looking at survival mode in my rearview mirror, wondering what thriving might feel like. The space between the two is strange terrain. The patterns we’ve learned—of urgency, of struggle, of making do—become invisible walls, shaping the way we move through life without us even realising it. But I know this: it’s time for a new way of being.

This month packed a punch. Between the shadows of the lunar and solar eclipses and the slow shift into autumn here in Aotearoa, there’s a distinct sense of shedding—of old skins, old cycles, and the weight of what no longer fits. Autumn is a threshold, a time of turning inward, of gathering what we need and preparing for the incubation of winter. It’s also a tuning into our chronoception—our internal sense of time, shaped by the rhythms of light and darkness, change and stillness.

Down south, the harvest has been lean this season, the weather unpredictable. Unexpected storms, both in the skies and in our lives, remind us how little control we truly have. But even amidst the upheaval, there is always something to gather—small offerings from the land, lessons from the chaos, quiet moments of warmth before the days grow short. This is the in-between, the space where what was is fading and what’s next is still uncertain. A liminal pause, asking us: What are we holding onto that no longer serves? And can we trust enough to step forward into the unknown?

The Pivot Point

For the ones navigating uncertainty, standing at the edge of what was, unsure of what’s next. Life has a way of unraveling our plans, but what if this unraveling is making space for something truer? What if being lost is just another way of being in motion? This issue is an invitation—to find the medicine in this moment, to seek guidance in the world around you, and to remember what anchors you back to the magic of being alive in all of it's fullness.

Journal Prompts:

• Where in my life do I feel lost or uncertain? If I stop resisting, what does this space open up for me?
• What is my anchor—the thing that always brings me back to myself, my purpose, my vitality?

An Exercise in Stillness – Coming Home to the Body

The mind can get tangled in loops of fear, but the body knows how to come home. This is a practice in surrender: find a patch of earth, a tree, the grass, the sand. Lay down. Get messy, don't worry about it. Feel your back press into the ground. Let yourself be held. Close your eyes. Tune into the sounds around you. Scan your body from head to toe and notice what you notice. Are there places you can relieve some tension or let go a bit more? Where are you holding tightly? What are you holding onto?

Journal Prompts:

• When was the last time I truly felt held, supported? How can I allow myself that feeling more often?
• What does my body crave in this season? More rest? More movement? More presence?
• If I trusted my body’s wisdom, what would it tell me?

Eclipse Season – A Portal of Change

We are moving through a time of deep transition. March held both a lunar and solar eclipse—gateways for release, renewal, realignment. Life is always shifting, but these moments ask us to be intentional about what we let go of and what we call in. The eclipse season is a time of shadow work, working with the things that we may even hide from ourselves.

What are the hard truths that we have buried deep within? It's time to unearth these skeletons and reconcile with them. Decide for ourselves what is worth carrying with us into the depths of winter, or what we decide to leaf behind. Yes, you see what I did there.🤣The shadows also illuminate the light. It's not all confronting work, it's also very enlightening as we begin to stop shying away from asking the important questions. We gain clarity and we can see better, regain focus and figure out our next steps.

Journal Prompts:

• What is coming to a close in my life? How might this be making space for something else?
• Where am I resisting change? What happens if I soften into trust?
• If I could step through this portal with full courage, what would I leave behind? What would I carry forward?

The Medicine Walk – Seeking Guidance in the Wild

Last week, I found myself in the throes of a breakdown. I was working in my happy place—the wild, rugged West Coast—creating content for a dear client and friend. In all outward appearances, life is good. And yet, beneath the surface, the weight of everything I have been carrying pressed in. I danced between expressing what was unfolding within me and continuing to hide it. But some things refuse to stay buried. They rise, unbidden, demanding to be seen.

Tears came. I let them. And then, I took myself on a medicine walk—a quiet offering to the land, an invitation for guidance.

I started down a track from the treehouse where I was staying, pausing at the trail’s edge. Eyes closed, hand to my heart, I whispered my intention: to be held, to be shown the way through the shadows, through this release, through the uncertainty. A deep inhale, a sip of air at the top, and a slow, steady exhale.

When I opened my eyes, a single kererū feather lay before me on the path. A knowing smile curled across my face, and I sighed.

"Alright, my friends. Let’s begin."

Pīwakawaka flitted around me, darting between branches, guiding my steps. The track wound through the dense bush, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. And then, the path shifted—no longer marked, just an opening in the earth. An old mining tunnel. A deep crevice carved into the land, just wide enough to slip into. I stood at the threshold and asked the unseen, "Is it time to go into the earth?"

The answer was yes.

I climbed down, steadying myself against damp stone, roots weaving above and below me. The scent of wet earth filled my lungs. In the quiet darkness, I traced my way through the tunnel, following twists and turns until—there. A break in the rock, a sliver of light & various shades of green. Light, waiting.

Saaschi was with me, hesitant, uncertain. She trembled, ears back, unsure about stepping into the unknown. I knelt beside her, whispering reassurance, placing my hand on her heart the way I had placed mine on my own earlier. Slowly, she trusted. We moved together, through the depths, towards the light.

As we emerged, an all-black pīwakawaka greeted us, flitting around in joyful circles. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, and relief flooded in. We were exactly where we needed to be.

We found a clearing and stayed there. The golden pockets of sunlight warmed my bones. The birdsong softened the edges of my grief. Tears came again, but this time, they carried something different—release.

This is what it means to see the forest from the trees. To step back, surrender, and trust the path forward. Even when you can’t see it yet.

When we don’t know what to do next, the earth has a way of showing us. This is a practice of listening: take a walk with no agenda, only a question. Let nature reflect back the answers. Engage in the conversation. Listen to your spirit guides.

How to do it:

1. Set an intention or ask a question before stepping outside.
2. Walk slowly, in silence, noticing what draws your attention.
3. Stop often. Sit. Stand. Be still. There is no need to get to a destination.
4. Observe without overthinking—symbols, sensations, signs.
5. Afterward & during, reflect: What did nature reveal?

Journal Prompts:

• What messages or patterns showed up for me?
• How does nature’s way of adapting mirror something in my own life?

The Anchor – Finding Your Way Home

Last week began heavy, as I photographed an event for a dear friend who passed last year. It was a suicide awareness event, in honour of her life—a life gone too soon, absolutely. The event featured many speakers who shared their personal struggles with darkness and their journey back into the light. As I documented the event, I found myself reflecting on my own experiences with that dark cloud. There have been numerous moments over the last decade when I wasn’t sure I would make it through. It’s hard to see the light when you’re deep in the depths of it.

One of the reasons I made it through was my little dog, Luna. During one of my darkest moments, I looked at her and realised I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself. We were in the wild together, and I couldn't abandon her. That moment of clarity gave me the strength to pull myself together and keep going. Luna became my anchor in that crisis.

We all need an anchor—something that tethers us to life when the currents pull hard. Maybe it’s movement, breath, a certain place, a practice, a person, an animal, a calling. When we lose our way, this is what brings us back. Have you ever thought about what your anchor is?

Final Reflection:

• What has always been my anchor, even in my hardest moments?
• How can I return to it now, with intention?
• Has my anchor changed over the years?

You Cannot Be Lost

Even in the thickest of our darkest nights, we are never truly lost. It may feel like we are, sometimes, adrift in an ocean of uncertainty, but the river always finds its way to the sea. The wind might bend the grass, but the roots, deep beneath the surface, always remain. You are constantly moving, shifting, evolving—sometimes in ways that you can’t even see yet. Trust the tide. Trust yourself. Trust that even when it feels like you are standing still, the currents of life are gently pushing you forward.

And in those moments when it feels like everything is crumbling, remember: having the right support around you is everything. The people who stand with you—those who hold space, who reflect your light back to you—are so much more than just companions. They are your mirrors, your guides, your anchors. Surround yourself with the ones who remind you of your worth, even when you forget it. They’ll help you find your way back when you’ve lost your bearings.

But above all, my friend, remember this: the light is always within you. Even when it feels distant, even when the days feel heavy and the shadows stretch long across your path, the light is there. You have the power to bring that flicker to a flame. And sometimes, all it takes is the courage to lean into it, to acknowledge the dimness, and trust that it will rise again. I believe in you, truly. And I believe in me, too. I believe that together, we have the power to create something beautiful, something magical, wherever we go. Let's hold the torch for each other.

If you're ready to take a deeper dive, to walk this path side by side, here are a couple of ways we can continue this adventure together:

🌿The Art of Rewilding: A Sacred Journey to Return to your Wild Self - set in the ancient rain forest of the West Coast ​

​🌿Book in for your Rewild Portrait Experience: The ultimate transformative experience realising yourself as art.​

That was a doozy of a journey for me this month, and I know it’s been a rollercoaster for many of you as well. But as we shed our skins and work through the shadows, I’m hopeful that the next month will bring more lightness. A softness, perhaps, a bit of a breather as we step into new seasons, both literally and metaphorically.

This journal, for me, is a ritual of presence. It’s where I show up, with intention and awareness, to express what’s alive within me. But it’s not just about me—this is a conversation. I would love to hear how this is landing for you. What thoughts are arising? What are you noticing within yourself? How are you feeling? This space is here for connection, and it’s exactly why I started this in the first place. Reach out, share your reflections, ask those meaningful questions, and let’s explore together. We’re in this together, after all.

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May you find moments of stillness amidst the chaos. May you see glimmers of wonder in the everyday. And may you always have the courage to walk this path with intention, with love, and with authenticity. Thank you for sharing this space with me—your presence here truly matters. I am so grateful to be on this journey with you.🌿

From my wild heart to yours ❤️‍🔥,

Kass ✨

​www.kassandralynne.co.nz​

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