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For the last few months, I kept telling people: I remember getting intentional about catching my youngest’s final time breastfeeding. I didn’t know the exact day it would happen—he weaned with a gentle mix of self-direction and my encouragement. But I knew I wanted to be fully present for it. And I was. It’s one of my sweetest memories. I could’ve multitasked it away, but I didn’t. So when his high school graduation approached, I carried that same intention into this milestone. Mission accomplished. I missed you all last week, but it was such a gift to know I’d created the space to savor every detail—every cap toss, every hug, every ornery ribbing and heartfelt toast. We celebrated him the way he deserved. My heart is still full. Family and friends gathered, shared food, and capped off the night with spontaneous backyard karaoke under the song of summer cicadas—the same brood that he toddled around with at age one, fists full of curiosity and bugs. We are loved and held. We are blessed.

Nature has solved for everything.

This is a common mantra in the environmental sciences.

Want to create a more efficient solar panel? Look to leaves. They gather sunlight, convert it into usable energy for an entire year—no battery backups required, no panic about cloud cover.

Want to purify water? Wetland plants and natural springs already do it.

Want vibrant, non-toxic color for your home? Study feathers. Nature’s palette is safe enough for even the tiniest bird.

This process of imitating nature—called biomimicry—has helped humans rethink and refine solutions to complex problems.

So why wouldn’t we turn to nature to solve for something as fundamental as stress?

What wild animal (in its natural environment—domestication changes things as the swaying elephants at the zoo or my tail chasing cat will tell you) regularly experiences anxiety, depression, or PTSD? It’s rare. Why? Because animals aren’t taught to override their instincts.

They do what their bodies need when stress happens.

Meanwhile, we humans create tight, artificial environments and social rules that interrupt that natural release. We surround ourselves with people who aren’t safe. We plop onto couches under artificial light, disconnected from the breeze and sun. We try to “be normal”—whatever that means.

But animals?
They get to safety.
They lick their wounds—physical and emotional.
They allow adrenaline to move through and out of their bodies.
They follow their self-healing instincts.

So what if your healing could be that intuitive?

What if you already have a lot of what you need to restore your nervous system?

Of course, our environments are more complex. And there’s a wide range of what’s “factory preset” for each of us.

But still—what shifts if you start believing that you’re wired for healing?

What if returning to nature—not just outside, but inside—was the missing key?

How might you live differently if you knew it would absolutely make a difference?

Did you ever feel like you were “too much,” “not enough,” or just never quite fit the mold?

You’re not alone.

Many neurodivergent adults—especially those raised as girls or socialized to be “good”—slipped through the cracks in childhood. Back then, we didn’t have the language. Neurodivergence was often mislabeled as a behavior issue instead of recognized as what it is: a brain wired differently.

Now? Adults are starting to realize that the struggles that made them feel awkward, bad, or broken might have had less to do with them—and more to do with an environment never designed with their needs in mind.

If you own a small business or are a solopreneur struggling right now, this message is for you.

There’s no doubt: people have pulled back on spending for anything that’s not essential right now. And that hits the wellness world extra hard—especially private-pay practices.

You’ve probably noticed I’ve been a little sporadic lately. So much is brewing in my life right now that I wanted to send a personal update this week—my rhythm will return soon.

My son is in his final month of high school—final projects, award ceremonies, prom . . . all the glorious (and bittersweet) things. I keep reminding myself I’m not the one who has to be stressed. Our bodies remember finals week like muscle memory, right?! If you’ve ever had one of those dreams where a paper is due and you forgot about it until 3 hours before—it’s like that.

I should have known there was a term for this.

My child with support and advocacy needs would need some extra special attention because the world was overwhelming his nervous system and then I would wrap everything I knew to do around him, up to and including new professionals, dietary changes, new environments/schools, whatever it took. I am a person who makes things happen, after all.

And each time, just as things seemed to be settling . . .

I call us parents of kids with advocacy and support needs. Others call us parent caregivers. Whatever the label, it’s a full-time job—before you even add on your paying job, household management, and, well… everything else.

There were phases to my job:

Before diagnosis: I swung between feeling like I was failing my child (why was he so emotional all the time?) and briefly wondering if the judgmental voices were right—maybe I wasn’t disciplining enough. Thankfully, my child made it very clear each time that was not the problem (ha!)

I have a personal practice of finding connection—both with people and with nature. This connection isn’t just about appreciating beauty; it’s a key part of how I regulate my nervous system.

For me, it goes even deeper. Nature reminds me of my personal Truth (week 6 of our Zapped to Zen mindfulness program). It’s a grounding force that brings me back to the perfection within imperfection.

This past week, mindfulness in nature helped me find stability—even while engaging in social justice efforts, worrying about the personal impact of politics, and supporting a loved one through a difficult time.

This newsletter is going to have a different flavor.

If you’re paying attention . . . You may have noticed that I raised an autistic child who is now an autistic young adult.

I have called the young adult phase “the slow reveal.”
Young adulthood, in many ways, is a slow reveal for everyone. What will come together for them? How will they show up to life? Did you set them up, as best you could, so they could seize success if they chose to?

“She. She’s figured out
All her doubts were someone else’s point of view . . .

Are you locked up in a world that’s been planned out for you?

Are you feeling like a social tool without a use?”

These lines are from the song “She” by Green Day.

These lyrics still hit home for my inner 20-something. And as I turn 54 (what?!?), I realize I’m not stuck in that story—I’m evolving it. NOT stuck there, but living it forward because I’ve done, and I keep doing, my personal growth work.

“I’m not good enough” was what my what I tongue-in-cheek refer to as “#1 on my Top 20 playlist.”

As a person who strived to always be good enough, it was easy to be “locked up” in everyone else’s beliefs for what “good” looked like. I’d just try harder.

Personal growth can feel like déjà vu—old struggles resurface, making us question whether we’ve actually made progress.