By surrounding myself with nature, I found myself

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By surrounding myself with trees, birds, and the serenity of nature, I was able to slow down long enough to reflect on the beauty that still exists in my life.

I had been questioning everything.

What have I been doing? How have I allowed myself to become so lost these last few weeks? Lost and frozen beneath the weight of anxiety and fear of all the “what ifs.”

What if I’m not good enough?

What if I’m just wasting my time?

What if I fail and let everyone close to me down?

What if I let myself and my own expectations down?

And perhaps the question that bothered me the most: How can I better prioritize my time so I feel less like I am failing as a mom, a wife, a teacher, and a writer?

I have so many ideas. So many stories. So many experiences with my kids, my family, and within my own life. I have written them over and over again in my head. I have imagined the words, the conversations, the emotions, and the moments I want to capture.

But when it comes to actually putting those stories on paper, I have somehow managed to come up with every excuse in the book for why I don't have the time.

And deep down, I know the truth.

The only person who thinks an excuse has merit is the person making it.

So, last weekend, my daughter went on her first Girl Scout camping trip. Months ago, I had signed up to be one of the moms attending, never imagining how much I would dread the weekend.

And I almost let that dread win.

It wasn't because I was worried about sleeping outdoors in the cold and rain. It was because, lately, I had been allowing my anxiety and depression to get the better of me. The thought of spending an entire weekend somewhere unfamiliar, surrounded by new people and eighteen energetic eight and nine year old girls with seven moms trying to keep everything organized had my stomach in knots.

Friday night started exactly as expected: rainy, windy, and cold. There were a few minor hiccups, but nothing we couldn't handle.

Then Saturday morning arrived.

And so did the sun.

The warmth returned. The rain disappeared. A gentle breeze moved through the trees, and suddenly the entire campground seemed to come alive.

We hiked.

We went canoeing.

We watched the girls learn archery.

We searched for eggs during a scavenger hunt.

We taught them how to build a campfire and, eventually, how to cook over it.

But more than anything, I watched my daughter.

I watched her learn.

I watched her laugh.

I watched her make new friendships.

I watched her experience something completely new and discover the simple wonders of being outside.

And somewhere along the trail, something inside me began to shift.

The girls' smiles were contagious. Their excitement was genuine and uncomplicated. They weren't worried about what might happen next week. They weren't questioning whether they were doing enough or whether they were good enough.

They were simply there.

Living.

Laughing.

Exploring.

Making memories.

And maybe that was exactly what I needed to remember how to do.

I had brought a pen and notepad with me, almost as an afterthought, a little “just in case I feel inspired” decision I made at the last minute.

I'm so glad I did.

By midday Saturday, as we hiked toward the canoeing area, I looked around and really saw where I was.

The trees stretched above us, their branches moving gently in the breeze. Sunlight filtered through the leaves. The girls' laughter echoed along the trail. Somewhere nearby, water rushed over rocks, creating a steady rhythm beneath the chirping birds.

Nature had become a symphony.

The trees were the strings.

The wind was the melody.

The rushing water was the percussion.

The birds were the singers.

And the girls' laughter was the chorus.

For the first time in weeks, my mind wasn't racing.

I wasn't thinking about everything I wasn't accomplishing.

I wasn't worrying about tomorrow.

I wasn't wondering whether I was enough.

I was simply there.

And I was happy.

Later that afternoon, I found a quiet moment and finally opened my notebook. I put pen to paper and wrote:

“I sit here writing old school, pen and paper, while the trees sway with a spring breeze. The sun shines with warmth as the girls run around laughing and making memories. I can hear the streams flowing, water churning over rocks nearby, and the birds chirping, singing their own love songs. The scent of spring flowers blooming anew is intoxicating to my senses. Camping is so peaceful and full of so many musical sounds that anything you hear on the radio pales in comparison.”

Those words weren't planned.

They weren't perfect.

They didn't need to be.

They were simply there.

And for the first time in a while, so was my voice.

Maybe I didn't need another plan. Maybe I didn't need to wait until I had more time. Maybe I didn't need the perfect quiet house, the perfect morning, or hours of uninterrupted time.

Maybe I simply needed to begin.

Since that weekend, I've been refinding my passion and refinding my voice the old fashioned way with pen and paper, sunlight, birdsong, and Mother Nature as my muse.

I had forgotten how good it felt to write simply because I had something to say.

So, prepare.

I'll be telling my stories. I'll be sharing the moments that make me laugh, the moments that make me cry, the moments that make me question life, and the moments that remind me why I love it.

And apparently, I won't be writing alone.

I've inspired my kids to start writing, too.

And their imaginations amaze me.

They've been creating stories about airplanes, engineering, bunnies, unicorns, and magical fairylands. Their stories are imaginative, funny, strange, wonderful, and completely their own.

Watching them create has reminded me of something I had almost forgotten:

Sometimes, the best stories aren't the ones we plan.

They're the ones we simply sit down and write.

So maybe this little camping trip wasn't just a Girl Scout weekend after all.

Maybe it was my reminder to stop being afraid of the “what ifs.”

What if I'm not good enough?

What if I fail?

What if nobody reads what I write?

What if I don't have enough time?

Maybe instead I should be asking:

What if I try?

What if I write anyway?

What if I give myself permission to create without worrying whether it's perfect?

What if I stop measuring my worth by everything I haven't accomplished and start noticing everything I already have?

Because somewhere between the trees, the sunshine, the rushing water, the birds, and the laughter of eighteen little girls, I found something I had been missing.

I found a little bit of peace.

I found inspiration.

I found my passion.

And most importantly, I found my voice again

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