I remember visiting the John Muir National Historic Site when I was living in California. Wildly, we were living only 20 minutes from the site. It wasn’t necessarily a flashy stop—but it stuck with me. There was something about the quiet of that space—the simplicity of his desk, the light through the windows, the trees just outside—that reminded me how much wisdom lives in stillness. If you ever get the chance, I highly recommend checking it out. It’s still one of my favourite tourist spots in the Bay. An incredible look into his life, his relationship with nature, and the quiet force that shaped so much of how we understand wilderness today.

After nearly losing his eyesight in a factory accident, Muir took what he called a “thousand-mile walk to the Gulf.” It wasn’t a hike—it was a pilgrimage. No grand plan. No professional ambition. Just a quiet yearning to listen to the land and see what it had to say.

He slept under the stars. Followed rivers without names. And somewhere in that slow, meandering journey, he began to see more clearly than he ever had before. Not just with his eyes—but with his whole being.

He once wrote, “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.” But what he found wasn’t just beauty—it was recalibration. A slowing of the frantic internal pace modern life had taught him. A remembrance that life doesn’t need to be wrestled into submission. It can be walked with. Partnered with. Heard.

I had my own version of that recalibration. I was out with Kevin Kossowan—someone who’s spent more of his life outdoors than most of us ever will. We weren’t chasing a shot or building a story. We were just out there. Cold air biting our cheeks. Sky wide open. No agenda. And something shifted.

Even though I grew up around and in nature, Kevin saw the land in a way I hadn’t yet—and helped me see it fully. Not as scenery, but as relationship. He moved with reverence, not urgency. Every step, every pause, was its own kind of listening. A way of showing that nature offers everything we need—and more.

That day, I started to notice things I’d usually rush past.

The way the light moved through the trees.

The rhythm of our breath syncing with the wind.

The strange, profound stillness that comes when no one’s trying to capture the moment—just live it.

And the abundance of food all around us. All the sustenance, under our feet and at our fingertips.

It changed me.

Not all at once. But enough to mark a before and after. That’s what this lesson is about—not using nature to perform calm, but letting it re-teach us how to be. We live in a world that measures time in outputs. But the forest doesn’t rush. The river doesn’t hustle. The mountain doesn’t optimize. And yet—everything gets done.

This isn’t about becoming someone who lives off-grid, or trading your phone for a ferro rod. It’s about reconnecting with something far older than productivity: presence. It’s about remembering that before you were a worker, a parent, a creator—you were a body. A living, breathing animal meant to be in relationship with the earth beneath your feet.

It reminds us how to feel again. How to listen without fixing. How to move at a rhythm that matches our nervous system—not just our deadlines.

So before you dive into the exercises, pause. Step outside, even just in your mind. Ask yourself: What part of me is trying too hard? What would it feel like to let the wind or the trees or the sky guide my attention for a little while?

You don’t need to change your life. You just need to return to it. Let this be your invitation.

The Reset Only Nature Can Offer

We often think of nature as something we visit when life slows down. But the truth is—nature is what helps us slow down. It’s not just restorative but it is also instructive. It teaches us how to listen again, how to regulate, and how to remember who we are beneath the noise.

This post shares a short video from inside the Accountability Tools for Creatives course—a course designed to help people build systems that actually match their lives. This particular lesson explores how time in nature helps us reset not just our energy, but our internal rhythm. The one beneath the pressure, the performance, and the scroll.

What Happens When You Stop Pushing?

It usually takes me about two full days in nature before I feel myself actually slow down. Day one, I’m still buzzing—mentally organizing, problem-solving, shoulder-tensing. But on day two, something shifts. My breath deepens. My jaw unclenches. I stop trying to control the outcome of everything and just… settle.

That version of me—the one that surfaces after stillness—is who I want to build my systems from. Not the reactive version chasing timelines. The rooted one. Present. Energized—not just efficient.

That’s what this lesson is here to support. A simple starting point for reconnecting with the part of yourself that doesn’t need to prove anything. Just needs a little more space to listen.

Why Nature Works (Even If You’re “Not That Outdoorsy”)

According to Attention Restoration Theory, developed by psychologists Stephen and Rachel Kaplan, nature helps reset our ability to focus by engaging the mind in a low-effort, spacious way. It gently pulls us out of fight-or-flight, drops cortisol levels, and quiets overthinking—so learning, clarity, and calm can actually land.

You don’t need a cabin. You don’t need a hiking pack. You don’t need to earn it.

You just need to notice what shifts when you step outside with intention.

Try It: A Gentle Practice from the Lesson

Here’s a small sample from the worksheet that accompanies this video lesson:

Go outside with no agenda (10–30 min) Don’t try to achieve anything. Just notice your breath, your shoulders and the pace of your thoughts.
Bring one question with you. Instead of trying to solve a problem, let nature hold it with you. Try asking either, “Where am I forcing something that wants to unfold?” or “What part of me needs more patience?”

It’s not about escape. It’s about returning—to a pace, a rhythm, and a self that can’t be accessed through hustle.