The moment you step into the forest with the intention to notice, something subtle shifts. Your pace slows. You pause more often. Your breathing becomes deeper, steadier. Your body begins to soften, relax. The forest is not in a hurry—and neither are you.
I don't remember exactly when the forest began calling me. It wasn't a big moment — more like a quiet pull. Maybe it started in the scent of fallen leaves, in a breeze across a field, or a sliver of morning light I didn’t notice at the time.