Wild Spaces Equal a Calm Mind
- Dawn Murphy
- Oct 6
- 5 min read
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I’m a nature-loving mess. My mom calls me her “Greenpeace Child,” and honestly? Guilty as charged. I grew up surrounded by animals, camping gear, and the kind of trail snacks that leave granola in your socks.
But loving nature isn’t just a personality quirk—it’s survival. I live with autism, anxiety, depression, and PTSD. That’s a lot of mental tabs open at once. And nature? Nature is the one thing that doesn’t crash them.
Whether it’s birdsong, rustling leaves, or the quiet hum of cicadas, wild spaces offer something rare: peace without pressure. They don’t fix me. They remind me I’m not broken.
Nature as Nervous System Support
Nature doesn’t just feel good—it is good for your brain. Studies show that spending time in green spaces can lower cortisol (the stress hormone), slow your heart rate, and even boost your ability to focus.
But I didn’t need a research paper to tell me that. I’ve felt it in my bones—literally. When I step outside, my shoulders drop. My breath deepens. My brain, which usually feels like a browser with 47 tabs open, finally lets me close a few.
Whether it’s the rhythm of bird calls or the way sunlight flickers through leaves, nature speaks in a language my nervous system understands. It doesn’t demand anything. It just is. And that’s a natural medicine.
As a student who’s studied everything from atoms to animal behavior to the art of photographing moss, I’ve learned that nature is both wildly complex and beautifully simple. It’s a system we’re part of—not separate from. And when we reconnect with it, something inside us softens.
To that end, I’ve started to notice how nature’s patterns mirror our own. The way animals self-regulate, the way plants respond to light—it’s all a quiet reminder that we’re part of something bigger, and that healing doesn’t have to be loud.
Rituals of Connection
Everyone knows about the fabled "wellness routine" that many influencers, therapists, and workout people rave about. I don’t have a wellness routine. I have rituals.
I walk. I watch birds. I sketch plants. I whisper and quietly converse with chipmunks. These aren’t just hobbies—they’re anchors. They help me regulate my emotions, spark creativity, and feel like I belong to something bigger than my own brain. Sometimes, feeling bigger isn't even what happens. I feel smaller, but not insignificant. Just in the moment.
Rituals don’t have to be elaborate or Instagram-worthy. They just have to be yours. Maybe it’s sitting by a window and counting clouds. Maybe it’s collecting rocks because they're pretty and shiny. Maybe it's naming every single animal you see more than once in a day after your favorite fictional characters (I once called a duo of toads living by our front door “Tom” and "Jerry").
These small acts create rhythm. They offer comfort. They remind you that healing can be quiet, silly, and deeply personal. And they remind you that healing can also make no sense to anyone but yourself.
Do you like my random little rituals? Well, you can create your own! Try some of these suggestions, or make up totally new ones:
Keep a "Nature Journal" with doodles, pressed leaves, or notes on the weather.
Create a "calming kit" with stones, feathers, or recorded nature sounds (use your phone).
Get yourself a windowsill plant, name it, and care for it (bonus points for puns).
Sit outside for maybe five minutes and just... Listen.
Make a little seasonal "alter" with your favorite things from outside.
Ultimately, regardless of what you use or do, rituals are how we create meaning. They’re how we say, “I’m here. I’m trying. I’m part of this.”
Having Nature Be Accessible
Nature is healing—but only if you can get to it. And for a lot of us, that’s not as simple as it sounds.
I’m disabled. I don’t drive. My adventures rely on family, public transit, and a whole lot of creativity. That means no spontaneous mountain hikes or scenic detours. But it also means I’ve learned how to find wildness in small places—like the patch of moss behind a bus stop or the birds nesting near the grocery store.
Accessibility isn’t just about ramps and trail markers (though those do matter a lot). It’s about reimagining nature as something that comes to us, not just something we go to. That could mean:
A window garden with herbs, succulents, and wildflowers.
Nature sound playlists (like frogs, birds, rain, wind through trees, etc).
Virtual trail walks or livestreamed hikes. (I have just as much fun watching other people hike as I do partaking!)
Those previously mentioned "calming" or "nature kits" with textures, scents, and calming visuals.
A local park bench that's actually accessible from the sidewalk.
These suggested alternatives aren’t lesser—they’re liberating. They say, “You belong here,” even if “here” looks different for each of us.
Now, here’s the thing: not everyone gets to sit beside a pond. Some of us find our peace in sidewalk gardens, window views, or the sound of wind through a cracked-open door. That’s why access matters—not just for recreation, but for restoration.
Nature doesn’t have to be grand to be healing. It just has to be reachable.
Nature as a Co-Therapist
Therapy helps me name the storm. Nature helps me sit in it.
I’ve got a whole toolkit—medication, journaling, support systems—but nature is the quiet companion that never asks for words. It doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t analyze. It just shows up.
When I walk through a patch of trees or sit beside a pond, I’m reminded that healing isn’t always linear. Sometimes it’s seasonal. Sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it feels like watching a squirrel panic over a nut it buried five minutes ago, laughing so hard you forget what you were upset about.
Nature teaches me resilience—not by pushing me, but by modeling it. Trees bend. Birds migrate. Frogs sing in the rain. There’s grief, joy, and adaptation in every corner of the wild. And somehow, that helps me feel less alone and more at peace.
You don’t have to be a “nature person” to feel this. You just have to let it in. Even a single leaf on your windowsill can be a reminder: you’re part of something living, growing, and worthy of care.
In the End - Let Nature In
Nature doesn’t ask for credentials. It doesn’t care if you’re having a meltdown, wearing mismatched socks, or carrying a backpack full of emotional baggage. It just opens the door.
Whether you’re walking, wheeling, sitting, or simply staring out the window, nature has a way of saying, “You’re welcome here.” And that welcome can be the beginning of healing.
So let’s make nature part of the care plan. Not as a replacement for therapy or medication, but as a companion. A co-therapist. A quiet friend who reminds us to breathe, to notice, to belong.
Start small. A leaf. A breeze. A bird call. Let those tiny moments be enough. Let them be sacred. Let them be yours.
Got some ideas already? Cool, glad to hear!
If you don't, I've got you covered:
Try a nature-inspired writing prompt: "What does peace sound like outside my door?"
Explore my art series "Endangered Motivations" for some visual reflections on healing and wildness.
Share your own neat nature rituals with someone else who might need it!
Nature lets us in- it gives us these chances all the time. Let's return the favor by allowing it into our routines, our spaces, and our hearts.
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