What Nature Knows

That We Forget to Remember

When I slow down enough to hear
A story of quiet truths and how they show up in our everyday lives—with a little help from nature and the C.A.L.M. Framework.

There’s a kind of wisdom the world rushes past. It’s not loud. It doesn’t demand attention.
But if you’ve ever paused long enough to notice how the sun lingers at golden hour, or how a tide pulls back with perfect timing, then you’ve felt it.

Nature isn’t trying to prove anything. It just is. And in its steady presence, it reminded me of truths I’d forgotten. These truths now echo through the C.A.L.M. Framework I teach—Clarity, Adaptability, Leadership, and Momentum—not as rigid steps, but as natural rhythms waiting to be remembered.

Let me show you what I mean.

Growth isn’t always visible.
And it doesn’t have to be.

We live in a world that glorifies blooming—being in full expression, producing, performing. But nature knows that growth happens underground. In the quiet. In the dark. Beneath the surface.

You don’t have to bloom all the time to be growing. Sometimes the most powerful clarity arrives in the stillness. Sometimes the outside noise is—well—just that: distracting noise.

I used to feel anxious when I wasn’t in motion. But now, I see the pause as part of the process. That quiet space is where I reconnect with what really matters. And it might not even be a pause—maybe you’re just not spending energy explaining everything you’re doing. You’re doing it, and letting your actions speak for you.

(What if clarity isn’t found in the doing, but in the listening?)

Awareness Prompt:
Notice where you equate productivity with worth. Is there a part of your life that’s quietly evolving, even if no one else can see it?

Try setting aside 10 minutes a day for “non-doing.” Not to journal, plan, or think. Just to be. Let your inner soil rest.

Slowness isn’t weakness.
It’s wisdom in motion.

Watching the pace of the natural world is like witnessing a masterclass in presence. Trees don’t rush. Rivers don’t sprint to the sea. Everything unfolds when it’s ready. And yet, they’re still working within a system and process that keeps momentum moving.

I’ve realized the kind of momentum that lasts—the kind that sustains—isn’t frantic or forceful.

(Maybe momentum doesn’t always mean speed. Maybe it means trust.)

Awareness Prompt:
Where in your life are you confusing urgency with importance? Where would slowness actually serve you better?

Next time you feel the pressure to hurry, pause. Ask: “Is this timeline aligned—or just inherited?” Delay by five minutes. Re-enter with intention.

You are allowed to change.
You don’t need to explain it.

Seasons shift without apology. Trees let go of their leaves without guilt. But we often feel the need to justify our own becoming.

You’re allowed to change—even if no one else gets it.
Even if what once lit you up no longer fits.
Even if you can’t yet name what’s next.

(That’s adaptability—not just reacting to change, but honoring it.)

Awareness Prompt:
What part of you is evolving right now? What are you resisting simply because it’s unfamiliar?

Name one shift you’ve been quietly craving. Then take one small step toward it—without justifying, over-explaining, or seeking validation.

Being soft is not the opposite
of being strong.

I used to equate strength with pushing through—holding it all together no matter what. I would anger easily, get defensive, and try to prove I had everything under control… even when I didn’t. Even when it was unraveling. To me, strength looked like never breaking. Never needing help. Keeping the performance going.

But nature showed me otherwise.

Flexibility is power. Gentleness is strength. And admitting something isn’t working? That’s not failure—that’s maturity. That’s real leadership.

Nature doesn’t resist change—it adapts. And doesnt ask for permission to do so!
It doesn’t cling to the illusion of control. It moves with what is. That kind of leadership—the kind rooted in softness and presence—has taught me more than any system ever could.

Leading from softness doesn’t make you less of a leader. It makes you more attuned. More grounded.
More human.

(What if leadership looked more like presence than performance?)

Awareness Prompt:
Where are you holding tension to appear “strong”? Where could softness be a more powerful response.

Pick one interaction this week where you lead with empathy—toward someone else or yourself. Let softness guide the tone, not just the words.

Stillness isn’t emptiness.
It’s where the answers live.

We’re taught to fill stillness with noise—scrolling, scheduling, solving. Constant input. Constant motion. But nature? Nature embraces rest without guilt. The fields lie fallow. The animals hibernate. The sun disappears and returns on its own time. There’s no urgency in the way the earth restores itself.

Stillness isn’t a void. It’s a vessel. It’s where we make space for truth to rise. It’s where clarity gathers strength before it speaks.

When I finally stopped fearing the quiet, I realized what I was really running from wasn’t stillness—it was what might show up in it. But over time, I found that the thing I was most often looking for wasn’t another task, answer, or checkbox.

It was a different knowing.
A re-connection with myself I couldn’t access in the noise.

That’s when journaling became a lifeline. Not as a productivity tool, but as a place to listen. A place to give the quiet a voice. It became a practice of presence—of letting my thoughts meet the page without needing to be perfect or profound.

• Sometimes I write what I’m feeling.

• Sometimes I write what I’m avoiding.

• Sometimes I just write to remember who I am underneath the doing.

(Stillness gave me back my own voice.)

Awareness:
How do you respond to stillness? Does it make you uncomfortable, or do you allow it to hold you?

Create a mini “fallow period” in your week. One hour with no agenda, where you let yourself just be—and see what clarity finds you there.

You’re allowed to come back to yourself.
As many times as it takes.

This might be the most important thing nature has taught me:

There’s no deadline on becoming.

Let that settle for a second.

Because we live in a culture that runs on urgency—on pressure to get it right, get it done, figure it out fast, and keep up with everyone else while doing it.

But nature doesn’t move that way.

• The moon doesn’t apologize for its phases.

• The tide never questions its return.

• The tree doesn’t rush to regrow after the pruning.

• And neither should you.

You can wander. You can forget. You can pivot, pause, and even retreat. And still—you’re not starting over. You’re continuing. You’re deepening. You’re evolving.

Every time you come back to yourself, you're bringing more wisdom with you. More compassion. More clarity about what matters and what doesn’t.

I used to beat myself up for the times I’d drift off course—like I’d failed or wasted time. But now I know:

Each return is not a reset. It’s a re-rooting. And that’s the invitation.

Let go of the story that you’re behind. There is no fixed timeline for transformation. You don’t have to bloom on schedule. You don’t have to prove your worth through constant progress.

You just have to return.

• Return to what grounds you.

• Return to your why.

• Return to the parts of yourself you thought you lost, only to find they were waiting for you all along.

• and don’t forget (again) you may just need to then return again

(The real work isn’t arriving—it’s remembering.)

Awareness: Where have you been hard on yourself for needing to “start again”? What would shift if you saw it as a return, not a reset?

Write a note to yourself: “Welcome back. I’m proud of you.” Stick it somewhere you’ll see it. Let it be your reminder that your timeline is your own.

This is what C.A.L.M. really is. Not a strategy. Not a system.

But a remembering …

… of your rhythm.

Your roots. Your right to move through the world like nature does—clear, adaptive, grounded in leadership, and carried by momentum that feels like you.

You were never behind.
You were always becoming.