My feet fall into a resonant rhythm as I follow the unexpected light of the November sun. Its radiance is muted, as if wrapped in a thick, textured cloth. But as I make my way up the grassy knoll, its white light suddenly pierces the veil.

Against the spectral sky, bare limbs bow in the wind, greeting me like old friends. My verdant sanctuary stands stripped to its hollow bones–vulnerable now, like me, to the elements. I am left utterly exposed, as if windows have been flung open where once clear boundaries and closed doors held me safe.

The tread of my neon green sneakers locks into the grooves I’ve worn into the lawn of our backyard. I have walked an infinity-loop of figure eights here over the last 12 months–first as rehabilitation for my body after major surgery, then as medicine for my soul. When reverential intention replaces begrudging duty, routine transmutes into ritual.

I drift toward the edge of the makeshift stone wall, where the grass gives way to woods, and I pause. Instead of curving left as I always do, I keep straight and slip through the low prickle bushes and sparse brush. Approaching the woods from this direction–counterclockwise for once–feels like crossing into foreign territory.

And in this small deviation, something in me begins to unravel—the same way it did a year ago today.

What began as a necessary surgery last November left scars–both seen and unseen–across every inch of my being. With it came the sense that a part of my Self had been taken before I was ready to let it go, leaving a hollow inside me that no amount of preparation could have prevented.

My intellect had been nourished by current statistics, surgical videos, and patient narratives. I knew the locations and functions of the ligaments, the diagnostic effectiveness of MRI over ultrasound, and the incidence of hormonal disruption after surgery. My body had been fortified by consistent exercise, healthy nutrition, deep breathing, and meditation. But years of studies in women’s health, months of trawling emerging research, and weeks of perusing post-surgery updates on social media could not prepare me for what it would actually feel like to have my insides traumatized and rearranged. No amount of inner work could fully buffer me from the shock of saying goodbye to who I had been before.

Like the bare trees around me, the exposed cracks in my terrain do not fill in overnight. Day by day, I walk in ever-widening circles, carving new grooves of trust in my body and mind. With each step, I learn the ground will hold me, still.

I look to the ground, the trees, the wind now as my timekeepers. To a casual gaze, the oak appears lifeless in winter. After surrendering what it can no longer sustain, the tree draws inward and slips into its deepest repose. Its outer stillness belies the quiet gestation unfolding beneath bark and soil.

Yet the Earth continues its steady arc around the sun, tilting once more toward the light. Tightly formed buds swell and burst, and verdant leaves unfurl once more. New life rises with the wind.

I no longer track cycles by the rise and fall of basal body temperature or the ebb and flow of cervical fluid. Now, I look to the sky, tracing the many faces of the moon across the days of the month. I observe the trees over the seasons of the year, watching how they bud, bloom, shed, lie bare, and bud one more. The more I attune to these larger rhythms—the waxing and waning of the moon, the unhurried choreography of the trees—the more I sense that Source pulse coursing through me too.

The rhythm I thought I’d lost within, I now find all around me.

Cross-posted on Women of the Dark Woods