When big emotions take over and even love feels unreachable, we head outside. Nature doesn’t judge, correct, or explain — it simply holds space. For our neurodivergent family, that space is sometimes the only thing big enough to handle the storm.

Some Days, the Weight Inside Our House Feels Too Big to Hold

A slammed door.
A frustrated voice.
A meltdown so raw it shakes the windows in their frame.

On those days, it doesn’t matter how much love we pour in—sometimes my kids can’t feel it. Their overwhelm grows until it swallows up every reminder that we are for them, that we’re on their side. In those moments, it feels to them like the whole world is against them—including us.

So, we go outside.

Not because nature can fix everything, but because it never takes anything personally.
Because the trees don’t talk back.
Because the wind doesn’t interpret their tears as defiance.
Because the sky is too vast to hold a grudge.

Out there, no one says, “Calm down.” No one explains why the meltdown happened or how to do better next time. Out there, everything just is. The mud, the rain, the cold—all of it meeting them exactly where they are. No judgment. No confusion. Just presence.

When Emotions Spill Over

When one of my kids storms out of the house, shoes half on, tears spilling down their cheeks, I follow to watch from the porch.
Not to lecture.
Not to fix it.
But just to be there with them, to step into the open air.

I call them rage hikes.

Sometimes they stomp around the block. Sometimes they disappear into the wooded area near the park, letting sticks crack under their feet. Sometimes it’s not even a hike—it’s just standing under the sky, crying in the rain.

Nature Speaks Without Judgment

I’ve learned something important as a mother:
When my kids are overwhelmed, even my gentlest words can feel like criticism.
Even my efforts to help can feel like another person telling them they’re wrong, or too much, or broken.

But nature doesn’t speak in words.

The trees don’t scold.
The breeze doesn’t correct.
The sky isn’t disappointed.

Outside, my kids are free to feel it all.
To slam their emotions into the ground through stomping feet.
To sob until their chests hurt.
To fling sticks into the river, one by one.

And nature just holds it.

When I Lost My Mother

I think a lot about how nature holds space for us — because it held space for me when I was grieving.

When my mother died of Alzheimer’s, I felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me. My grief was tangled with anger and confusion—anger at a disease that stole her piece by piece, and confusion over how to keep living without her.

During that time, the only place I felt like I could breathe was outside.

My mother loved the verse:

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands.
There is no speech or language where His voice is not heard.
— Psalm 19:1–3

She used to quote that when we sat outside together looking up at a beautiful sunset, the numerous stars, or when we spotted a vibrant rainbow after the storm.

After she was gone, I remembered those moments with my mom and started looking up again.
Searching the clouds for some sign she was near.
Straining to hear the voice she always said was speaking through the wind and the trees, through the handiwork of the Creator.

And you know what?
It helped. Not all at once, but little by little.

The quiet steadiness of nature made room for the ache and the anger.
The sky didn’t mind if I cursed or prayed or both.
The rain didn’t care if my grief came out in sobs.

Nature — and its Creator — held my grief when nothing else could.

We Are Not Against You

When my kids rage hike or cry in the rain, I want them to know that even if they feel alone in that moment — they are not.

We, as their family, are for them.

But I also understand that sometimes they need a place where nothing feels personal.
Where the world isn’t talking back.
Where the rustling leaves aren’t misunderstood as criticism.
Where a soft rain can fall on their skin and feel like comfort instead of noise.

That’s what nature offers to them — and to me.

The Gift of Silent Witness

We often think of nature as calm, but it’s also fierce.
Waves crash.
Thunder rolls.
Hurricanes rage.
Trees sway wildly under a storm’s fury.

And then, eventually, everything settles.

Nature doesn’t avoid big feelings — it models how to let them move through.

And that’s the difference. You don’t have to push your feelings away to keep going.
You can feel them—deeply, honestly—and still move forward.
That’s how transformation happens.
Not by skipping the pain, but by letting it pass through you and allowing yourself to grow.

So we’ll keep rage hiking.
We’ll keep crying in the rain.
We’ll keep trusting that the sky can hold all the things that feel too big for words.

Because the heavens declare the glory of God.
And sometimes, they also declare that it’s okay to feel everything — and to keep going anyway.

🌿❤️ Mimi