Forest Therapy: Not Covered by Insurance, But Way More Effective

When I couldn’t find healing in doctors’ offices,
I found it while walking in the woods.

This is the story of how walking, laughing, getting muddy, and talking to ducks led me home — to myself, to love, and to the kind of peace no prescription ever gave me.

McForest Beginnings

I had lived in the area for years and never noticed it — just a small public trail down the street from a McDonald’s. But one day, after weeks of walking my neighborhood, I felt an urge to wander somewhere new. I was restless. Bored with sidewalks, bored with passing cars.

And then — like it had been quietly waiting for me — I found it.

A hidden gem.
No cars.
No people.
Just trees.

It felt like fate.

That little forest became my sanctuary. A place where peace wasn’t just possible — it was immediate. It was mine.

I danced off-trail with my headphones on.
I laughed on the phone with my soon-to-be husband.
I felt free.

And when I laughed, the ducks would come running — flapping and quacking up the hill to greet me like I was one of their own. They weren’t afraid. They were… friends.

And yes, I often came with a Happy Meal in hand.
A 4-piece Happy Meal has been my personal antidepressant since childhood.

When I was little, my dad brought me one before a dance recital — I went on stage with tartar sauce on my leotard.
That’s the moment I switched to nuggets.

When I got my finger stuck in the ball return at a bowling alley, my mom brought me a Happy Meal and a pair of 3D glasses so I could watch Jaws on TV. That’s also the day I became the reason there’s now a sign that says, “Don’t put your hand in here.”

When my stomach hurt too badly to eat, or I had no energy to cook, McDonald’s was there. It still is. On bad tummy days, my husband shows up with a Happy Meal like it’s a love letter in a paper bag.

So no, that wasn’t my first favorite forest. Every patch of woods is my favorite.

But this one was the right one, at the right time.
A quiet, ordinary trail that changed everything.

And that’s how my forest therapy path began.

The Day the Ducks Chose Me

…and the Goose Who Had Other Plans

I was sitting by the pond behind the McDonald’s, not eating, not walking, just resting — talking to the man who would soon be my husband. The one who could always make me laugh when I didn’t know I needed to.

And laugh I did.

I’ve always been told I have that kind of laugh — the contagious kind. The kind babies giggle at. The kind strangers turn toward. The kind people remember.

That day, I was in full laugh mode when the water started moving.
The ducks started going wild.

And then — out they came.

A swarm of female ducks.
Not casually strolling.
Not shy.

They waddled out of the water full-speed and surrounded me — squawking like they were in on the joke.

The males?
Still floating on the lake, looking confused, like they’d missed the memo.

My soon-to-be husband listened on the other end of the call.
“What’s happening over there?”

“The ducks,” I said between breathless laughter. “They’re going crazy! I think… it’s because I was laughing?”

He didn’t believe me.

“Switch to video. I have to see this.”

I flipped the camera — and there I was, sitting cross-legged in a full-blown duck circle. Them, waddling and quacking. Me, laughing so hard I could barely hold the phone.

It only happened once. That wildly. That magically.
But it’s burned into my memory like a blessing.

Later, when he moved home, I took him to meet my friends.

We fed the ducks together.
A full-circle moment. Soft. Sweet.

Until the goose showed up.

This guy strutted in like he owned the place, sticking his tongue out at us as if we’d personally insulted him.

Then — he bit my husband.
Hard.
No warning.
Just unprovoked goose justice.

We absolutely lost it.

The ducks had chosen me.
The goose? Not so much.

But that forest — behind the McDonald’s, next to the noise of the world — held everything I needed:

Joy.
Love.
Regulation.
And a memory I will laugh about forever.

That forest held more than trees. It held stories.
And one of them was mine.

I’d take my nieces and nephews there to clean up trash and run through the leaves. We built teepees from fallen branches. I felt the peace I'd forgotten I'd missed.

Before Wi-Fi, There Were Woods

That peace wasn’t new. It was remembered.

I grew up in the woods on trips to my mother’s childhood home. My grandpa had a piece of land with an untouched forest where he’d clear trails for us. My dad taught us about poison ivy and footprints. He taught us how to always find north — how always to find our way back.

Through Indian Princesses with my sisters, we went on epic camping trips with baby-powder bomb fights, the cursed Idol Chief Mutchagut, waking up floating in our flooded tent, and one unforgettable sewage dump through the park (my father is pure entertainment). I loved getting dirty, cooking over fire, and sleeping under trees.
I simply didn’t like the bugs.

In the CARE program in grade school, I learned stewardship. We went to nature centers, studied ecosystems, and did a week-long wilderness experience that lit me up.

We even had to survive one night with limited supplies. My best friend and I took night watch seriously. We built a fire so big we accidentally melted half the provisions. Plastic cups? Gone. Bags? Toast.
We may not have been wilderness experts, but we were definitely warm — and highly flammable.

Even in high school, between all the chaos, I’d find a tree, lie under it, and breathe. Staring at the sky like it held answers I wasn’t old enough to ask yet.

In college, I walked the Swiss Alps with Dr. Jane Goodall, rappelled down waterfalls, and learned what it meant to care for this Earth. It gave me one permanent truth:

My feet on this planet matter.

Years later, it was my daughter’s autism that reminded me what the woods could do.

The forest became our after-school sanctuary.
We walked. We wandered.

Just like I do now with Brute — our nervous-system whispering, chaos-loving rescue dog.

She showed me that nature wasn’t just a playground.
It was a reset button.

Then illness came. Meds that sedate. Pain that dimmed.
I stopped walking for almost a decade.

But finding that hidden slice and walking again brought me back — into my body, into my husband’s heart, into a life where magical things happen.

Because magical things do happen when we’re in the woods together.

The Forest That Holds Me Now

These days, we live a mile from an enormous forest preserve.

To get there, we pass chaos — shopping malls, traffic, concrete.
But once we cross the street, it’s another world.

When we adopted our little Saint — the weird, perfect pup who completed our family — the forest became our second home.

Watching him experience the world was pure joy. Every smell a miracle. Every stick — a treasure.

My husband taught him how to jump in the creek, how to stay close — boys being boys in the woods. It was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.

Meanwhile, I was off to the side — getting high, filming everything, pointing out patterns in bark and moss like some slightly-stoned nature documentary narrator.

That forest is where we laugh, connect, and regulate.
It’s where we go to feel like ourselves.

The Eclipse We Absolutely Weren’t Prepared For

Like the unprepared adventurers we are, we hiked during a solar eclipse.

No eclipse glasses.
Just sunglasses.

We squinted at the sky, wandered blindly, and probably burned our eyeballs.

Then we saw it: a massive turtle sunbathing like an ancient eclipse guardian.

My husband couldn’t resist.
He jumped in the creek — dragging Brute with him.

Brute learned to swim that day.

We emerged muddy and squinting… and there she was.
A woman straight out of a storybook — patchwork skirt, sun hat, vintage bike, actual eclipse viewers.

She smiled at us like we were part of her plot.

“Would you like to see it?” she asked.

We did.
And for a few perfect moments, we saw the eclipse the right way.

(Pro tip: Don’t hike during an eclipse. Definitely don’t bring your dog.)

The Forest Is Part of Our Love Story

The woods are more than a setting for us — they are the language of our love.

It’s where we laughed across phone lines.
Where we healed.
Where we raised a puppy.
 Where we relearned rhythm and reverence.

The forest is the witness to our marriage — the quiet, living altar we return to.

When life gets heavy, we walk.
When we need peace, we hit the trail.
When we’re hurting, we let the forest heal us.

The roots under our feet remind us of the ones between our hearts.

The Night I Knew It Was Forever

We were both dysregulated.
Worn thin.
Nothing was working.

We found a hill, laid under a tree, and just breathed.

My husband whispered,
“In with the wind… out with the wind…”

Our bodies synced. Our nervous systems remembered: we’re safe.

And then two giant possums walked up — right to his shoulder.

Neither of us screamed.
We just watched them pass through like a scene from a sacred dream.

Any other time in my life, I would’ve run.
But not that night.

That night, I felt only peace.

Just presence.
Just breathe.
Just us.

This isn’t just my story.
It’s an invitation.

Walk yourself home.
Notice.
Listen.

Lay under a tree and let your body remember what your mind forgot:

You belong to this Earth.

Why Forest Therapy Works

I didn’t know it at the time, but what I was doing was forest therapy — Shinrin-yoku, forest bathing.

Walking in nature lowers cortisol and inflammation.

Trees release phytoncides — oils that boost your immune system and regulate your nervous system.

Repetitive movement on trails mimics EMDR.

Your vagus nerve, breath, and mood all respond to the wild.

Public forests are more than scenery.
They’re free medicine.

What the Forest Taught Me

You don’t need 1,000 acres to feel free.
Just a patch of earth that lets you be.

You don’t need a therapist to process.
You need breath, space, and maybe some ducks with impeccable timing.

You don’t need to be “doing healing” to be healing.
Sometimes laughing is enough.

And sometimes, love bites — but it makes for a damn good story.

Also…get the Happy Meal.

So go find your forest.
Even if it’s behind a McDonald’s.
Even if it’s muddy.
Even if you think you don’t need it.

Because joy has a sound.
And sometimes — 
if you’re lucky — 
the ducks will come quacking for it.