In a house full of strong personalities and neurodivergent needs, sometimes I find myself doing nothing more than standing in the kitchen, clutching a glass of water. It might look like I’m busy, like I’m thinking about what to cook or just taking a moment between tasks. But really? I’m hiding in plain sight. It’s one of the only ways I can be left alone without needing to explain myself. If someone comes in, I start doing a chore. They assume I’m occupied and move on. It’s clever. But it’s also sad. I’ve had to learn how to make myself invisible to rest.
The reality is, I live in a home where everyone else’s emotions often take centre stage. That’s not a complaint—it’s just the truth when you’re managing a household full of mental health dynamics, sensory needs, and unfiltered emotional expression. The meltdowns. The sharp tones. The interruptions. The constant regulation. And I’m the one who has to absorb, soothe, respond, and recover. Often without anyone really noticing what it costs me.
The cost lately? My appetite. My motivation. My ability to just sit and be. I only feel real relief when I’m completely alone. But even when I try to do something for myself—a jog, a shower, a moment to breathe—my body argues with me. One part of me wants to collapse. Another part wants to run until I drop. Neither of them knows what I need. And honestly, I don’t either.
This is why I keep thinking about slow foraging. Not the big, glorious GGT harvests or the social media-ready clips of what I’ve collected. I’m talking about the quiet, steady kind. The kind where I walk slowly through the garden or a patch of woodland and just touch the plants. Smell them. Let the leaves and bark speak to my body in a way people can’t right now.
But even that’s hard. Because as soon as I think about going outside, the mental resistance kicks in. Not because I don’t want to go. Because it feels like a massive effort to leave the one spot where I’m safe from interruption. The kitchen has become my emotional bunker. Leaving it—even for something as beautiful as nature—feels risky. Because if I move, I might be followed. And if I’m followed, I have to start regulating again.
Sometimes I think about going out to slowly gather forage. Just a few bits. Hazel, linden, hawthorn. Things that need sorting anyway. I know the kids won’t be interested in those plants—they’re after the blackberries. But I also know the second I step into that garden, it becomes an invitation: snacks? Mum time? Can I come?
And it’s not that I don’t love those moments. I do. But I can’t always hold them. Not when I’m running on empty. Not when I’ve been up all night regulating everyone else’s nervous systems. Not when I haven’t eaten and I feel like my body’s lost the ability to recognise what hunger even is.
So instead, I stay still. I hold the water. I do the invisible chores. I pretend to be busy so I can breathe.
But I’m learning. Slowly. I’m learning to build rituals that help me shift. To pre-pack my forage bag and leave it near the door. To promise myself just five minutes in the garden with the leaves. To start walking before my brain talks me out of it.
This isn’t just about foraging. It’s about carving space inside a chaotic system. It’s about recognising that regulation doesn’t always look like stillness. Sometimes it looks like movement, rhythm, scent, texture.
Sometimes, it looks like a woman standing in a kitchen with a glass of water, quietly holding herself together until she can get outside and remember who she is again.
And if that resonates with you—whether you're living in chaos or just learning to reclaim space for yourself—know this: slow foraging might not fix everything. But it helps. It’s not just about what we collect. It’s about what we let go of, too.
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