The Power of Re-wilding

Choosing Vulnerability and Freedom Over Comfort

The author, trying to go with the flow.

I have a confession.

I don’t know who I am right now, and it’s incredibly uncomfortable.

I can tell you where I live, what I do, and how I support myself, but every long-term identity that used to feel solid (professor, mother, partner, yoga teacher, friend) has shifted so much that I’m not sure it’s even accurate to call myself any of those anymore.

So I’ve been re-wilding in nature, watching, listening, tasting, and being. It’s a beautiful and worthy way of moving through the world, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.

It’s really difficult to live in the wild.

Not just in the literal sense, though, yes, the wilderness is challenging with all its beauty and untamed chaos. I mean, living wild in this deeper, more internal way. It’s difficult to source my energy from the earth and listen to her instead of cultural norms. It’s difficult not to go to a regular job, not to meet measured outcomes, not to have colleagues, not to have reception for my phone. It’s difficult to just be with what’s in front of me and connect, instead of distracting myself.

It’s difficult to stay present with the wind, with silence, and not turn to comfort. To music. To podcasts. To long-distance conversations. The urge to distract myself is constant, a habit I’ve spent years building, layer upon layer, until it became second nature. It’s difficult to be in solitude. To not be praised, rewarded, seen, or touched. In a world that thrives on validation, silence feels rebellious.

For so much of my life, I’ve filled spaces for others, smoothing over discomfort, fixing things that weren’t broken, running fast to keep up with others’ demands. There’s an old wound in me, one that says I’m not lovable. That’s why I performed for so long. Why I was always in charge. But now, in this re-wilding journey, I’m faced with looking at myself, not just other people.

And when I look at myself, I don’t always like what I see. And most of the time, I have no idea what I want.

But this is the journey.

Re-wilding is the act of choosing freedom over comfort. It’s shedding layers of control, of expectation, and allowing the wind to move through me. It’s learning to sit with discomfort, not filling it with distractions. It’s choosing vulnerability over security, presence over progress, wildness over predictability.

It’s choosing to step off the trail, even when I get lost. It’s letting go of the familiar structures of safety, trusting that something deeper will guide me. It’s learning to listen to the rustle of leaves, the sound of my own breath, and trusting that this is enough.

I’ve spent most of my life believing that safety is achieved through achievement, through being good at what I do and being needed for it. That’s not a bad way to earn an income, but financial stability is only one kind of foundation. The nourishment I need now requires surrender, not hustle.

In the wild, there is no guarantee. No immediate reward. No paved path or predictable outcome. That’s what makes it both terrifying and freeing.

It is here, in the disarray, in the uncertainty, in the discomfort, that I’m starting to understand what roots are for.

So yes, it’s difficult. But in this difficulty, I am unearthing a truth of who I am. I am not the role I’ve played for others. I am not the person who fixes things. I am the wild, untamed force of nature that has always been here, waiting for me to remember.

And maybe that’s what re-wilding is: the act of choosing to become the person we were before we were told who we should be.

Nothing I am doing right now is comfortable.

But here I am, doing it. And I’m proud of myself for this shedding.

Thank you for being here with me on the page, for helping me root into this story. I am so deeply grateful for our connection.

So tell me, are you uncomfortable too? How and why?

We have the world to live in on the condition that we will take good care of it.
And to take good care of it, we have to know it.
And to know it and to be willing to take care of it, we have to love it.
—Wendell Berry

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