Coming Home to Your Own Knowing

Hi lovely,

Come and sit with me for a while.

Pop the kettle on, wrap yourself in something warm, and settle in.

Lately I've been reflecting on something that has quietly unfolded over the years.

Not through one defining moment.

Not because I suddenly found the answer.

But through countless small moments that, over time, have gently changed the way I move through the world.

Perhaps you've felt it too.

There was a time when I looked outside myself for almost everything.

Books filled my bedside table.

Courses filled my weekends.

Teachers, podcasts, conversations... I wanted to learn from them all.

Not because I thought something was wrong with me.

Quite the opposite.

I've always been deeply curious.

I've always wanted to understand life a little more deeply.

To learn.

To wonder.

To gather wisdom wherever I found it.

Learning has always felt a little like wandering through a forest, collecting leaves, herbs and stories along the path.

Every person offered something.

A new perspective.

A different way of seeing.

A gentle invitation to look at life through another lens.

And I'm grateful for every one of them.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

Almost without me noticing.

I realised I wasn't collecting answers anymore.

I was collecting perspectives.

And there is a quiet but important difference.

When I look back now, I don't think aromatherapy, Celtic wisdom, energy healing or any of the other paths I've wandered changed who I was.

They gave language to something that had quietly been there all along.

Long before I ever knew the botanical names of plants...

Long before I learned about the Three Cauldrons...

Long before I journeyed with a drum...

I was already slowing down to notice the changing seasons.

Already fascinated by the plants growing around me.

Already finding comfort in candles, cups of tea, stories, and quiet moments of reflection.

Already sensing there was something sacred in ordinary life.

When I eventually found these traditions, it didn't feel like becoming someone new.

It felt like recognition.

Like coming home.

Like meeting old friends I'd somehow known all my life.

These days, I still love learning.

I still read.

I still listen.

I still sit with teachers whose wisdom I deeply admire.

I don't think we ever stop learning.

But I no longer feel the need to hand someone else the final say.

Instead, I notice what stirs.

What settles.

What quietly resonates.

Some ideas stay.

Others drift gently past.

Neither is wrong.

They simply aren't mine to carry.

Perhaps this is one of the quieter gifts of walking a path for many years.

You slowly stop asking,

"What is the right way?"

and begin asking,

"What feels true for me?"

Not because you've become certain.

Not because you've learned everything.

But because you've spent enough time listening to yourself that your own voice begins to feel familiar.

Amidst all the noise...

you recognise it.

For me, this has become one of the greatest forms of self-trust.

Not believing I have all the answers.

But trusting that I don't need someone else to answer every question for me.

That I can sit with uncertainty.

Observe.

Listen.

Reflect.

Allow life to teach me.

Sometimes that wisdom arrives through a book.

Sometimes through a conversation.

Sometimes while wandering the garden.

Sometimes while knitting another row.

Sometimes while stirring herbs into tea.

Sometimes while quietly sitting beside someone I love.

It doesn't really matter where it arrives.

What matters is recognising it when it does.

The older I become, the more I realise that wisdom rarely shouts.

It whispers.

It arrives gently.

It asks us to pay attention.

Not only to the voices around us...

but to the quiet knowing within us.

The part that has been patiently waiting beneath the noise all along.

Perhaps that's what this journey has always been.

Not becoming someone different.

Not collecting enough knowledge to finally feel worthy.

Not searching for the one person who can tell us exactly who we are.

Perhaps it's something much simpler than that.

Perhaps it's remembering.

Remembering the parts of ourselves that have always been there.

Remembering the rhythms that feel like home.

Remembering that the answers we seek outside ourselves often become most meaningful when they awaken something we already knew deep within.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift any teacher, tradition, or practice can offer.

Not to become our voice...

But to help us hear our own.

🌿

With warmth and many blessings,
Tash 🌿