The Great Remembering: Returning to Nature, Returning to Ourselves

There is a deep and ancient disconnection that lives in the body of humanity—one that few people even realize they carry. It lives in our cells, in our breath, in the spaces between thoughts. It’s this inherited, unconscious belief that we have been abandoned by nature. Cast out. Separated. And even though we are nature—there is no separation, never has been—this illusion has shaped the very structure of society.

According to Dr. Bruce Lipton, from the moment of conception through the age of seven, we absorb everything around us directly into our subconscious. Our nervous system records what we see, hear, feel, and sense in our environment. It becomes our inner programming. We don’t choose it—it chooses us. And this is what he calls our biological memory, or bio-memory. It’s not just in the mind—it’s in the body. In the very expression of our cells. Everything that happens during those early years becomes the filter through which we interpret the world for the rest of our lives—unless we wake up to it and begin to consciously rewrite the script.

And that’s the good news: we can rewrite it.

Most people think we’re victims of our DNA, doomed to inherit our family’s pain, illness, or dysfunction. But that’s not true. Bruce Lipton’s groundbreaking work in epigenetics shows that genes are not fixed. They are turned on or off by the environment—not just the environment around us, but the environment within us: our beliefs, our emotions, our traumas, our thoughts, and our sense of connection to spirit and nature.

We can suppress harmful genes. We can activate healing ones. We can alter the expression of our biology by changing our internal and external environment. We are not doomed to repeat the patterns of our ancestors—unless we remain asleep and unaware.

But here's the thing: even deeper than the personal subconscious programming from our early childhood is an ancestral memory—one that travels not just through our personal ancestral life experiences but through our collective human experience. This ancestral pain lives in the soul body, the energetic field that connects spirit and matter. And this pain is rooted in the belief that we’ve been separated from the natural world. That we are somehow "other." Kicked out of the celestial garden.

This is the core wound.

And because of it, we’ve built cultures, governments, religions, and medical systems that reflect this fracture. We medicate babies the moment they’re born—jab them, suppress their immune system, flood their body with toxins—because we’ve been conditioned to believe that nature is unsafe, untrustworthy, and inadequate. Religion tells us a baby is born in sin. Medicine tells us a baby is born weak. And yet both are blind to the miracle that every child is a living expression of the Earth—wild, wise, and whole.

We have forgotten the most essential truth:

 We are nature.

Not a part of it. Not made from it. We are it.

When that knowing is restored, illness begins to dissolve. Conflict softens. Separation heals. We stop striving and start listening. We begin to live in rhythm with the Earth again.

Dr. Zach Bush has spoken of the forgotten intelligence in the soil—microbial civilizations lying dormant, waiting for Her cycle and conditions to awaken and regenerate. Lakes are appearing again in the Sahara. The Earth is alive, breathing, remembering. But she is also reflecting our pain—because she is us. Every emotion we repress, every wound we ignore, every lie we accept about our identity is mirrored back through climate, through disease, through societal unrest. Even as I write this, there are riots in the streets of Los Angeles. People are fighting, screaming, breaking—and they don’t even know what they’re fighting for anymore. It’s all reaction. The gnashing of teeth in a world that has forgotten its place.

This is what happens when we forget that we belong. When we believe we’ve been abandoned, we act out. We scream into the void hoping someone will answer.

But the answer is always silence. The kind of silence that speaks through the trees, the soil, the wind, the body. The Tao does not shout—it simply is. And in that presence, healing begins.

In my own journey, I’ve spent nearly 25 years doing energy healing. I’ve seen miraculous things—true transformations. But over time, I stopped offering healings. Not because they weren’t working—they were. But because most people don’t want to let go of their identity. They don’t want to release the trauma. They want to be the survivor, the victim, the diagnosis. And I’m not saying those things didn’t happen—they did. I’m not minimizing anyone’s pain. But we are not defined by what happened to us. We are not our pain. We are not our past.

We are nature.

 And nature doesn’t need to prove its worth.

A tree doesn’t apologize for growing. A river doesn’t need validation to flow. A newborn doesn’t have to earn love. But when we forget this, we start building our lives on trauma. On ego. On stories that keep us small. And then we wonder why we feel so sick, so stuck, so cut off.

Feelings are natural. They come and go like weather. But emotions—especially unprocessed ones—can lodge themselves into our biology. When we don’t allow grief to move, it hardens into depression. When we repress anger, it becomes inflammation. When we lose hope, it becomes cancer.  Over time, our biology begins to reflect our psychology. And that’s why so many people are sick—not because nature is dangerous, but because we’ve forgotten how to live in harmony with her.

The Tao teaches us that nothing is forced. Everything arises in its time. Healing, too, is not something we force—it is something we allow. When we attune to the rhythms of the Earth, of our own breath, of silence, of truth—we return to the Way. We become soft again. Receptive. Whole.

The journey back to nature is not a return to the past—it’s a return to presence. It’s a remembering. Not of something lost, But of something eternal.

The Return to the Wild Self

In my experience, I was given a gift—my wonderful parents allowed me to run wild in the forest alone all day. I’d go out in the morning and come back in the evening to the smell of dinner on the stove and my mother’s open arms. That wildness wasn’t chaos. It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t the kind of wildness our society now labels as reckless or destructive. It was the wildness of belonging—to the land, to the wind, to the creatures. It was attunement. It was oneness.

But as I grew older, I was funneled into society. Religion, education, and cultural expectations taught me how to behave, how to conform, how to not make waves. And slowly, I was pulled from that natural rhythm, that silent knowing I had once lived so freely.

Everything shifted when my children were born.

A great return began in me—not just for their sake, but for my own soul's reckoning. I knew that if I didn’t protect their connection to nature, it would be stolen from them as it had been stolen from me. It wasn’t easy. Homeschooling, stepping away from institutions, and living outside of conventional thought meant we were seen as witches, even ostracized. Their friends turned on them during the divorce. The world couldn’t understand our ways—because it no longer understands nature.

At first, it was hard. But in time, the difficulty turned to purpose. What was once foreign became sacred. People are waking up now. Homeschooling is growing. Regenerative living is rising. But back then, I had no map—no YouTube guides, no mentors, no Bruce Lipton, Joe Dispenza, Greg Braden, etc., or Zach Bush to reassure me. I didn’t learn what I know—I remembered it. I had to unlearn adulthood. I had to dissolve the programming and release the coercion that was handed to me by culture. I had to take a risk. And yes, it took courage.

I didn’t know I was walking a path back to the Tao. But the horses did.

It was the horses and the land that taught me. I lived the truth before I could prove it. But the mind—especially the analytical mind—wants proof. And so I searched. Not because I doubted what I knew, but because I couldn’t understand why the world hadn’t shifted when the truth was so clear.

And finally, I found others. Brilliant thinkers, out of the box doctors, and researchers, who revealed that our biology is not our destiny. Through Bruce Lipton’s discovery of epigenetics, we now know we are not victims of our DNA. The genes we inherit are not fixed—they are expressions. We can suppress certain genes and express others based on the environment we live in—emotionally, spiritually, physically, and mentally. Our perception, our beliefs, our inner world, change the chemistry of our cells.

Yet society continues to tell us otherwise. If our mother had cancer, we’re told we’ll likely have it too. If our father had diabetes or heart disease, it’s our fate. But that’s a lie. The truth is, we are nature. And nature does not create a wound it cannot heal. As Zach Bush so beautifully said, “Nature does not allow for injury or illness without already holding the solution.”

The problem is not our body—it is the emotional memory that lives within it.

Our emotions are not the same as our feelings. Feelings move through us—they are currents of truth. Emotions, when unprocessed, get trapped in our bio-memory. They create an identity: “I am an angry person.” “I am a survivor.” “I am a victim.” These emotions become the story we cling to. And if we cling too tightly, we will not heal—not because healing isn’t possible, but because the body is being asked to keep a story alive that is not aligned with our true nature.

I kept to healing for my human and animal family but stopped doing energy healing work for people and their animals because people didn’t want to let go of that story, and their animals’ were projecting their story that made them also ill and it became a double edge sword that relied on people. But people that came to me didn’t want to release the trauma. They wanted to be fixed, not transformed. They wanted a pill in energetic form—a shortcut that didn’t require them to stand in their own power. But true healing can never be outsourced. The horse taught me this.

The horse said: “You must attune to your own emotional body. You must find stillness and community in silence. No one can walk this for you.”

And yet… there is beauty in being witnessed. Zach Bush speaks of this—how healing is amplified in the presence of a loving witness. It’s not about validation. It’s about coherence. When we are witnessed in love, the resonance strengthens and the emotional trauma behind the illness has vanished.  But amidst group healing circles, the truest witness I have ever known is the horse.

I once had a client come to one of our healing and empowerment programs. She was grieving the loss of her daughter, who had passed in childhood. Her pain was wrapped in a religious belief that her daughter might be lost to her forever. I didn’t know any of this. I had no idea what she carried. But my mare, Isabeau, did.

Without a word, Isabeau approached her. The two of them stood still alone, heart-to-heart, and in that sacred moment delivered the clearest message: “Your daughter is with you now. She always will be. No dogma can take that from you.”

That moment changed everything for this woman. Not intellectually. Cellularly. Isabeau, who has lost a child of her own, having had direct experience herself,  reached into the space beyond language and rearranged the architecture of grief itself for this woman.

There is no priest, no therapist, no scientist who can offer that kind of healing.

This is why I advocate for animals. This is why I revere the horse—not as a symbol, but as a living master.

And I am not trying to convince anyone. I am simply sharing the trinity of wisdom that I have lived: direct experience, scientific affirmation, and ancient remembrance. We need all three to return to wholeness—not just information, but embodiment. Because philosophy alone will not free us. Words without action are like seeds never sown. The Tao is not talked—it is lived.

And nature is the true guru. Not a person. Not a system. Not even a book. Through the Vedic texts, the Bhagavad Gita, the Tao Te Ching, the Upanishads, and the writings of Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, and others, they have all affirmed what I have witnessed first through the silence and wisdom of horses.

We must return to that stillness—not to escape the world, but to finally belong to it.

The Horse Knows

The horse does not speak, Yet tells you everything. 

A soft nostril breath on your chest Reveals what no scripture dared.

You were not banished from Eden— 

You simply stopped listening 

To the song of roots in your feet, 

To the wind calling you by your true name.

You ran wild once, Barefoot and belonging. 

Not lost— But luminous.

The world grew loud. 

You folded yourself small To survive 

A place that forgot the forest.

But the horse remembers. And when she stands before you, 

She does not ask you to believe— 

Only to feel.

Not a guru, but a mirror. 

Not a savior, but a guide. 

Not a healer, but a key 

To the door of your own return.

You are nature. 

Not a visitor,

not a stranger, 

But the breath of the forest Made flesh.

So rise— Not with resistance, 

But with reverence. 

Walk back into the wild within.

The horse is waiting.

Isabeau and Giselle