The art of not drowning in your own story

A love letter to my fellow mud walkers ready for something new

I’m on a hike this Sunday and, before I know what’s happened, my husband’s found a way around the mud. And I’m walking straight through it.

You know that phrase, “no mud, no lotus”? (– Thich Nhat Hanh)
I didn’t just hear it on a yoga mat. It’s been the instinct of my whole life.

Show me a pile of mud and I’ll get in. Scraped knees. Sometimes swearing, sometimes smiling with a face full of dirt.

That same day, our dog gets stuck in the lake, spinning circles, chasing bubbles and shadows. I call - nothing. I yell and he ignores me, creating water circles that ripple through the whole lake.

So I roll up my pants, kick off my socks, wade in thigh-deep, and pull him out like a soggy toddler.

As I’m standing there, both of us dripping and ridiculous, it hits me:

This is what life is now asking of me…to pull myself out of my own story-loops. Mid-spin. Mid “this is just who I am.” Mid-sending self-perpetuating suffering ripples out everywhere.

If you’re reading this, you’re probably a fellow mud walker. Not afraid of the mess. Not here for shortcuts. You go in because that’s how you alchemize. You make art out of the ache.

And lately, as the world aches in ways we can't unsee, our instinct is to go deeper into the mud. Staying in pain feels responsible. Lightness feels naïve.

But after you've done what you can, pain becomes a loop. And loving ourselves back to joy is the only thing that breaks the spell.

Which brings me back to that spinning dog. Sometimes our most beautiful stories about growth and healing are just... circles. Elegant. Meaningful. But still circles. Yes, even our transformation stories can become cages, keeping us trapped in victim roles and building identities around suffering.

You start brave—walking through what others avoid. Then suddenly you're circling your own lake, chasing insight bubbles, turning pain stories into scripture. Looping in the name of healing.

Until joy has to get barefoot and drag you out.

So how do we tell our stories as springboards and not quicksand?

I’ve got something coming next week that is more than metaphor.
It’s an embodied path—and I can’t wait to share it with you.

But I’m not waiting to remind us all of this.

Let’s not just rise from the mud. Let’s create from the lotus.

Your joy is not a luxury item. Not a reward for the healed. It’s the frequency you’re made of.

And while your pain has taught you things others need to know, your joy will show them what’s possible.

Love, Cara

Mudwalking circa 2023

Sunday teachers