Lurking in the Woods
When healing begins with listening—to the land, to the body, and to each other.
There’s a freedom that comes with working in a forest school with kids over seven years old—kids who already know most things: how to stay safe in rivers and bogs, how to use a whittling knife, and when to eat their sandwiches.
Sometimes they ask me to go bug hunting, like they did this week.
I’m squeamish around centipedes, millipedes—even snails.
But not salamanders.
I don’t want to pick them up, though. I want to leave them near their logs, near their salamander families.
They have this magical ability to heal their own bodies.
If they lose an eye, they grow a new one. If their heart is injured, they can repair it.
When the kids try to carry them away, I stay present.
I remind them not to let the salamanders lose their families.
Colby, the most eager collector, listens. He puts them back near the logs we’ve rolled from the sunken earth.
He wouldn’t want to lose his family either.
I’m not there to show them what to look for.
They already see more than me.
They’re the ones finding the salamanders.
But if they’re listening, I point out the sounds of pileated woodpeckers.
“Do you hear that?” I ask one boy who rarely speaks.
He nods, just a little.
This ease—this freedom from desks and screens, from pacing and curriculum, this immersion in the woods—is what I know creates joy.
And in that joy, the ideal environment for self-led learning.
People ask, “But what’s the curriculum?”
And I want to tell them:
The curriculum is awareness.
It’s your child’s choices.
It’s the wonder of the woods—the greatest science laboratory in existence.
It’s not taught by me.
It’s taught by Mother Nature.
And she’s not writing up lesson plans.
I snap a few pictures. Soon enough, the parents are convinced.
They hear their kids tell stories of beavers and milkweed pods, of snakes held in their hands, of shelters built and trees climbed. They come home with adventure fulfilled, ready for a quiet game or some reading, an early bedtime and a deep, untroubled sleep.
Every part of being in nature has convinced me it’s the ideal classroom.
Except one.
Lyme is the danger in the woods.
Across North America, Lyme disease has spread.
And ticks don’t just carry Borrelia (Lyme).
They carry Alpha-Gal, Bartonella, and Babesia—the infamous “co-infections.”
Each one hijacks your body in a different way.
Tick nymphs are tiny—like miniature spiders.
They crawl into scalps and hairlines. Nearly invisible.
There isn’t always a red ring.
This is where they hide.
But even now, I don’t believe in turning away from the woods.
Because what’s inside school walls can be just as dangerous:
Children less inspired.
Disconnected.
Like animals in a concrete zoo.
And they suffer in other ways.
Schools with flat roofs built on wetlands are notorious for mold.
No air purifier can outpace mycotoxins from toxic mold.
No sealed classroom can compete with fresh air when it comes to viruses like COVID or strep.
Nature is the best environment for learning.
Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
I’ve seen it for twenty years.
But to keep our kids well, we must reckon with Lyme.
We need doctors to hear us.
Lyme is something many of us carry without knowing.
It gets confused with other conditions—aches, fatigue, brain fog.
Autoimmune symptoms get written off. Or misdiagnosed.
And yes—it can be passed in utero.
Mixed with viruses or pathogens, Lyme can trigger autoimmune encephalitis (AE).
In children, it may be diagnosed as PANS, or PANDAS when strep is involved.
But more often than not, it isn’t diagnosed at all.
When our kids suddenly can’t leave our sides, we’re told they’re “just anxious.”
When they get sudden tics, rage, regress—we’re told to discipline better.
When we ask about Lyme, we’re dismissed.
“Can she be tested for Lyme?”
“Why would we do that?”
“Well… she goes to forest school. She’s around ticks. Her behaviors concern me.”
“Lyme isn’t common here. Maybe she just needs summer break. Do her tics go away in the summer?”
They nod like the case is closed.
Another anxious mother silenced.
I saw it after a few viruses hit my daughter.
Hand, foot, and mouth—a virus most kids beat easily—sent her spiraling. She became withdrawn, quiet. She would burst into rages, each one worse than the next.
When the immune system is already overburdened, new infections tip the balance.
The gut. The brain. Everything begins to unravel.
That unraveling has a name.
AE.
Diagnosis? You’ll need an infectious disease specialist.
A neurologist. A rheumatologist.
All Lyme-literate.
For moms like me, we’re shit out of luck.
Because most allopathic doctors are not.
Even when moms like Reagan and Christine have a Lyme diagnosis in hand, they’re told it’s “behavioral.”
Standard labs often miss it.
Mothers in our community turn to Igenex (Germany) for Lyme, and other specialty labs for Bartonella and Babesia.
They seek out Lyme- and biotoxin-literate providers: functional doctors, naturopaths, chiropractors, homeopaths, and more.
The clock is ticking.
Misdiagnoses are rampant:
bipolar, schizophrenia, autism—including demand-avoidant behaviors often labeled as PDA or ODD.
And no one is checking for inflammation.
But if you look closely, you’ll see it:
Cognitive decline
Sloped handwriting
Sudden exhaustion
Rage at the smallest demand
One mom says the school flagged her child when he tore apart a classroom in blind rage. Another watched her daughter stop doing everything she loved—paralyzed in the living room—while doctors offered nothing but waitlists.
So moms gather online.
They ask these questions:
Is there mold?
How do I remediate?
What’s the safest way to detox?
What labs test for Lyme and co-infections?
Is there mercury? Parasites? Hidden viruses?
Now I hear it everywhere, not just with the kids.
Late-onset epilepsy.
Chronic fatigue.
Unexplained aches, swollen lymph nodes.
“Why is my husband so angry?”
“Why do I have such brain fog?”
“Why are my kids fighting over the smallest things?”
And I find myself asking:
Do you have clean air?
Do you have Lyme?
Most don’t know.
Neither do their doctors.
Neither do their schools.
Our families and friends may start to think we’re paranoid at best.
And if that weren’t hard enough—there’s the trauma to heal from, too.
The child who gave up what they love.
The child too anxious to leave the house.
The child who suffered silently while their brain misfired—
and the family that broke under the weight of it.
This is why we share our voices.
Because our kids can’t learn when they’re inflamed.
When they’re flaring, connection is hard.
Engagement feels impossible.
Not even the woods will bring joy.
And often, their flares are simply worsened by pressure and expectation:
“Brush your teeth.”
“Go to school.”
“Be quiet.”
Many parents in our community are finding a path forward by unschooling—
not just education, but their own lives and assumptions.
Removing triggers, one by one.
Letting healing lead.
Healing takes time.
It takes a multipronged, mindful approach.
And it takes a village.
This story is more common than it seems.
Maybe you’ll see it now.
Maybe you’ll help another child, another family—
before they’re tumbling.
Meanwhile, the woods hold answers too.
In the herbal world plants can be made into tinctures that calm immune storms, mushrooms lift brain fog, trees hold our grief and give us joy.
I turn to the women who’ve learned these things by watching themselves and their children heal, sharing their stories and remedies as they have for thousands of years.
It’s a science.
We know how to heal our families—
like salamanders.
An inflamed brain, a hidden infection?
A broken heart?
We’re watching.
We’re listening.
And in the forest,
we’re remembering how to belong.
💛 From Mothers Anonymous
Follow @mothersanon for more voices, more truth, and more healing.
I really appreciate you sharing this, I think it's critical as it's so much more common than society realises.