I’ve been navigating a really turbulent time lately, sitting with and in pain, unearthing limiting beliefs, old wounds, and patterns that no longer serve the version of me I’m becoming.

I’m sure that when the time is right, I’ll find the words to write about it all. But for now, my mind keeps drifting back to a recent chapter, hiking in Pelion with my mum.

There was such a beautiful rhythm to those days. We moved intuitively, letting our bodies and moods guide the routes we took, the waterfalls we swam in, the food we craved, and the rest we needed. The rhythm felt sacred. Sublime. We weaved from coast to inland and back again, covering miles of elevation and softening into the magic of the moment.

We had also been leaning into some truly serendipitous encounters (see 3 Angels of Pelion) that helped us through unexpected challenges.

As we neared the end of our hike, we needed to climb north again toward Portaria. Pan was experiencing high stress on the boat, and I felt a pull to get back to help however I could, even if just by cooking nourishing meals and offering some steadiness. So we decided to end our hike two days early. Mum would go on to have a solo experience in Skiathos, and I would head to Chios.

That gave us a bit of a deadline, something the mountains, in our experience, don’t always respect.

We had been staying at Camping Sikia, a coastal haven that was incredibly well set up. The day before had poured with rain, so we surrendered to a much-needed rest day, reading, writing, napping, swimming. We were in awe of the beautiful little cabin we had found for the night.

The following day, rain was still in the forecast, but we needed to walk. We had a slow morning, coffee by the water, another at the café, and when the sky finally offered us a break, we strapped on our rain covers, zipped up our jackets, and set off toward Agios Lavrentios.

Honestly, every hike in this region felt like my new favourite. The beauty never let up. This particular route led us up through olive groves, chestnut forests, and finally into birch trees, a vertical tapestry of Pelion’s vegetation, each layer marking our rising altitude. It was so grounding to move through those transitions with that local wisdom in our back pocket.

Still, I felt the familiar tightness creep in. The forecast had unsettled me. Storms always do. My palms get sweaty, my breath shortens. I become hypervigilant, scanning the sky, calculating the risks. It’s exhausting.

But that day, I didn’t want to carry the fear. So I prayed.

I asked God for a sign, something to show me that we were safe, that we were walking the right path, that I could hand over my fear and soften into the journey.

And just as I lifted my head, a buttery yellow butterfly fluttered between my legs. Then another. And another. They danced in and out of our steps as we climbed.

I smiled. A deep, grateful smile. A quiet nod to the love that always surrounds me when I’m willing to surrender.

Now, as I move through this present sadness, I keep returning to those yellow butterflies, a symbol that has become, for me, a reminder of trust. Of softness. Of surrender.

Hence the beautiful yellow jug I made today, a small altar to the butterflies, and the guidance that always finds us when we ask.