SOS in the Forest

A Solo Retreat, a Racing Heart, and Learning to Trust the Signs

I thought this retreat would be about hiking, journaling, and peace. Instead, from the moment I arrived at the tiny house in Hocking Hills, uneasiness crept in. My phone dropped to SOS on the trail, an abandoned dock stirred up strange thoughts, and by the time I was sitting alone by a fire with my heart pounding at 102 beats per minute, I knew something bigger was happening. What I didn’t realize then was that the real SOS wasn’t in the woods around me. It was in my body, responding to a storm high above me.

It is September 30th, 2025, and I am waking up in Hocking Hills, Ohio. This is my second solo retreat. I rented a tiny house, packed up my gear to hike and relax. This place is more secluded than the last one I stayed in, which sat on the edge of a campground. Here, I can see a few houses through the trees, but I am mostly alone. Before I arrived, that didn’t bother me. But the moment I got here, uneasiness crept in.

Yesterday, I decided to revisit a quiet trail I had hiked last time. Back then I didn’t see a soul, and it felt peaceful. This time, as soon as I pulled into the trailhead, my phone service dropped to “SOS.” I brushed it off, even recorded a quick video for social media, and told myself it was fine.

As I started walking, though, I couldn’t shake a sense of tension. My husband’s words “be careful” played in my mind. Seven minutes in, I came to a small pond. Ponds are my favorite thing, but not this one. On the edge there were rusting yellow beams, remnants from a dock long ago. My brain jumped to the recent dredging of the Chicago River where they found 87 cars. I tried to control my imagination as I walked past it, and when the trail turned into dense trees, my body finally shouted: “No. We’re not doing this.” I turned back.

When I reached the parking lot, there was a small car parked on the far edge, someone sitting inside. They weren’t doing anything, but it felt like another nudge. Time to leave.

Back at the Tiny House

I drove without service, tried to find another trail, but couldn’t shake the off feeling. Eventually I gave up, went to Walmart for some supplies including Ghirardelli 72% chocolate chips, two dollars cheaper than Kroger, and my favorite Cape Cod Kettle Chips then headed back to the cabin.

Normally, this is the dream: a fire, some quiet woods, space to write and think. I built a fire, foraged for wood, did all the things that usually bring me joy. Still restless. At 12:22 EST I typed into my phone: “anxious.” By 2:00 p.m., sitting by the fire, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, something else was wrong.

I have a list in my phone called “Feel Better.” This list is times when I have not been able to get out of a mood, my body felt off and things that I may be able to try, listen to or read to ease the discomfort. Nothing on the list felt right but my old go to, the DARE app has never let me down. I chose the SOS icon, he talks you through breathing, body contractions. No relief. I tried chocolate chips, tea, kettle chips and even laying down. Nothing. Walking barefoot in the grass didn’t help either. The heart rate app on my Apple Watch showed my heart rate at 102, sitting still. Something was wrong, but nothing made sense.

The Real Sign

That’s when I opened my Space Weather Live app. Right then, a notification popped up:
“Kp index is at 6,” the max is 9.

And suddenly it clicked. All the unease, the odd details, the way my body had been reacting, they weren’t random. They were signs pointing me to this storm. It wasn’t the trail, the dock, or the car in the lot. It was the Sun itself.

Some people say we shouldn’t “look for reasons” when we feel bad, just cold plunge, ground, or distract ourselves. That advice frustrates me. Because here’s my truth: my body is highly sensitive to the electromagnetic storms of the Sun. This wasn’t “just anxiety.” It was the geomagnetic storm outside causing the storm inside of me.

The Science Behind It

There’s research to back this up. Studies have found that during geomagnetic storms, hospital admissions for heart problems and blood pressure spikes actually go up. Sensitive people often report heart palpitations, racing pulses, headaches, dizziness, sleep disruption, anxiety, or feeling “on edge.”

Scientists believe these storms disturb our autonomic nervous system, the part that regulates heart rate, stress hormones, and sleep cycles. Some studies even link geomagnetic storms to changes in brain wave activity, which may explain why I couldn’t settle or sleep.

Not everyone feels it, but some bodies, like mine, seem to pick it up immediately. It’s not imaginary or my thoughts creating the anxiety. It’s physiology.

Nightfall

By 8:00 p.m., nothing had shifted. Normally I’d be sound asleep by then. Instead, I was wide awake. I watched Franklin and Bash, read for a while, still restless. Finally, I turned to something I’ve been experimenting with lately, binaural beats. I put on a track, and at last, I drifted into sleep.

Heading Home

This morning I packed up and drove home. I wasn’t refreshed or renewed. I wasn’t ready to leap back into life. I was unsettled and, honestly, kind of unhappy. I don’t like feeling this way, but sometimes that’s what it is.

I want to end my posts with a solution or a breakthrough. Lately, there hasn’t been one, just awareness. Maybe my soul chose this sensitivity for a reason. Maybe something amazing is on its way.

And maybe that’s the point. The signs were there all along, building to the real one. The Sun was flaring, and my body knew it before my mind figured it out. The Sun’s twelve year cycle affects me and I will get a break from this for several years, then it will start again. Yes, I keep doing the things that create calm and peace in my body every day, but sometimes there is going to be nothing I can do to change the sensations.

It may feel like this retreat was wasted, but maybe not. I was alone and in a space where I could note what was going on. I was also sharing the experience with my daughter, husband, and a close friend in case something bad did happen. Sometimes the lesson is simply learning to sit with what is, and to trust that even the unsettled days are part of the path forward.

The real SOS was never in the forest. It was in the storm above me, and in the way my body responded to it.