Walking Back to Myself: The Ancestral Walk in Glen Lyon

Every year, deep in the black woods of Rannoch in North Scotland, I take part in a wild camping and bushcraft experience called The Ancestral Walk. Led by Mark Taylor, it is far more than a survival camp. It is a journey — into the land, into ancestral memory, and, for me, into myself.

For a few days, we step away from modern comforts and distractions. There is no rushing, no constant notifications, no artificial light. Instead, there is the rhythm of the elements. We learn how our ancestors would have lived — how to make fire from spark and patience, how to build shelter from what the forest provides, how to stay warm, dry, and safe in wild terrain. We learn how to listen: to the wind, to the birds, to our own instincts.

At first glance, survival skills might seem purely practical. And they are — fire-making, shelter-building, understanding the landscape — these are tangible, physical competencies. But beneath the surface, something much deeper happens.

For me, The Ancestral Walk has been profoundly empowering.

Over the last three years, returning to Glen Lyon has paralleled my own personal healing journey. As someone working through the long shadows of codependency and domestic abuse, I arrived the first year unsure of myself in ways I could barely articulate. I had spent years doubting my instincts, my strength, my ability to stand alone.

There is something transformative about gathering wood in the rain and knowing your warmth depends on your own persistence. About sleeping under a shelter you built with your own hands. About waking in the early light of the Scottish Highlands and realising: I can look after myself.

Each year, my confidence has grown — not in a loud or performative way, but in a grounded, embodied way. Survival strips life back to its essentials. You cannot negotiate with the weather. You cannot outsource your fire. You cannot pretend you are warmer than you are. You meet reality as it is — and you meet yourself as you are.

In that simplicity, I have found strength.

The forest does not care about your past. It does not judge your history. It simply asks: Can you adapt? Can you learn? Can you stay present? And every time I strike a flame or secure a ridge line against the wind, I am reminded that resilience is not something abstract. It is built, moment by moment, choice by choice.

Doing this work in parallel with personal healing has been powerful. Therapy and reflection have helped me understand my patterns; the woods have helped me rewrite them. Where once I looked outward for reassurance, I now look inward for steadiness. Where once I doubted my capacity, I now have lived evidence of it.

There is also something deeply connecting about the experience. To gather around a fire at night, aware that humans have done exactly this for thousands of years, is humbling and grounding. It reminds me that strength, survival, and community are woven into our lineage.

The Ancestral Walk is not comfortable in the conventional sense. It is cold. It is wet. It is demanding. But it is also expansive. It has given me space to reclaim parts of myself that felt lost — independence, capability, and self-trust.

In the quiet of Rannoch's black woods, I have learned not just how to survive the elements, but how to stand on my own two feet — steady, capable, and whole.

And each year, I return — not just to the forest, but to myself.

Link to Mark Taylor's Instagram:

Mark (@ancestralowl) • Instagram photos and videos

The importance of Ceremony

Ceremony and ritual matter to the brain because they give change a shape.

Our brains are pattern-making machines. We don’t transition smoothly from one state to another; we need markers—before and after, here and there. Ritual provides those markers. When we engage in a deliberate act with meaning, the brain registers that something has ended or something has begun. This helps close open emotional loops that otherwise linger as rumination, anxiety, or unresolved grief.

Ceremony slows time down. In a world that pushes us to “move on” quickly, ritual tells the nervous system it’s safe to pause. Repetition, symbolism, and sensory elements—lighting a candle, speaking words aloud, movement, sound—anchor the experience in the body. This engages memory, emotion, and attention together, which makes the transition feel real rather than purely intellectual.

Letting go is especially hard without ritual. The brain resists ambiguity; unfinished endings keep stress responses active. A ceremony of release—naming what is being honored, grieved, or laid to rest—creates psychological completion. It allows the mind to file the experience as integrated rather than ongoing.

At the same time, ritual is a powerful initiator. Beginning something new without ceremony can feel fragile or unreal, like a thought rather than a commitment. When we mark a beginning intentionally, the brain tags it as significant. This increases follow-through, motivation, and identity shift: this is who I am becoming now.

In essence, ceremony helps the brain metabolize change. It turns transition into meaning, loss into memory, and intention into action. Through ritual, we don’t just move on—we move through, and then forward, with clarity and coherence.

How Connected Breath Supports Emotional Release

Connected breathing uses a continuous, unbroken inhale–exhale cycle. That rhythm can create a kind of internal momentum, which helps people access emotions that are usually held beneath conscious awareness. When the breath becomes steady and circular, the thinking mind tends to quiet down. That shift can make it easier to notice sensations, memories, or feelings that were previously pushed aside. Many people describe it as giving themselves permission to feel what they’ve been avoiding.

The emotional release isn’t about forcing anything; it’s more like opening a door. The breath creates a focused, altered state of awareness — not in a mystical sense, but in a psychological one. When your attention is anchored in the body for an extended period, the usual defenses soften. That can lead to crying, laughter, trembling, or simply a sense of relief. It’s a way of processing stored tension and unexpressed emotion through the body rather than through words.

Nervous System Effects That Support the Process

Even though connected breathwork can feel intense, the underlying mechanism is still tied to the nervous system. The continuous breath pattern can temporarily shift the balance between sympathetic and parasympathetic activity. That shift can bring old emotional patterns to the surface, but it can also help integrate them afterward. People often report feeling lighter, clearer, or more grounded once the session settles.

It’s also worth noting that the rhythmic nature of the breath gives the body something predictable to follow. That predictability can create a sense of safety, which is essential for emotional release. When the body feels safe, it’s more willing to let go of tension that’s been held for a long time.

Why People Use These Methods

Connected breathwork appeals to people who want a more embodied way of working through emotional blocks. It doesn’t require talking, analyzing, or intellectualizing. Instead, it uses the breath as a catalyst for self-awareness and release. Some people find it helps them reconnect with parts of themselves they’ve ignored; others use it to break through emotional stagnation or to feel more alive and present.