Wayward Wellness Coaching

Sometimes your nervous system remembers the quiet chaos more than the big moments.

How growing up without WiFi didn’t make life dull — it made it unforgettable.

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Hey Reader,

I saw this reel the other day — kids asking what we did for fun before the internet existed:
Check it out here → https://www.instagram.com/reel/DQN8GK9gFBx/?igsh=MWJhaDA3aXpzYmdieg==​

And for those of you without InstaG...I went ahead and screen-recorded it...but don't tell anyone.

It reminded me of going over to my friend Travy’s house — the kid who lived on a farm where boredom didn’t stand a chance. We’d get lost in the woods on four-wheelers, build forts out of his mom’s sheets we stole straight from the dryer (sorry, Mrs. Becker), dig old glass bottles out of the dirt, convinced we’d discovered buried treasure, and craft rubber-band guns out of scrap wood like tiny rogue engineers.

We even used old-school 35mm cameras and pretended they were high-tech spy gear that could blind the enemy while we carried out our secret missions.
And the grand finale? Launching rotten squash “bombs” from the fort while his older brother stormed it like we were in The Hunt for Red October.

That was entertainment.
​No WiFi required.

And THEN… there’s me now. Over here sweating bullets about writing a weekly newsletter.

Because honestly? How do you top a week titled “Do You Wash Your Legs in the Shower?” (which you can read by clicking HERE)​
You can’t. That was peak journalism. Pulitzer-worthy. We peaked as a society by week EIGHT.

And it’s nerve-racking when you’ve never been a planner and then suddenly decide, “Sure, let’s commit to a weekly newsletter… indefinitely.”
​Bold choice. Questionable logic. We move.

…Clearly I didn’t plan this one out 😅 — but honestly, given everything I just told you, are we surprised? I have never been the “plan ahead” kid. I was the “build a structurally unsound fort out of stolen linens and hope for the best” kid.

But here’s the thing I realized in my little panic spiral:​
Everything doesn’t need to be grand.
The mundane has just as much magic — and honestly, just as much lesson — as the big dramatic stuff.

Half my childhood was literally rotting vegetables, stolen bedsheets, and fake spy cameras, and somehow those moments shaped me more than anything flashy.

Maybe the mundane is the content.
Maybe the mundane is where the truth actually hides.

Lean in with me...

But here’s the real lesson that sucker-punched me in the middle of this mental circus:​
The mundane is enough.
Life doesn’t need fireworks every week to be meaningful — sometimes it’s the quiet, overlooked, normal moments that have the most to say.

The stories that don’t look impressive at first glance… those are usually the ones your nervous system remembers. Those are the ones that teach you something.

And if I can pull an entire newsletter out of rotting squash grenades, stolen bedsheets, and a fake spy camera?
Trust me — there’s always something worth paying attention to.

So here’s your challenge for the week:​
Notice one mundane moment.
Something small. Something easy to ignore.
And ask yourself: What is this trying to show me?

If you want to go deeper with that — or you’re realizing your nervous system has been trying to get your attention for a while — hit reply and tell me what you noticed. I read every response, and you know I’m always down to help you decode whatever your body’s whispering (or screaming).

If you want to share your nostalgia, I'd love to hear what YOU used to do before the internet. Did you throw rotten squash bombs at an older brother too?

AND since we've had a few noobs join the family here, I figured I'd throw in some previous weeks for you to check out...you know, nostalgic purposes:

Week 6: What My Rescue Dog's Submissive Pissing Taught Me About Nervous System Regulation​

Week 5: When That Boundary Hangover Hits Harder than a Stepdad during Monday Night Football​

See you next Wednesday - and as always, if you liked this, forward it to a friend so they can join the fam and be regulated like you.

- Renae