I lost my daughter in November 2025. She was born prematurely at 23 weeks, lived for ten days, and passed away from an infection.
Right now, I am sitting in my car waiting for the workday to start, exactly three days away from my first solo wild camp. On Friday, I am going to walk for an hour from my house into the local woods, set up a tarp with a bivvy, and sleep outside for the night.
I have been obsessing over the planning. I’ve spent hours watching YouTubers and bloggers, eyeing their kit, and worrying that I don’t have the right gear to pull this off. As a result, I’ve spent far too much money on things I probably don’t need.
I’m not entirely sure what I am looking for out there. The idea both scares and excites me. Sometimes it seems completely pointless; at the same time, it feels like the most important thing I am ever going to do.
A few days ago, I took my dog up to a memorial bench dedicated to my daughter. It sits right on the border of an open meadow and a patch of woodland. I like to go there and just sit. When you stop moving, you tune into how much is actually happening. Butterflies dancing, birds darting, grass sweeping with the wind, bees jumping from flower to flower. The dog rolling around in the long, cool grass. Nothing is still. Everything is alive.
While sitting there, I heard a family walking up the path behind me. They had a little girl who kept stopping to examine every stick, bug, and flower, shouting for her dad to come look. I caught a hint of impatience in his voice as he answered her. She had found walking sticks for her parents and wanted to show them where they came from. I heard her mum say, “See? Aren’t you glad you came to the woods? There is always an adventure here.”
There is always an adventure to be had in the woods.
It made me think about my daughter and the things I wanted to show her. I wanted her to see beauty. I didn’t want her to be scared of the outdoors. Yet here I am—the one who is scared to sleep out under the trees.
I am a relatively new practicing Buddhist, and I recently returned from a camping retreat at Alfoxton Park. I lived outside for five whole days, and when it ended, I didn’t want to come home. Normally, a retreat leaves me energized to get back to my life, but not this time. Returning to the office, spending my days inside staring at a screen, felt claustrophobic and pointless.
On the retreat, we discussed how far humans have drifted from nature. We are nature, but we don’t have a relationship with it anymore. This makes me angry. The fact that I feel genuine fear about sleeping outside tells me I am far away from it, too.
My attempt at a backpacking trip last year was a loud awakening. The campsites I booked were jammed with families wheelbarrowing mountains of gear from their cars to pitches that cost £20 a night. It was nice to see famlies playing outside together, but it was far from the simple, quiet escape I wanted.
When I arrived at the second campsite after a long day of hiking, the owner met me and explained the site was packed. He drove me around two big fields full of massive family tents, screaming kids, and smoking BBQs. The neighboring campers were spilling over the boundaries of the remaining spots.
He looked me up and down, saw my disappointment, and asked, “Do you want to camp in the woods?”
I jumped at the chance. I found a quiet spot, pitched my tent, and started cooking dinner. Then, a little girl came blindly running into the trees. She spotted me and froze. It was a quiet, frozen standoff. A twig snapped behind me, and when I turned back, she was running full pelt back to her parents.
“There is a man in the woods!” I heard her tell her dad, her voice shaky.
There is something funny about that story, but something sad, too. For the rest of my stay, whenever I left the trees to get water or use the facilities, I found myself trying not to look mean or scary. I smiled at adults and stayed clear of the kids, trying not to look like a threat. I had booked those pitches legally, but I still felt like I was doing something wrong.
That is the second thing that makes me mad. The land around us has been carved up, claimed, stolen, and sold for centuries. Every piece is owned by someone, and you are technically trespassing if you stay overnight anywhere. It is maddening that we have to feel like criminals just to sleep under the trees.
Ah, cool. Another fear to add to the list: the fear of being caught.
There is a Man in the Woods 
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