Growing up with Childhood Emotional Neglect (CEN) often means living with what wasn’t there. The food may have been on the table, but the sense of being truly nourished was missing. There may have been routines, but not the steady rhythm of care. What was absent was invisible to others — yet your body remembers, carrying a quiet longing for safety, abundance, and continuity.
Foraging offers a way back.
Stepping into a meadow or forest to gather what grows freely may seem simple, even quaint. But hidden in this practice is a profound truth: nature provides, season after season, without fail. Nettles rise through the soil each spring. Berries ripen in the warmth of summer. Apples fall heavy into waiting hands as autumn arrives. This rhythm is predictable and generous — qualities many of us never experienced in childhood, but that we can reclaim now.
Foraging becomes more than collecting food. It can be a healing ritual, a way to feel cared for by the world itself. Each plant carries not only nourishment for the body, but also a message for the heart — renewal, sweetness, protection, comfort. By walking with the seasons, we slowly relearn abundance, rebuild trust, and tend to the neglected places within.
In what follows, we’ll explore the psychology of why foraging feels grounding, look at the research that supports its benefits, and then walk through the seasons together — from nettle soup in spring to warm apple compote in autumn. You’ll also find a free calendar with monthly suggestions, each pairing a seasonal food with its symbolic meaning and a simple recipe.
If neglect left you feeling unseen or unsupported, let the turning of the seasons remind you: nourishment does come, in its time, and you are allowed to receive it.
Psychological Frameworks
Why does foraging feel so soothing, especially for those of us living with the quiet wounds of CEN? Psychology offers some answers. Two perspectives — Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and polyvagal theory — help us understand why gathering wild food touches something deeper than hunger.
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs reminds us that healing begins with nourishment at the most basic level. Food is the foundation, but it doesn’t end there. Foraging also supports our higher needs. It offers a sense of competence as we learn to identify plants, belonging if we share the activity with others, and even moments of self-actualization when we feel deeply connected to the living world. Each layer builds on the other, showing how a simple basket of nettles or berries can feed more than the body.
Polyvagal theory, developed by Stephen Porges, explains how our nervous system shifts between states of survival and states of safety. Many who grew up with neglect live more often in hypervigilance — the body always on alert, waiting for what might go wrong. Foraging gently invites us into another state. The slow pace of walking, the focus on details, the fresh air and earthy scents — all activate the parasympathetic system, the “rest and digest” mode. In this state, the body can soften. We feel grounded, curious, even playful.
Together, these frameworks show that foraging is not just practical. It’s a pathway that meets basic needs, nurtures higher ones, and signals to our nervous system: it is safe to rest, safe to receive.
Research & Evidence
The soothing effect of foraging is not just poetic; it is supported by research across psychology, ecology, and health sciences.
Studies on nature exposure show consistent benefits for mental health. Ulrich (1991) found that even brief encounters with natural environments reduce stress and lower cortisol levels. More recently, Bratman et al. (2015) demonstrated that walking in nature decreases rumination, a key marker of anxiety and depression. These findings help explain why the simple act of gathering wild plants can leave us calmer and clearer.
The practice of forest bathing, or shinrin-yoku, has been studied extensively in Japan. Research shows measurable effects: reduced blood pressure, lower heart rate, and improved immune function (Park et al., 2010). Foragers, without naming it, often engage in a similar practice — moving slowly, noticing details, breathing deeply.
There is also evidence linking food security to mental health. Whitaker et al. (2006) found that uncertainty around food supply increases risks of anxiety and depression. Foraging does not replace the supermarket, but it does create a sense of direct access to nourishment — a subtle reassurance to the nervous system that there is “enough.”
Taken together, this body of research suggests that foraging weaves together two strands of healing: the restorative power of nature and the reassurance of accessible nourishment. Both speak directly to the hidden hungers of those who grew up without steady emotional care.
The Seasonal Journey
One of the deepest gifts of foraging is rhythm. Each season offers what the body needs, in its own time. By following this cycle, we slowly relearn what consistency feels like. The year itself becomes a kind of caregiver — steady, generous, and predictable.
Early Spring — Nettles, Wild Garlic, and Dandelion
After the long depletion of winter, the first greens appear. Nettles rise quickly, rich with iron and minerals to restore strength. Wild garlic pushes through the soil, sharp and fresh, waking digestion. Dandelion leaves spread wide, their bitterness cleansing the liver and clearing what has grown stagnant.
These plants do not wait for permission. They arrive every spring, announcing renewal. For those of us who began life without steady care, their presence carries a quiet message: energy returns. You can take it in.
Simple practice: Make a pot of nettle soup with potatoes and onions. Blend wild garlic into pesto. Add young dandelion leaves to a salad with olive oil and lemon. Let each bite remind you of beginnings.
Early Summer — Elderflowers, Berries, and Cherries
As the light grows longer, the elder tree blossoms. Its flowers are pale, fragrant, and fleeting. Gathered for tea or cordial, they cool the body and ease the spirit.
Soon after, berries and cherries ripen. Their colors are bright, their juice sweet and abundant. Picked fresh, still warm from the sun, they overflow with antioxidants and water — the perfect food for summer’s heat.
Symbolically, this is the season of joy and play. For those who carry neglect, pleasure may feel undeserved or fragile. But berries offer a different lesson: sweetness can be simple. You are allowed to receive it.
Simple practice: Drink a glass of elderflower cordial in the evening. Eat cherries or berries one by one, without rushing, tasting their brightness fully.
Late Summer to Early Autumn — Elderberries and Mushrooms
As summer wanes, the elder’s blossoms turn to dark berries. Elderberries are rarely eaten raw. Instead, they are dried for tea or simmered into syrup. Their purpose is protection, strengthening the immune system for the colder months.
Mushrooms rise quietly from the forest floor. They thrive in decay, drawing nourishment from what has fallen away. Rich in minerals and protein, they ground and sustain.
Together, elderberries and mushrooms speak of resilience. They prepare us for challenges ahead. They remind us that even in endings, new strength appears.
Simple practice: Brew elderberries into a dark tea with honey. Sauté mushrooms with garlic and thyme, and eat them warm with bread. Notice the steadiness in their taste.
Autumn — Apples, Pears, Nuts, and Chestnuts
With autumn comes abundance of another kind. Apples and pears are ready to eat raw, crisp and juicy. Or they can be stewed slowly, with coconut oil, raisins, and cinnamon — filling the home with fragrance.
Nuts drop from their shells: walnuts, hazelnuts, almonds. Dense with energy, they can be stored for the winter. Chestnuts appear too, unlike other nuts — starchy, sweet, almost bread-like. Roasted, they become food for hearth and gathering.
Autumn’s gifts carry weight. They remind us that abundance can be saved, that nourishment endures even as the days grow shorter. For those who never knew stability, these foods embody it in every bite.
Simple practice: Roast chestnuts until their skins split. Hold them warm in your hands before eating. Stew apples or pears with cinnamon, and eat them slowly, spoonful by spoonful.
Late Autumn into Winter — Rosehips
When the first frost arrives, the hedgerows glow with red. Rosehips, full of vitamin C, are gathered in the cold. Dried for tea or simmered into syrup, they offer brightness just when the days darken.
Rosehips are tough and tender at once. Protected by thorns, yet sweet inside. They symbolize endurance, beauty after hardship, the promise that something vital remains.
Simple practice: Make rosehip tea on a winter evening. Drink it slowly, letting the warmth spread, and remember that nourishment still comes — even in the hardest seasons.
Through these cycles, we are fed again and again. Foraging shows us that nourishment is steady, not scarce. The earth keeps giving, in rhythm. By following that rhythm, we begin to trust again — not only in nature, but in our own capacity to receive.
Practical Takeaways
Foraging can feel intimidating at first. You might wonder if it’s safe, if you’ll recognize the right plants, or if you even belong in this practice. The truth is, you don’t need to know everything. Healing rarely asks for perfection — it asks for small, steady steps.
Here are a few ways to begin:
Start with what is familiar. Nettles, dandelions, blackberries, and apples are easy to recognize and widely available. Choose one plant this season, and make it part of your life in a simple way.
Forage mindfully. Go slowly. Notice the light, the air, the feel of the plant in your hands. Let yourself be present. For many of us, slowing down can feel unfamiliar, even uncomfortable. With practice, it becomes a way of telling the body: it is safe to pause.
Harvest with care. Take only what you need, leaving enough for others — human and animal alike. This practice of balance is part of the healing. It teaches us reciprocity: we give thanks, and we receive with respect.
Make it a ritual. Use your foraged food intentionally. Brew a cup of tea as a daily grounding practice. Stir wild greens into your dinner as a sign of renewal. Eat fruit slowly, savoring the sweetness. These small acts are more than meals — they are ways of rebuilding trust with your own body.
Invite connection. If you can, share your foraging with a friend, a child, or a community group. Gathering together multiplies the sense of belonging. But even if you go alone, remember you are never truly alone. Every season is part of a larger web of life, and foraging draws you back into that web.
Healing from CEN is often a long path, marked by slow rebuilding of safety, trust, and joy. Foraging will not fix everything. But it can become a companion — a practice that steadies you, season by season, and reminds you that abundance is real, and that you are worthy of receiving it.
A Year of Foraging — Free Calendar
If this way of walking with the seasons speaks to you, I’ve created a gift to help you begin. It’s a simple calendar that guides you month by month through the year.
For each month, you’ll find:
- a plant you can gather,
- its psychological and symbolic meaning,
- and a recipe to bring it to your table.
Think of it as a gentle companion — something you can print, pin up in your kitchen, and return to when you want guidance or inspiration.
You don’t need to master everything at once. Just choose one plant each month, and let it become part of your rhythm. Over time, the cycle itself will begin to hold you.
Final Words
Foraging is more than food. It is a way of returning — to rhythm, to care, to the sense that life offers what we need in its own time.
If you grew up without steady nurture, these cycles can feel unfamiliar at first. But the nettles still rise every spring. The berries still ripen in summer. The apples still fall in autumn. The earth does not forget to show up, even if others once did.
Each time you gather a handful of leaves, or sip tea made from what you picked yourself, you practice receiving. You allow yourself to be fed, not just physically but emotionally. Slowly, these moments gather into something larger: a sense of trust. A knowing that abundance is possible — and that you are worthy of it.
Season by season, the cycle becomes a teacher. It does not rush. It simply returns. And in walking with it, you may find that parts of you long-neglected also return — steadier, fuller, more whole.
Explore further
Spring’s Wild Abundance: Edible Greens to Forage for Healing and Joy
Early Spring Foraging: Edible & Medicinal Plants You Can Find Now
The Ultimate Guide to Vegan Pesto: Wild & Foraged Greens for a Nutrient-Packed Twist
Foraging Chervil Through the Seasons: Recipes for Food, Medicine, and Beauty
Early Spring Gardening: Fast-Growing Crops & Companion Planting for Thriving Soil
Weeds as Allies: How to Use Wild Plants to Feed Your Soil and Read Its Needs
References
Nature and Mental Health
- Ulrich, R. S. (1991). Effects of gardens on health outcomes: Theory and research. In C. Cooper Marcus & M. Barnes (Eds.), Healing Gardens: Therapeutic Benefits and Design Recommendations (pp. 27–86). New York: Wiley.
- Bratman, G. N., Hamilton, J. P., & Daily, G. C. (2015). The impacts of nature experience on human cognitive function and mental health. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1249(1), 118–136.
Forest Bathing / Shinrin-yoku
- Park, B. J., Tsunetsugu, Y., Kasetani, T., et al. (2010). The physiological effects of Shinrin-yoku (taking in the forest atmosphere) in a mixed forest in Japan. Public Health, 124(1), 8–17.
Food Security and Mental Health
- Whitaker, R. C., Phillips, S. M., & Orzol, S. M. (2006). Food insecurity and the risks of depression and anxiety in mothers and children. Pediatrics, 118(3), e859–e868.
Polyvagal Theory
- Porges, S. W. (2011). The Polyvagal Theory: Neurophysiological Foundations of Emotions, Attachment, Communication, and Self-regulation. Norton.
Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs
- Maslow, A. H. (1943). A theory of human motivation. Psychological Review, 50(4), 370–396.
Leave a Reply