TaxTMI 
TaxTMI 
I used to think self-care meant slowing down. Long baths, scented candles, maybe a spa day with soft music and herbal tea. That was the version of “recovery” sold to me—calm, quiet, perfectly polished. But then I found something better. Messier. Louder. Stronger. It came not in a robe, but in a helmet and cleats.
Forget spa days.
For me, real healing comes from dirt therapy.
It started on a Saturday when I’d had enough—of screens, of stress, of feeling stuck in my own head. A friend handed me a mountain bike and said, “Let’s ride.” I was hesitant. I wasn’t the kind of person who did this kind of thing. But the minute those tires hit the trail, something shifted. The world narrowed to a single path, a rhythm of breath and movement, and the simple act of staying upright over roots and rocks.
There’s no time for anxiety on a technical descent. No room for overthinking when your front wheel is dancing through loose gravel. The trail demands your attention, all of it. And in that demand, it gives you something precious in return—presence. The kind you can’t find under warm stones or with whale sounds playing in the background.
I came home from that first ride with mud up my back, a small scrape on my knee, and a grin I couldn’t shake for days. My muscles ached, sure—but it was a good ache, the kind that says, “You were alive today.”
Since then, the trail has become my therapist. I’ve ridden through burnout, heartbreak, and long weeks that never seemed to end. When I’m out there grinding up a hill, lungs on fire and legs screaming, I’m not escaping my problems—I’m working through them, one pedal stroke at a time. And on the downhills, when I let go and fly, I remember what freedom feels like.
There’s a kind of joy in getting dirty, in letting go of polish and perfection. You don’t need to look a certain way to belong on a bike. The trail doesn’t care about your job title or your worries—it just invites you in, offers its challenge, and leaves you better than it found you.
So no, I don’t need a facial or a hot stone massage. Give me cold wind in my face, a trailhead at dawn, and a stretch of dirt that dares me to show up fully. That’s my therapy now. And if you’ve never tried it, I promise: one muddy ride is worth a dozen spa days.
Just bring a helmet, and leave your expectations behind.
The dirt will take care of the rest.
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