There’s something quietly sacred about watching My Octopus Teacher. No gods, no angels, no miracles—just a man, a camera, and a wild little octopus in a kelp forest. And yet, as I sat with it, I felt something shift in me.
Not because the octopus was magical. But because it was real. Because it healed in ways that made sense to me—as a naturalist, as a mother, as a woman who has lost and broken and needed to rebuild from nothing.
The octopus loses her arm to a shark. That’s it. No intervention. No one comes to rescue her. The pain is hers to survive. And so she hides. She slows down. She changes her habits to protect herself. And then—quietly, patiently—she grows it back. A brand-new arm. Cells dividing, tissues reforming, life reasserting itself.
That moment cracked me open. Because isn’t that what healing really is?
It’s not about going back to how things were. It’s not even about becoming who you once were. It’s about growing a new part of yourself in the shadow of pain. Letting nature, time, and trust do what they do—if you give them the chance.
There was a softness in the way the octopus came to trust the human. A patience. She didn’t hurry toward affection. She didn’t beg for safety. She watched. She waited. She reached when it felt right. She retreated when it didn’t. And that gave me so much permission in my own healing.
Because I’ve often been told to “let people in,” “move on,” “be brave,” “trust again.” But what if I don’t have to do any of that right away? What if I’m allowed to simply watch, wait, and reach slowly? What if trust—like a limb—grows back, little by little, not from pressure but from freedom?
The ocean didn’t owe the octopus a soft life. It owed her nothing. But she still made beauty with what she had. Camouflaged into coral. Played with fish. Danced in currents. Rested in seaweed. And isn’t that the most natural kind of joy? Not a gift from above, but a making from within.
That’s naturalism. It’s not about hope from outside. It’s not about someone coming to save you. It’s the understanding that life is hard—and also full of little intelligences that find ways to go on. Like cells rebuilding limbs. Like bodies that rest when they’re tired. Like minds that slowly let go of fear.
Like me. Like you.
We are not mistakes. We are not cursed. We are just creatures learning to live in a world that has teeth. And yet—we can still be soft. We can still be curious. We can still grow back what was lost, even if it takes time.
So today, I choose to be a little more like the octopus. I’ll rest in my hiding place if I need to. I’ll reach for connection when it feels safe. I’ll trust my instincts, let my body guide me, and allow my own nature to carry me forward.
Even in pain, there is intelligence. Even in grief, there is healing.
And maybe that’s all I need to remember right now.