Beyond Fear-A exploration on transient hypofrontality
by Cordula Frei
Beyond Fear-by Cordula Frei
A poetic reflection on forest, perception, and the ancient brain of trust
The other day I walked into the forest with my dog with no goal or plan — only to listen to the breath of the trees and catch the last light. I decided to follow the wonderful last rays of the sun rather than the common path and stepped deeply into a small magical valley with a little creek guiding our unknown way.
At first, everything felt familiar: the crack of twigs, the play of light on leaves, the dog’s rhythmic panting. A mysterious mixture of anxiety, joy, interest and fear overwhelmed my system. I didn t have my iphone with me and no one knew were i was. It was close to sunset and dark (and cold) would fall quickly. The fascination to continue was stronger than the security of returning before dark. I remembered a architectures lecture i recently had attended were she pointed out, why wood in interior design is so much connected with safety; people found shelter in the forest in all times of evolution. I recalled this saying and walked on, connecting to the creek as life force (water, if i had to drink) and the thick covers of autumn leaves every were would be my bed and shelter (if i had to sleep). There were still berries and some mushrooms occasionally, so i would not die of hunger either. I could feel my heart beating faster and yet my lungs took deep leaps of moist delicious mossy air.
The deeper we went into the wild, the quieter it became inside me. My body began to listen long before my mind understood and i could sense the earth massaging me, as i stumbled over uneven roots and mossy or damp grounds. My orientation shifted to balancing my self by letting nature take me in: My senses opened.
The damp scent of soil, the sweet tone of resin, the cool touch of moss — they awakened memories older than words and i returned to this sweet connection which i always know of but remember far to often.
The sense of smell, wired directly to the limbic system, reaches those regions of the brain where emotion and memory merge. Here, in the so-called reptilian brain, safety is not thought — it is felt. The muscles loosen, the breath deepens, the heart calms itself to the rhythm of the forest.
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Then the path changed. The thicket grew denser, the ground even more uneven.
The brook disappeared for a moment, then reappeared — glittering.
When we leave familiar trails, something remarkable happens: the brain switches into exploration mode. The hippocampus begins to draw new maps, the sense of balance awakens, the eyes trace every movement.
A small surge of adrenaline makes us more alert —
a legacy of those who survived only by hearing the rustle in the underbrush in time.
A branch snapped.
For an instant, fear flared — a brief spark in the amygdala, that almond-shaped core deep in the brain where all threats are weighed. I thought of wild boars, of getting lost, of the oncoming dusk. But the dog stayed calm. I could trust her. How often had she explored this wild on her own and found her way back home. If darkness would fall, i d take her on and follow her path. She, as so often, thanked me for my trust by being even more in connection with me, waiting patiently when i stumbled and every few meters stopping and taking care if i still followed. She was at home, in perfect harmony and joy about the sensations, smells and explorations. I could see, how her body almost exploded with satisfaction for the many smells she collected and i imagined this telegraphic network she sniffled for, informations on any wild beast that encountered this path, mushrooms, water, every branch was a multitude of information for her nervous system.
And so my nervous system followed: the vagus nerve, that ancient messenger between heart, breath, and belly, sent the signal : All is well.
Then the forest truly opened to me. A small valley lay before me as the brook slid between moss and roots, and the light fell so softly it felt as if the forest itself were breathing. The creek gently murmured downwards and gigantic ferns grew every were. No path really any longer to follow, but the creek gave orientation.
In moments like these, something shifts inside us too: the frontal areas of the brain — the centers of planning and control — step back. Science calls it a transient hypofrontality.
It means that, for a brief while, the brain stops “supervising” and allows itself simply to be.
What remains is pure perception — sound, scent, temperature, heartbeat.
A merging of body and surroundings. The reptilian brain recognizes the patterns:
water means life, shade means safety, leaves means cover and shelter.
Fear is no longer needed.
As i realized i was taken by this moment of not fearing for my life, a existential peace overwhelmed my being and i started crying softly in joy and gratitude.
I stood still as my dog lay down, his nose in the wind.
I felt the earth beneath my feet — warm, alive, pulsing speaking to me.
Maybe I was lost. Perhaps we would not make it out of the forest before night.
But something in me had found the way.
Beyond fear, a different kind of perception begins:
When control loosens, connection emerges.
The forest teaches that safety does not always need direction,
sometimes only nearness, breath, rhythm and the willingness to explore.
Because the oldest part of us — the reptilian brain — still knows what we often forget:
that the forest is not only wild,
but also the first home of trust.
- Cordula Frei
This piece is part of a series exploring the dialogue between nature and neuroscience.
If this resonates, I would love to invite you into conversation—through Parallax—around how story, ritual, and remembering can transform meaning when the world feels adrift. You’re warmly welcome to get in contact at: cordula@parallax-media.eu
You can also explore my ongoing work at Parallax (courses such as “Deep Ecology – Rewilding the Soul”, “Voice Dialogue & Inner Expansion”, the writing group & literary salon) which anchor story and ritual in shared practice.