The Tick Check: Not Everything Gets to Stay

Moving through the brush with care and intention — a CNIT backpacking group navigates a mountain meadow together.

There are a few things that reliably come up whenever I bring people outdoors in a therapeutic setting. One is awe. Another is calm. And somewhere not far behind… ticks.

I’ve come to respect how much fear this tiny creature carries.

I know a few people whose lives have been profoundly altered by Lyme disease. What starts out nearly invisible can, over time, become something life-changing. That reality matters. It deserves to be taken seriously.

And then there is my husband, who, without fail, seems to be a tick magnet. We can walk the same trail, side by side, and somehow he will come home with three and I will have none. It’s become a bit of a running joke in our family, but underneath it is also a reminder: exposure is not always equal. Some bodies seem to carry more than others.

And yet, in my work at the Center for Nature Informed Therapy, I meet many clients for whom ticks are very scary. I’ve worked with people who avoid the outdoors whenever possible. Who feel their nervous system spike at the thought of brushing against tall grass. Who genuinely long for the calm and connection nature offers, but feel held back by this very real fear.

So the question becomes: how do we hold both truths?

That ticks are real, and that fear can become limiting.That nature holds both risk and profound healing.

One of the simplest practices we talk about in outdoor settings is the “tick check.”

At the end of time outside, we pause before going back in the house. We take a moment to notice what might have attached.

But even before that, we do some preparation.

We might treat our gear and clothing with permethrin. We choose long, light-colored layers so we can more easily see anything that doesn’t belong. 

They reflect a way of moving through the world with care. It’s simply a way of being in relationship with the environment we are entering.

Over time, I’ve come to see how much this translates beyond the trail.

Psychologically, these same small actions mirror the often-overlooked ways we care for our inner world.

Treating our gear ahead of time becomes a kind of intentional preparation. The ways we ground ourselves before a hard conversation. The ways we remind ourselves who we are before stepping into environments that can pull at us. The ways we anchor so we’re less likely to absorb what isn’t ours.

It’s not about becoming closed off.It’s about becoming a little less absorbent to what harms us.

And just like wearing light-colored clothing helps us notice something early, awareness in our inner life helps us catch things before they settle in too deeply.

Because the truth is, we pick things up all day long.

A comment that lingers.A tone of voice that lands harder than expected.A sense of pressure, expectation, or self-doubt that quietly attaches itself to us.

Much like ticks, these things don’t always announce themselves. They latch on subtly.

And if we don’t pause to notice, we can carry them far longer than we need to.

So I often ask:

What have you picked up today that doesn’t belong to you?

I think of one client who has turned this question into a weekly ritual. At the end of each workweek, she writes down what she’s been carrying that she doesn’t want to take into her weekend. The stress. The tension. The lingering interactions. The weight that isn’t fully hers.

On Friday evenings, she steps outside and creates a small fire. One by one, she places those words into the flame.

As a steady practice of release.

A quiet way of saying: this stops here.

A way of unhooking from what has attached, so she can return to herself—and to her life—with a little more space, and a little more ease.