Rise a few metres, and the body rewires: cortisol falls, vision widens, attention tightens. The most accessible performance lab might be the nearest branch.
I still climb trees.
There’s something up there that I don’t find anywhere else.
I have clear memories of watching Mum hang out the washing while I perched several storeys above her, koala’d around the thinning trunk of the blue gum tree and swaying in the breeze.
I knew better than to alert her to my presence. If I did, she would be forced to see me and act in my protection. Three points of contact, Belinda. Always have three points of contact.
I felt safe up there. Surrounded by the strength and flexibility of the limbs of the tree I would daydream. I could relax into the boughs, awash in an imagined seascape as my yacht ran the gauntlet of a pirate-populated passage. I had to get to the gold first.
And I was always the heroine of my stories, sword fighting my way along the beach, escaping capture by flinging myself up a tree and then lying dormant, watching the hunt unfold. Even as a child, I believed that if I could lower my heart rate and become one with the nature that hid me, then the imagined enemy would never think to look in my direction, and I would remain undetected.
Later, I applied this skill to military exercises in the bush. If I could regulate my nervous system and blend myself into the landscape, I would become the observer, not the observed.
Now, I am an enthusiastic participant in climbing trees, often with my children. Note, I said ‘often’. I confess I will perch myself up a tree without the convenient excuse of engaging with a small child’s play. Sometimes I choose to take my coffee from a place of elevation, and amongst the limbs that hold me and gently sway. I can feel my nervous system regulating with the subtle movement of the wind. I can feel my spine fusing with the strength of the trunk that has stood longer than my lifespan, longer than the life of this town, running down into the Earth, older than humanity.
Up here I can just observe.
And that matters more than it might seem.
There is something profoundly stabilising about being in nature. The Japanese practice of Shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing, has shown measurable reductions in cortisol, the body’s primary stress hormone, simply through immersion in a natural environment. Time in trees does not just feel calming. It changes the chemistry of the body.
Heart rate slows. Blood pressure reduces. The nervous system shifts out of chronic activation and into a state that is both calm and alert.
Not collapsed. Not switched off.
Regulated.
But there is another layer to this.
Up here, I am not in the scene. I am watching it.
When we shift into the role of observer, something subtle changes in the brain. Activity in the prefrontal cortex increases, allowing us to step out of reactive patterns and into awareness. At the same time, the limbic system, responsible for emotional reactivity, begins to settle.
This is the biological basis of what many describe as perspective.
It is not just psychological. It is physiological.
From this state, decisions change. Interpretation changes. The intensity of experience softens, and clarity replaces it.
There is also something about height.
Looking out from an elevated vantage point expands the visual field. The brain processes this as increased safety and increased opportunity. Research on perception and spatial awareness shows that widening our field of view increases cognitive flexibility. We think more broadly. We connect ideas more easily. We become more like a predator, alert and confident and less like prey.
Perspective is not just a metaphor.
It is a function of where you stand.
And then there is the edge.
Because let’s be honest. Sitting in a tree is not entirely safe.
There is just enough instability. Just enough consequence. Just enough uncertainty.
The branch could shift. Your footing matters. Your attention matters.
This is where the system sharpens.
As with leaning into a turn on a skateboard, this level of manageable risk activates dopamine as a learning signal. The brain pays attention. It refines movement. It tracks the environment more precisely.
You are alert, but not overwhelmed.
Engaged, but not stressed.
This is a powerful state for learning and performance.
And finally, the sway.
The gentle, rhythmic movement of the tree in the wind is not incidental.
The human body responds to oscillatory motion. It is why rocking soothes infants, and why slow, repetitive movement can regulate the nervous system. This motion stimulates the vestibular system, the inner ear mechanism responsible for balance and spatial orientation.
When activated in a controlled and rhythmic way, it has a calming effect on the brain.
It tells the system:
You are safe enough to settle.
So here I am.
Perched in a tree. Coffee in hand. Doing something that, on the surface, looks unproductive.
And yet beneath it, something more precise is happening.
Stress is reducing.
Attention is sharpening.
Learning pathways are activating.
Perspective is expanding.
The system is changing.
Not through effort.
Not through discipline.
Through conditions.
I am not escaping the world.
I am returning to a state that can properly meet it.
And perhaps that is the question.
Where are we placing ourselves that quietly shape how we think, respond, and perform?
Because performance is not built in moments of intensity alone.
It is built in the environments we repeatedly step into.
Sometimes… it looks like climbing a tree.
