5 Lessons From the Forest That Can Help You Overcome Fear and Connect with Yourself

There’s a moment in every great story when the protagonist is alone, unsure, and facing something unknown — not outside, but within.

In Night in a Wood Cabin, a poetic and suspenseful coming-of-age tale rooted in the ancient storytelling traditions of Ilé-Ifẹ̀, young Nia enters a forest in search of wonder, only to confront the shadows of her own imagination.

But what if those shadows weren’t monsters at all?

What if they were simply echoes of old stories we inherited, stories we outgrew, but never questioned?

Fear has a way of making everything seem bigger, darker, and more perilous than it actually is. But what if the things we fear most are only shadows and illusions that take shape only when we stop trusting ourselves?

In this article, we explore five key lessons from the forest: reflections that echo far beyond the pages of a children’s tale. Whether you’re navigating fear as a parent, a young professional, or simply someone craving clarity in uncertain times, these insights invite you to pause, breathe, and see things differently.

1. The Forest Isn’t the Enemy — Your Thoughts Might Be

We often assign danger to unfamiliar spaces simply because we can’t predict what lies ahead. In the book, Nia enters the forest full of curiosity… until night falls. Suddenly, the same branches that danced in the sunlight began to scratch against her imagination. Every sound becomes a threat. Every shadow, a monster.

But what changed wasn’t the forest; it was her perception.

“Maybe the shadows aren’t monsters,” Nia whispers. “Maybe they’re just shadows… and what harm has a shadow ever caused anyone?”

Lesson: The unknown isn’t always unsafe. Sometimes it’s our unexamined fears that make it feel that way. When we explore rather than retreat, we often find clarity and calm hiding just behind the uncertainty.

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2. Curiosity Can Be a Compass

Before fear crept in, it was curiosity that led Nia into the woods — not recklessness, but a quiet longing for something more. That desire to explore, to learn, to reach beyond the boundaries of the familiar, is something we all had once. But as we grow older, the world teaches us caution, often at the expense of curiosity.

What if our inner compass isn’t broken — just buried?

Lesson: Curiosity is not the opposite of fear. It’s the remedy. If we lead with wonder instead of worry, we shift our focus from what could go wrong to what we might discover.

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3. What You Focus On Expands

One of the most memorable scenes in Night in a Wood Cabin features a wise merchant showing Nia how attention shapes perception. He asks her to focus on green leaves, green vines, and green moss, and then asks her to recall anything red. She can’t. But when she shifts her awareness, red suddenly appears everywhere: berries, blossoms, rust-coloured bark.

What we look for, we find. What we fear, we amplify. What we believe, we often reinforce without even realising.

“When we only look for shadows,” the merchant tells her, “we forget that there is colour everywhere, if only we choose to see it.”

Lesson: Choose your focus with intention. Your mind is powerful enough to transform shadows into monsters, but it can also turn uncertainty into opportunity.

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4. Stories Shape Us — So Choose Yours Wisely

Throughout the book, Nia wrestles not only with the forest, but with the stories she’s grown up hearing: tales of werewolves, shape-shifters, and eerie creatures that haunt the woods at night. These myths weren’t meant to trap her, but to teach her a lesson. Yet stories, when left unchallenged, can become cages.

Who told you the world is dangerous?Who decided you weren’t brave enough?Who said fear must always win?

Lesson: You don’t need to abandon your stories — but you must rewrite the ones that no longer serve you. The power of storytelling isn’t just in what it teaches others, but in how it redefines us.

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5. Courage Doesn’t Mean You’re Not Afraid — It Means You Go Anyway

One of the most poignant moments in the story is not when Nia defeats a monster, but when she dreams and realises there was no monster at all. There was only her wrestling with her own fear, reshaping her own perception, reclaiming her own power.

“The brighter the light of her torch shone, the smaller the dragon got, until it completely dwindled in size and fluttered away like a fly.”

Sometimes, fear is just the mind’s way of asking us to pay attention. Courage doesn’t silence fear; it reframes it. Gaining a better understanding of a situation, or of yourself, is often the first heroic act.

Lesson: Bravery isn’t always a grand gesture. Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of choosing to stay with discomfort long enough to understand it.

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Final Reflection — The Forest Within Us All

The most important journey Nia takes isn’t through the forest; it’s the journey inward. And perhaps, that’s the journey we’re all on. Night in a Wood Cabin whispers a powerful truth: fear is natural, but the scenarios it presents are not final.

In Night in a Wood Cabin, children are entertained, but adults are invited to remember: the biggest shadows often come from the smallest fears left unexplored. If we continue to pass those fears down through generations in our parenting, leadership, and lifestyle, we perpetuate the illusion of monsters.

The stories we inherit are not the end of the story.
The monsters we fear are not always what they appear to be.
And sometimes, the shadows we run from… are our own.

What if the monster isn’t real at all, but a shadow and a reminder that it’s time to turn on your own light?

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Ready to explore your own shadows?

Night in a Wood Cabin by Walé Akíngbadé will be available for purchase from April 2025 on Amazon, Waterstones, and Foyles.

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🎵 Bonus: Each chapter in the book is accompanied by a gentle instrumental track — a musical reflection to help you digest each lesson at a deeper level. You can scan the QR code at the back of the book or visit thinkgti.com to listen.

The eight-chapter original tale, titled Sefu’s Garden, continues the journey begun in Journey to Ọjà, following a young farmer named Sefu who must choose between immediate wealth and the slow, yet rewarding, work of cultivation.

When a travelling merchant offers to buy his three plots for a sum beyond his dreams, Sefu imagines a new life in the bustling market town of Ọjà. His father, Obi, and his older brother, Jabari, remind him that some treasures cannot be bought. Their counsel, along with the quiet discipline of his garden, form the heart of this sequel.

A Parable of Three Brothers

One morning after the merchant’s offer, Sefu walked between rows of okra and beans. The soil, damp and dark, clung to his fingers. The thought of the merchant’s glittering coins tugged at his mind. Jabari joined the young farmer beneath a pawpaw tree and shared a story, “There were once three brothers, each given a hundred gold coins.”

The first brother poured his inheritance onto a woven mat and watched the coins catch the morning light. The metallic chime made his heart race. He bought the finest horse in the market, its coat shining like polished ebony, and ordered a tailor to sew him robes of imported cloth. He filled his courtyard with friends, musicians, and laughter.

The scent of roasting goat, fragrant rice, and palm wine drifted through the night. With each purchase, a coin rang on a counter, and the purse at his waist grew lighter. At first, he shrugged and said, “Life is too short,” revelling in the applause of neighbours. Weeks later, he found himself staring at an empty pouch and a quiet compound. He went to his brother’s houses barefoot, dust clinging to his ankles, and knocked softly. Shame warmed his cheeks when he whispered, “Can you spare a coin?” The wind whistled through his straw-thin plans.

Sefu winced. “He must have felt hollow,” he murmured.

Jabari nodded. “He did.”

The second brother untied his pouch in the privacy of his hut. He sat by the light of a low-lit lamp and spread the coins in neat rows. He drew lines in the earth, dividing them by the seasons and years he hoped to live. He placed each small stack into clay pots, sealed and buried them beneath floorboards and sleeping mats. He ate millet porridge and dried fish, never sweetening his tea, constantly reminding himself that his future depended on these coins. When the first brother came, gaunt and desperate, the second brother’s fingers twitched toward his hidden stores, then clenched. “My coins are accounted for,” he said, eyes darting to the floor. He felt safe surrounded by his hoarded wealth, yet the safety was as stiff as his mat. He lived in a house of sticks; upright, but creaking under every gust of wind.

“The second brother sounds careful,” Sefu observed, “but also alone.”

“Yes,” Jabari replied. “He was so afraid of hunger that he tasted nothing else.”

The third brother walked out into the morning with his pouch and considered the fields beyond the village. Half of his coins he entrusted to the banker, watching the clerk’s pen scratch his name in the ledger. It felt like planting seeds he would not see for a long time. With the other half, he bought a small plot of land with dark, soft soil. He bent his back to the earth, pressing cowpea seeds into furrows with calloused fingers. Under the sun, he sweated, his tongue dry, yet his heart beat steady. He slept soundly and woke before dawn, eager to see green shoots breaking through the soil.

Seasons passed. His farm became a patchwork of millet, maize, and groundnuts. He sold some harvest, saved some, and always set aside a handful of seeds for the next planting. When his shoes wore through, he mended them and laughed, telling himself, “Life is short, but so are these stitches.” When he longed for a carved drum or a brightly dyed cloth, he waited for the harvest, then walked to the market with a basket of produce and coins earned from his crops. When the first brother arrived, thin and ashamed, asking for coins, he gave him a hoe instead and said, “Your hands are stronger than you know.” When the second brother arrived with a clay pot of coins, he smiled. “Let us put your treasure to work. The soil will teach you patience, and the bank’s interest will teach you trust.”

Sefu could almost see the third brother’s calloused hands and the way the sun glinted on the banker’s ink. “He must have felt proud,” he said, “but also tired.”

“He felt content,” Jabari replied, “and he learnt that tiredness from honest work feels different from exhaustion caused by worry or regret.

Subtext and Invitation

As Jabari’s story unfolds, Sefu weighs the merchant’s offer against the lessons of the parable. He thinks about the first brother’s empty hands and the second’s clenched fists, and he imagines the third brother kneeling in a field, planting seeds with patience. The tale of three brothers sits with him like a seed, ready to sprout into action. Will Sefu chase the glitter of instant wealth, hoard his treasure, or cultivate a foundation that endures?

Sefu’s Garden, the sequel to the soon-to-be-released Journey to Ọjà, invites you to follow a young man as he navigates the tension between immediate reward and lasting fulfilment. Jabari’s parable offers guidance, but Sefu’s decision and the consequences that follow unfold only within the pages of the book.