How Axolotls Help Me Regrow Emotionally One Limb at a Time How an Axolotl Became My Midnight Muse

The kettle’s doing that soft hiss it always does right before it clicks off, and the whole apartment feels like it’s holding its breath. I’m curled up in my old sweater—the one with the loose cuffs—and a pair of socks that definitely don’t match, hugging a mug of chamomile like it’s the only warm thing in the world. On my laptop screen, a pink axolotl is floating around, looking like it’s permanently smiling. I honestly don’t remember how I ended up watching it, but somehow this silly little salamander is making my chest feel a bit lighter. I was supposed to be working. Instead, I’m here, wide-eyed at 1 a.m., wondering why an animal with feathery gills is the first thing to make me breathe easier all week. I don’t even remember why I started Googling axolotls during my meltdown, but I found out something unbelievable: when an axolotl loses a limb, it first sprouts a little nub with the right shape and then grows it until it’s full-size. It sounds almost magical. Here I am, feeling broken and a little numb after heartbreak and exhaustion, watching a tiny limb regrow itself and thinking maybe I could do that too, one way or another.

Call it an odd mental health metaphor or a late-night coping ritual: for some reason I started thinking of this as “axolotl healing.” It might sound weird, but it became a quiet comfort. The idea that maybe I can be like that axolotl—messy and slow, but maybe also capable of regrowth—gave me a sliver of hope in the dark. (I guess emotional healing is allowed to be strange and slow too.)

One Limb at a Time: Healing Steps

Wound Closure / Shock & Numbness

Axolotl Stage: Right after a limb is lost, the axolotl’s body leaps into action. Skin cells crawl over the wound like a living bandaid, sealing it tight. The bleeding stops, and the danger of infection fades.

Emotional Parallel: This was that frozen first moment after my trauma—the shock that made everything feel unreal. My heart, like that open wound, felt sealed off. I remember staring blankly at the wall, utterly numb, as if painting my feelings was impossible. It was self-protection kicking in.

Tiny Ritual: Stop for a minute and just breathe—not the perfect yoga kind, just whatever your body will give you. Pull a blanket around your shoulders, or grab the nearest pillow and hold it like it owes you comfort. Let yourself sink into that little cocoon. Nothing to fix right now. Just you, breathing, while your body quietly starts its own version of healing—the way an axolotl’s skin quietly seals up when no one’s watching.

Blastema Formation / Raw Grief

Axolotl Stage: About a week later, a magical bump appears: the blastema. It’s a little nub of cells full of potential—everything needed for a new limb is packed in there.

Emotional Parallel: In me, the numbness lifted, and raw pain poured out. My grief and anxiety swirled into focus, unbidden and messy. It felt confusing and tender, like looking at a wound that’s suddenly raw and wet. All the emotions I’d been pushing away had arrived at once.

Tiny Ritual: Journal it out or talk it out. Write down the names of every feeling (angry, sad, scared, lonely). Let yourself cry or yell if you need to. Naming and pouring it out is part of forming that healing blastema.

Tiny Limb Growth / Facing the Pain

Axolotl Stage: From that blastema, everything starts to grow. You can see a tiny limb bud lengthen, almost like the axolotl is remembering, “Oh right, this is an arm,” and starting to build it back.

Emotional Parallel: This phase meant pain was still there, but so was progress. Waves of sadness or anxiety might still hit, but I also began to take shaky steps forward. I found that some days I could laugh again or go for a walk—little signs of strength. Each small action was like feeling the limb take another millimeter of shape.

Tiny Ritual: Go for a slow, no-pressure walk—the kind where you’re not tracking steps or trying to “exercise,” just moving. Or stand up and stretch like you’re shaking the stiffness out of your bones. For me, it was watering the same little plant every morning. Some days I’d step outside just to feel the air hit my face, and it was this quiet reminder: I’m still here. I’m still moving, even if it’s just a little.

Shaping & Maturation / Emerging Strength

Axolotl Stage: The new limb isn’t just growing longer; it’s being fine-tuned. Bone and muscle start to sculpt themselves, and you can even see tiny notches where the fingers will form. A few more weeks (often 6–10 weeks) and the salamander’s arm is fully complete again—everything reconnected.

Emotional Parallel: I’m not exactly the same as I was before it all happened—and honestly, I don’t think I want to be. But I’m still me. These days, I wake up some mornings feeling light instead of like there’s a weight sitting on my chest. I catch myself smiling at the sound of the kettle or noticing the way sunlight spills across the floor. It’s not some grand epiphany—more like a quiet, steady knowing that I’ve walked through a mess and somehow found my feet again.

Tiny Ritual: Mark the small wins, even if they seem silly. Do a lazy stretch while the sun comes up. Water your plant like it’s the most important thing you’ll do today. Send a “thinking of you” text to someone who matters. These little things are proof—gentle,  everyday proof—that you’ve made it this far.

Renewed Wholeness / Quiet Hope

Axolotl Stage: Eventually, the axolotl swims off, no different than before—with a brand-new limb that feels like it’s always been part of its body.

Emotional Parallel: Maybe I’m not exactly who I was before the pain, but I’m still me. I notice mornings where I actually feel light instead of heavy, or moments of gratitude for the simple stuff. It’s a quiet confidence: knowing that I did all the messy work and came out stronger on the other side.

Tiny Ritual: Celebrate the little wins. Maybe do a sunrise stretch, water a plant with extra care, or tell a friend something you appreciate. Remind yourself how far you’ve come. Each gentle ritual is a note in the symphony of your healing.

A Strange but Beautiful Invitation

Healing isn’t linear, and it sure isn’t tidy. Sometimes it feels absurd to compare a heart to a salamander limb, but it stuck. Somewhere between the hum of the kitchen light and the glow of my laptop, I decided I was allowed to believe in this strange little metaphor. Maybe I’ll never be exactly who I was before, and maybe that’s the point. These days, I’m learning to notice the small things: a breath that actually feels deep, the page I fill in my journal without overthinking, and the way the morning light slants across the table. Maybe some pieces will always feel a little loose. But like that axolotl’s new arm, I’m finding a different kind of strength and a quiet, stubborn hope I didn’t think I’d get back.

If you’ve made it this far with me, hear this—you’re allowed to heal in your own weird, slow, beautiful way. Let the world wait. Take it one limb at a time.

Sources: Adapted from scientific explanations of axolotl limb regeneration and personal reflections on healing.