A wrong note doesn’t ruin the music. A painful day doesn’t ruin a life.
Steven Sharp Nelson from The Piano Guys was a guest on my usual podcast. He talked about a time, when he was young, that he was asked to play at a grand, important event. And he played quite poorly.
When he asked his dad how he had done, his father didn’t criticize him. He said he felt every mistake Steve made. Every bit of despair was written across his face, and his dad was pulled into it with him.
I know that feeling.
On a high-pain day, sometimes the people around me are pulled into it too. They see my face, hear my voice catch, watch me move carefully, and somehow begin carrying a little piece of what I’m carrying. I sense what it’s costing them and feel guilt begin to weigh me down.
Other people don’t know what to do with my pain. So they carry on as though it doesn’t exist. As though it and I along with it, are invisible.
Neither reaction is necessarily wrong. But both can leave their mark.
One makes me feel like my pain is consuming everyone around me. The other can make me feel like I’m invisible.
Steve said that now, when he plays a wrong note, he smiles.
Not because the mistake doesn’t matter. Not because he’s pretending everything is fine. But because he knows what he wants to do with that moment.
I don’t think I need to smile through every painful moment of my life either. I’m not interested in pretending chronic pain isn’t real. Some days hurt.
On those days I get an “error 404 💻: human not found 🚫” message every time I try to move.
But maybe there are moments when I can smile anyway.
Not at the pain.
At what I’m accomplishing and creating in spite of it.
Steve said something else about creativity.
He talked about how music and art have helped people through depression and burnout. But creativity isn’t reserved for musicians, painters, writers, or people who happen to be good at something other people can admire.
We are all creative.
And creativity, he said, works differently when we’re doing it simply for the joy of creating. Not to sell it. Not to post it. Not to have someone judge it.
Just to make something. To play. To imagine. To wander somewhere new.
Steve suggests that when we find ourselves making up storylines and placing blame on others, that we need to add more creativity to our life.
Creativity will make its way out of us one way or another. Either by creating what brings joy or creating storylines where we are the victim. Our brains are excellent screenwriters.
Have you ever been in the act of a menial job that requires no thinking? Cleaning the bathroom? Dishes? Driving on a highway? Do you start to picture these stories playing out in your mind?
This is your brain trying to be creative. Give it a joyful outlet to do so or it will create drama in your life.
I think this is one of the reasons forest therapy has become so important to me.
When I’m walking in the forest, I’m creating. I’m noticing. I’m visualizing. I’m meditating. I’m softening.
I photograph a flower because the colour catches my eye. I make up a story about a crooked tree. I visualize warmth when the wind cuts through me. I listen to the creek and let my attention follow it instead of following the argument happening inside my head.
I’m making little moments of beauty and wonder out of whatever happens to be in front of me.
A patch of purple flowers.
The shape of a tree.
The sound of wind moving through the branches.
A silly thought that makes me laugh.
A place my mind can go when my body is screaming for my attention.
I collect these moments.
I tuck them away like little treasures in my pockets.
A purple flower. A funny moment. A beautiful view. A ridiculous thought. A quiet breath.
Murmuration
The flowing movement of birds flying together across the sky in ever changing patterns. A sight that can feel almost dreamlike, drawing the mind into the present moment as hundreds of wings move with a rhythm that seems guided by something beyond words.
I put them in my pockets. 🐿️ 🌲
Because I know there will be days when I need them. When winter comes (or when pain gets loud 📢) I will have somewhere to go.
Maybe that’s one of the things I’m learning about living with chronic pain. I don’t have to pretend the pain isn’t there. But I also don’t have to give it the entire stage.
I can create something alongside it. I can notice something beautiful. I can wander. I can imagine.
And sometimes, when the wrong note happens, I can even smile.
Not because everything is okay.
But because there is still something inside me creating joy.
And that might be one of the most healing things I can carry home with me in my pockets.
I’ve been to the mountains. I found towering trees, rushing water and the best campsite ever!
And I learned a few lessons along the way.
1)We don’t always know what the path will look like when we start. But trails can be both beautiful and hard.
Brent and I hiked a lot over the last week. Most of the trails started with barely an incline and on clearly marked, wide paths. Zero of them stayed that way. All of them led to exceptional views well worth the effort.
2)Nature can catch our attention with beautiful things when we don’t have energy for anything else.
On a hike I often get to the point when I’m not sure how much more I can do. I’m tired. My legs hurt. I’m sweating profusely and feeling gross. Then nature catches my eye and my focus shifts.
3)Who you choose to share the trail with is a serious decision. Choose those who lift you up and make you smile.
My trail partner for the last 27 years.
4)My nervous system requires times of being immersed in nature.
I feel stronger and healthier when I am on mountain tops and in quiet forests.
5)Some days are for exploring. Some days are for surviving. (Both can and should include trees)
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want to share forest therapy and life with chronic illness going forward. Less sitting at a computer trying to explain everything perfectly. More getting outside, walking trails, noticing things, experimenting, learning and bringing you along.
If you’ve ever searched fibromyalgia symptoms, you’ve probably found the usual suspects.
Pain.
Fatigue.
Brain fog.
Poor sleep.
Accurate? 🫡 Absolutely.
Complete? 🤣 Laughable.
Fibromyalgia has a way of inventing symptoms that make you wonder if your body has subscribed to the premium panic package. One day your skin burns. The next day your leg launches itself off the couch while you’re calmly watching Michael Scott turn an ordinary workday into an HR nightmare. Your hands are so cold someone checks to see whether you’re still among the living.
(For the record, I am.)
Before we begin, one important disclaimer.
I also live with hypermobility, ME/CFS, and surgical menopause. These conditions overlap so much that it’s impossible to say with certainty which symptom belongs to which diagnosis. They tend to flare together after poor sleep, stress, overexertion, heat, illness, or simply asking my body to do more than it has available that day.
But every symptom on this list is also commonly reported by people living with fibromyalgia.
Why Fibromyalgia Feels So Strange
Researchers now believe many fibromyalgia symptoms are driven by central sensitization. Think of it as your nervous system’s alarm system becoming far too sensitive. Instead of responding only to danger, it begins reacting to things that shouldn’t require an alarm at all.
A warm shower. Bright lights. A busy grocery store. A long conversation. Even clothing touching your skin.
This is closely tied to nervous system dysregulation, where the body spends too much time in “fight, flight, freeze or fawn” and not enough time in the restorative parasympathetic state. When your nervous system never truly feels safe, it can amplify pain, fatigue, sensory overload, temperature changes, digestive issues, and many of the symptoms below.
Maybe you’ll recognize yourself in a few of them.
Maybe all ten.
1. Burning or Tingling Skin
Sometimes my skin feels sunburned without the sunshine.
Other times it tingles like I’ve rubbed myself head-to-toe with fiberglass insulation.
For me, it’s one of the earliest warning signs.
High pain day.
Busy day.
Poor sleep.
Missed medication.
Too many commitments.
My nervous system begins clearing its throat. And waving tiny red flags. 🚩 🚩
I’ve learned not to argue with it anymore.
2. Random Itchiness
This one is maddening.
I’ll suddenly become fiercely itchy.
No mosquito.
No rash.
No dry skin.
It’s like the itch exists underneath my skin where no amount of scratching can reach it.
If you’ve experienced this, you know exactly what I mean.
If you haven’t, I sincerely hope you never do.
3. Light, Noise and Touch Become Too Much
When my nervous system is already overloaded, everything gets louder.
Bright lights feel brighter.
Background conversations become impossible to filter out.
The tag inside my shirt transforms into a tiny medieval torture device and demands 100% of my attention.
Even a loving hug can sometimes feel overwhelming.
Fibromyalgia isn’t simply pain.
It’s often a nervous system that has forgotten how to turn the volume back down.
4. Balance Problems
I used to do cartwheels.
Now I turn around too quickly in the kitchen and have to wait for the earth to stop rotating.
Heat and fatigue make it worse.
Overdoing things makes it worse.
After spending a day on a boat, getting back onto solid ground requires far more concentration than it should.
My feet and my brain occasionally disagree about where “up” is.
5. Pins and Needles
Hot showers.
Long walks.
Overexertion.
Sometimes they all trigger pins and needles that creep across my body for no obvious reason.
Once they arrive, they rarely leave quickly.
6. Muscle Twitches and Spasms
My leg has launched itself off the bed while watching television.
My neck twitches throughout the day.
Occasionally a finger joins the party.
Apparently my muscles enjoy interpretive dance.
I did not approve the choreography.
7. Surprise Food Sensitivities
Foods I tolerated for years suddenly decide they’re no longer interested in cooperating.
They arrive uninvited.
They unpack.
They stay far longer than anyone asked them to.
It’s one more reminder that chronic illness loves unpredictability.
8. Hands and Feet That Never Warm Up
My hands are frequently freezing.
Years ago, someone grabbed my hand and asked,
“Are you okay?”
Apparently, based on my hand temperature, I should have been dead for several hours.
Comforting.
9. The Fake Flu
Out of nowhere…
Nausea.
Aching muscles.
Complete exhaustion.
Like I’m about to come down with something terrible.
Except…
Nothing ever happens.
It simply ruins an hour.
Or the rest of the day.
10. Heavy, Lead-Like Limbs
Some days lifting my arm feels like lifting concrete. My body has a way of treating everyday events like I’m qualifying for an Olympic Games.
Opening a jar feels ridiculous.
My muscles are technically attached.
Operation has become optional.
Having fibro is like having a phone stuck on 12% battery. And everyone keeps asking me to download another app.
The Ten Things That Actually Help Me Soothe Fibromyalgia
Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.
Living well with fibromyalgia isn’t about eliminating every symptom.
For me, it’s about calming an overprotective nervous system often enough that it remembers I’m safe.
Respect my limits instead of arguing with them.
Budget my energy so the moments that matter most are worth the flare.
Keep gently moving. A walk instead of a run. The bike instead of the elliptical. Motion is medicine. Punishment isn’t.
Choose warmth—or cooling—depending on what my body is asking for.
Stay hydrated. Water is my most reliable teammate.
Focus on what matters most.
I used to do everything.
The house stayed clean.
I worked.
The kids were fed.
The yard was mowed.
Meals were planned.
Now…
The house is messy.
The yard grows faster than I can keep up.
The microwave has become surprisingly talented at storing forgotten meals.
If one truly important thing needs to happen today…
That’s the thing.
Everything else can wait.
Take breaks before I need them.
Fibromyalgia has taught me that resting isn’t the reward for finishing.
Sometimes resting is the reason I’ll be able to finish tomorrow.
Accept support.
This remains one of my weakest skills.
I am surrounded by extraordinary people.
Help is offered constantly.
Sometimes strength looks like saying,
“Yes… thank you.”
Believe my own body.
Fibromyalgia is invisible.
Sometimes even to me.
I minimize.
I explain it away.
I push through.
But my body keeps telling the truth.
Listening with compassion changes everything. Instead of wondering why my body is betraying me I try to speak the language it is trying to communicate.
Calm my mind.
Sometimes that’s meditation.
Sometimes it’s prayer.
Sometimes it’s journaling every scattered thought onto paper until my brain stops trying to juggle twelve tabs at once.
A calmer mind often becomes a calmer body.
Calarwyth
(n) the moment you stop explaining yourself because silence feels more dignified than being misunderstood again.
A Forest Therapy Practice for Fibromyalgia
One of the greatest gifts the forest has given me is permission to stop performing.
Find a quiet place beneath a tree.
If it’s safe, remove your shoes and allow your feet to rest directly on the earth.
Notice the temperature beneath you.
Feel the texture of the soil, grass, moss, or sand.
Imagine that, for a few minutes, you aren’t simply visiting the forest.
You’re becoming part of it.
The forest simply exists. Allow yourself to do the same.
Allow your breathing to slow.
Notice the sounds above you.
The breeze on your skin.
The scent of pine or damp earth.
If it feels natural, rest one hand on a tree trunk and imagine your busy nervous system borrowing a little of its steadiness.
This practice also includes earthing, sometimes called grounding.
Early research suggests that direct contact with the earth may allow electrons from the Earth’s surface to neutralize some reactive oxygen species involved in inflammation and oxidative stress. Other studies have found improvements in sleep, cortisol rhythms, pain, and wellbeing.
Whether those effects come from electron transfer, nervous system regulation, time outdoors, or all of the above, we do know something with much stronger evidence: spending time in nature lowers stress hormones, supports parasympathetic activity, improves mood, reduces blood pressure, and helps regulate an overstimulated nervous system.
For a body living with central sensitization, those moments of safety matter.
Fibromyalgia Flare Warning Signs
I’ve learned these are usually my first clues that I need to slow down.
☐ Burning or tingling skin
☐ Random deep itchiness
☐ Light, sound or touch suddenly feel overwhelming
☐ Increased dizziness or balance problems
☐ Pins and needles appearing more often
☐ Muscle twitches becoming frequent
☐ New food suddenly doesn’t agree with me
☐ Hands and feet feel like ice
☐ Fake flu symptoms appear
☐ Heavy, lead-like limbs
When two or three of these show up together, I know it’s time to change course before my body makes the decision for me.
Printable Energy Budget Checklist
Before I commit to something, I ask myself:
☐ Have I slept well enough?
☐ Am I already in more pain than usual?
☐ Have I eaten nourishing food today?
☐ Have I been drinking enough water?
☐ Is this worth spending today’s energy on?
☐ Have I scheduled recovery time afterward?
☐ Can someone help me with part of this?
☐ What can I postpone?
☐ Have I taken a break yet today?
☐ What does my body actually need right now?
Sometimes the healthiest decision isn’t doing more.
It’s protecting tomorrow.
Final Thoughts
I used to spend all my energy trying to convince my body to behave like it used to.
Now I spend that energy listening instead.
Oddly enough…
It fights me less.
For those of us living with fibromyalgia, healing often begins in the space between what our body is asking for and what our mind thinks we should be able to do.
I’d love to hear from you.
What is the strangest fibromyalgia symptom you’ve experienced?
Was it something you never expected? Something your doctor never mentioned? Share it in the comments. Chances are someone else has been wondering if they’re the only one.
If you’d like to experience what nervous system regulation feels like instead of simply reading about it, I’d love to have you join me for a guided forest therapy walk. Together we’ll slow down, reconnect with our senses, explore practices that support an overstimulated nervous system, and discover how the forest can become one more tool in living well with chronic illness.
You don’t have to keep pushing through alone.
Rest is not idle, not wasteful. Sometimes rest is the most productive thing you can do for your body and soul.
“DUTCH. (n) A bittersweet, nostalgic sadness that lingers like a thin mist. It is the ache of remembering something beautiful that time cannot return, equal parts comfort and sorrow.” (everglow words)
One summer, long before life scattered us in different directions to raise families of our own (and before two more joined our family), we made one of many summer trips to the cabin.
It was late by the time we arrived.
My sister and I had curled up inside our sleeping bags in the back of the car and fallen asleep somewhere along the drive.
When we stopped, I remember sliding onto the floor of the car, trying to wake my little legs enough to walk inside.
Then my dad came back.
I assumed he was coming for another load of luggage.
Instead, with those strong farm arms, he gathered the tops of our sleeping bags in his hands. Me in one, my sister in the other, and lifted us.
I could hear my sister giggling.
I could hear my mom quietly ‘tsk, tsk’ him for being silly.
The screen door creaked open.
Then came that familiar smell that only our cabin had.
Warm hardwood and the hint of lake air. The familiar mustiness of a place that had been closed up, waiting for more visitors to make more memories.
I didn’t have to carry myself. Or wonder where we were going. I didn’t have to wake up. I knew exactly where I was. I knew exactly who was carrying me. I trusted him completely.
Even now, all these years later, my muscles soften when I remember that moment.
Because your nervous system isn’t asking whether you’re capable. It’s asking whether you’ll survive.
For years, I thought it was simply one of my favourite childhood memories. I didn’t realize I was remembering what my nervous system feels like when it knows, without question, that I am safe.
There’s actually a name for that feeling.
Felt safety.
You carry the calm inside you. You only have to remember.
The term felt safety has become increasingly recognized through trauma-informed care and nervous system research, particularly the work of neuroscientist Dr. Stephen Porges and Polyvagal Theory.
It’s different from actual safety.
Actual safety is about your circumstances.
Felt safety is about your nervous system’s assessment of whether you have enough resources and capacity to handle what’s in front of you.
You can be perfectly safe and still feel anxious.
You can also be facing something genuinely difficult and feel surprisingly calm because your nervous system believes you’ll be okay.
That distinction changed the way I think about chronic pain.
Living with chronic illness teaches your nervous system lessons you never volunteered to learn.
Pain arrives unexpectedly. Fatigue hits like a brick wall. One movement can become months of physiotherapy.
Your body begins collecting evidence that ordinary life isn’t always predictable. Eventually, your nervous system starts asking a different question.
Not,
“Can I do this?”
But…
“Is this going to cost me?”
To be fair, my nervous system has earned the right to be unconvinced. We’ve been through some stuff.
Looking back, I think my body longs for the feeling I had that night at the cabin.
The feeling of not having to brace for impact. Or calculate every movement.
Not having to carry everything myself. But literally being carried.
When you live with chronic pain, your nervous system often becomes exceptionally good at detecting danger. It’s trying to protect you. As nervous systems do.
The problem is that eventually it begins seeing danger where there may only be uncertainty.
That’s why making a phone call can feel exhausting. Trying something new feels overwhelming. Cleaning the kitchen feels impossible. Committing to lunch with a friend somehow feels bigger than climbing a mountain.
Not because you’re lazy or undisciplined.
Healing begins when the body no longer has to choose survival over connection.
Recently I listened to Neill Williams on the Success Genius podcast, and this idea clicked for me.
She explained that felt safety isn’t about waiting until life becomes easier. It’s something we can build. Incrementally over time.
When our nervous system feels safe, serotonin and oxytocin help create feelings of connection, contentment, and purpose. We can think clearly because the thinking part of our brain is fully online.
When we don’t feel safe, survival takes over. We shut down. Or we push ourselves until we crash.
Not because we’ve failed. But because our nervous system is trying to keep us alive.
Williams suggests asking one simple question:
“What’s the smallest version of this that my nervous system can honestly say yes to?”
One tiny success becomes one piece of evidence.
I can look back and see I survived.
Your nervous system is always collecting evidence.
Every gentle walk. Every boundary you honour. Every nourishing meal. Every person who keeps their word. Every deep breath. Every quiet moment beneath a canopy of trees. Each one whispers the same message.
“You are safe enough for this.”
Healing isn’t teaching your nervous system that danger doesn’t exist.
It’s teaching it that safety does.
Maybe that’s why nature has always felt like home to me.
Not because it’s perfect.
But because it reminds my nervous system of something my body has known since childhood.
What it feels like to be held.
Nature is stillness.
It doesn’t measure your ability to accomplish everything on your to-do list.
It doesn’t ask how many steps you walked today.
Or compare your healing to someone else’s.
It doesn’t care whether you’ve answered your emails, folded the laundry and mowed the lawn.
It simply keeps showing up. Morning after morning. Season after season.
Offering the same quiet invitation.
You can soften now.
The scent of pine. 🌲
The rhythm of birdsong. 🐦
Leaves dancing in the breeze. 🍃
The solid earth beneath your feet. 👣
These aren’t just beautiful experiences. 😍
They’re cues of safety. ❤️
Tiny reminders that tell your nervous system it can loosen its grip, even if only for a moment.
Over time, those moments become evidence. That not everything requires bracing. Evidence that your body doesn’t always have to stay on high alert. That peace is still available to you.
A Forest Therapy Invitation
The next time you find yourself in a forest, don’t worry about how far you walk.
Instead, find one place that quietly invites your attention.
Sit with it.
Notice your breathing.
Notice your shoulders.
Notice your jaw.
Ask yourself gently,
“What evidence of safety can I notice right now?”
Maybe it’s the breeze.
Maybe it’s birdsong.
Maybe it’s the warmth of the sun.
Maybe it’s simply realizing that, for this one moment, nothing is asking anything from you.
Stay there a little longer than feels necessary.
Let your nervous system collect another piece of evidence.
Every time I walk with someone through a forest, I hope they experience a piece of what I felt all those years ago.
Not because someone is carrying them across a cabin yard in a sleeping bag.
But because, for just a little while, they remember what their nervous system has perhaps forgotten.
That they don’t have to hold themselves so tightly. Or carry everything alone. That they are safe enough to rest.
If you’ve never tried forest therapy, I’d love to invite you to come walk with me.
Or find your own favourite stand of trees and let the forest do what it has always done so well.
Quietly remind us of something we knew before life became complicated.
Sometimes healing doesn’t begin with trying harder.
It begins with remembering what it feels like to be carried.
It feels like we’re all moving through life with our shoulders somewhere around our ears. Chronic illness, fear of aging, financial stress, uncertainty, bad news on an endless loop. Some people are simply trying to get through Tuesday with enough energy to make supper 🙋♀️ .
It doesn’t take much to tip us over.🐄
A few days ago, mine came in the form of a boat launch.
Anyone who’s spent time around a busy boat launch knows it’s a fascinating social experiment.
An overabundance of strong opinions and egos exists.
There are no rules. Written or unwritten.
Just enough ambiguity transpires, that everyone believes they’re right.
I’ve been launching boats for about fifteen years. I know the rhythm. I stay out of people’s way, wait until my truck is actually in the water before moving, and do my best to keep things safe and efficient.
Apparently one gentleman decided I’d “cut the line.”
Boat launches really do produce fascinating specimens of humanity.
I’ve learned that confidence can be surprisingly unsettling to some people. Especially when it arrives in the form of a woman who knows how to load the boat on the trailer without making a production of it.
It’s funny how a little perceived competition can bring out our inner third-grader.
The equipment may have six-figure price tags, but occasionally the conflict resolution skills still come from recess days gone by.
When I calmly explained why I was waiting where I was. And how the process normally works. He didn’t want an explanation.
He began clapping sarcastically.
The world doesn’t just wear us down through tragedy. Sometimes it does it one sarcastic clap at a time.
A man is rowing through thick fog when he notices another boat heading directly toward him.
The other boat is bigger. He should have the right of way.
He shouts. No response.
He waves. Nothing.
The other boat keeps coming.
His frustration turns to anger.
“Move!”
Just before the collision, he swerves.
As the fog clears, he realizes…
The boat is empty. No one was steering.
Instantly, his anger disappears.
Who was he angry with?
No one.
Since first hearing that story, I’ve asked myself this question.
Is the boat empty?
Not literally.
But is this personal?
Or am I assigning intention where there may be none?
Maybe they’re exhausted. Grieving. Terrified.
Maybe they simply don’t know any better.
Or maybe they’re carrying hurts I can’t see.
None of those possibilities excuse poor behaviour.
But they completely change where I direct my emotional energy.
Sometimes, seeing clearly dissolves the anger.
Pronoia
The opposite of paranoia. it is the belief that people or the world are secretly working in your favour. That events, people and circumstaces are somehow conspiring to help you.
That’s different from stuffing feelings down or pretending they don’t exist.
You can’t bypass emotions.
You can’t slap a positive quote over a nervous system that’s sounding the alarm.
But sometimes the alarm quiets on its own because you suddenly realize…
There isn’t actually an enemy here.
Just another imperfect human.
When the boat is empty, compassion often becomes easier than combat.
How will this feel next week?Next month? Next year?
It’s amazing how many mountains quietly shrink into molehills when viewed from a little distance.
Then she takes it even further.
She talks about astronauts experiencing the Overview Effect. Seeing Earth from space and returning with an entirely different understanding of what matters.
Imagine grandmother’s wisdom. Now multiply it by the view from orbit.
Our arguments. Our bruised egos. Our need to be right.
They suddenly become very small compared with this astonishing little blue planet we’re all sharing.
That doesn’t make our feelings unimportant.
It simply gives them context.
Another surprisingly effective tool?
Humour. Humour interrupts the story we’re telling ourselves.
We’ve all done it.
We become convinced we’ve been wronged in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.
Our spouse is over there admiring a duck while we have mentally drafted the closing argument for a trial that nobody else even knows is happening.
Sometimes all it takes is one ridiculous observation from them to break the spell.
I wish I could say I found “the funny” at the boat launch.
I wasn’t there yet.
Maybe next time.
One tool that has helped me far more consistently is asking:
Am I living this moment according to my values?
Not theirs. Mine.
I can’t control sarcasm.
I can’t control mockery.
I can’t control who decides to clap sarcastically at a stranger.
But I can decide whether I respond with kindness.
Integrity. Respect. Compassion.
Those are mine to keep.
The more our daily lives align with our values, the steadier we become.
Peace stops being something we chase and starts becoming somewhere we live.
The idea of felt safety is something we’ll explore more in the next post.
Felt safety isn’t the absence of fear.
It isn’t the absence of challenge.
It’s your nervous system recognizing that you have enough capacity to face what’s in front of you.
That you are enough.
That you can survive this moment.
Forest therapy has become one of the places where I practice exactly that.
The forest rarely requires me to react in the moment.
It stretches time. It expands perspective.
It reminds me that not everything deserves my nervous system’s full emergency response.
When someone steals my peace…
I take it to the woods.
There, I remember that I’m part of something much older than a rude exchange at a boat launch.
Much bigger than today’s frustration.
And much more beautiful than the story my anxious brain was writing five minutes earlier.
Eventually I remember that peace is a terrible thing to hand over to someone you’ve never met.
A Forest Therapy Invitation
If you’re new here and want to learn more about forest therapy and how it works, check out this page. The Gist
The next time something rattles you, resist the urge to replay it over and over.
Instead, head outside.
Find one tree that catches your attention.
Stand with it for five slow breaths.
Now ask yourself:
Is the boat empty?
Will this matter next year?
What would this look like from space?
What response best reflects my values?
How can I become the tenderness this moment needs?
Don’t force an answer.
Just notice what changes.
Sometimes the forest doesn’t solve the problem.
It simply reminds us that we are far bigger than it.
Forest therapy doesn’t help me escape the world. It helps me return to it without becoming like it.
Margaret Cullen ends her book Quiet Strength with words I borrow:
May each of us find a way to bring balance and tenderness to this floating world, moment by moment, drop by drop.
I can’t think of a better response to a world that is hard on beautiful things.
Let’s become one of the beautiful things that refuses to grow hard.
The world may be hard on beautiful things. That doesn’t mean beautiful things have to become hard.
For most of my life, I thought willpower was the answer.
Tired? Push through.
In pain? Push through.
Overwhelmed? Push through.
Running on fumes? Push through harder (and question what my problem is. Everyone else can do it all!)
Our culture practically hands out gold stars for overriding our bodies. We admire grit, determination, hustle, and resilience. We celebrate the people who keep going no matter what.
But what if chronic willpower isn’t a strength?
What if it’s a survival strategy?
And what if the very thing you’ve relied on for decades is now contributing to your exhaustion, burnout, brain fog, chronic symptoms, and sense that your body has become the river overflowing its banks after years of holding everything in?
I recently listened to an episode of the Success Genius podcast hosted by Neill Williams, a master certified coach. Her podcast focuses on helping ambitious women work with their brains and bodies rather than constantly pushing against them. A message that feels particularly relevant to my own journey with chronic willpower.
Williams suggests willpower is often a withdrawal, not a strategy. It is what we use when we don’t have access to regulation. Instead of listening to the body, we override it. Instead of responding to its signals, we silence them. Instead of resting, we push harder.
At first, this works remarkably well.
You become productive.
Dependable.
Capable.
The person everyone can count on.
The person who somehow manages to keep all the plates spinning.
Until one day the plates start spinning you.
It’s amazing how long you can juggle flaming torches before realizing you are the one on fire.
When Willpower Becomes a Withdrawal
One of the most eye-opening ideas Williams proposes is this:
Willpower is not a strategy. It is a withdrawal.
Using willpower occasionally isn’t a problem.
Life happens. Deadlines happen. Emergencies happen.
Sometimes we need to dig deep and do hard things.
The trouble begins when overriding ourselves becomes our default operating system.
When every day looks like:
“I’m exhausted, but I’ll push through.”
“I’m overwhelmed, but I’ll push through.”
“My body is asking for rest, but I’ll push through.”
A withdrawal isn’t necessarily noticeable at first.
Just like spending a little extra on a credit card doesn’t feel like a crisis.
But eventually the bill arrives.
And like every credit card company, our nervous systems charge interest.
I once heard a doctor describe it this way:
“It starts as a whisper. Then it becomes a shout. Then it becomes a scream. If you keep ignoring it, eventually it shuts you down.”
I suspect many women reading this know exactly what that feels like.
Listen to your body when it whispers so you don’t have to hear it scream.
What Happens Physiologically?
Your nervous system is constantly gathering information about whether you’re safe.
When you repeatedly ignore fatigue, stress, grief, overwhelm, pain, or emotional needs, those signals don’t simply disappear.
They get louder.
The body begins turning up the volume in an attempt to get your attention. What started as mild fatigue becomes crushing exhaustion. A little tension becomes chronic pain. Occasional anxiety becomes a constant background hum.
Symptoms are often the falling leaves, not the falling trees. They’re early signs that something needs attention.
The Physiological Cost of Chronic Willpower
It is not stress that kills us, it is our reaction to it.
Determination is the fuel. Regulation is the engine.
Fuel matters.
But pouring premium gasoline onto a broken engine won’t get you very far.
Many of us have spent years trying to compensate for a dysregulated nervous system by adding more determination.
More discipline. More motivation. More supplements. More planners. More productivity hacks. More caffeine.
At some point the engine needs attention.
Regulation is what allows the nervous system to move between effort and recovery. It is the body’s ability to activate when needed and settle when the challenge has passed. Without regulation, determination eventually becomes expensive fuel burned inefficiently.
Why We Keep Doing It Anyway
Because overriding ourselves works.
At least temporarily.
When we push through exhaustion and finish the project, check off the list, save the day, or meet the deadline, we get a reward.
That reward is often dopamine.
Dopamine isn’t simply the “pleasure chemical.” It’s deeply involved in motivation, anticipation, reward, and learning what behaviors matter. Our brains remember what helped us survive and succeed.
Soon, productivity itself can become a form of self-medication.
The nervous system learns that overriding discomfort equals reward.
No wonder it’s hard to stop.
The Chemical We May Actually Need More Of
While dopamine drives pursuit, serotonin is associated with feelings of contentment, safety, stability, and well-being.
Dopamine is the Labrador chasing the tennis ball.
Serotonin is the golden retriever napping in a sunbeam.
Many chronic willpower users have spent decades chasing the first while starving the second.
We become experts at striving but beginners at simply being.
And that’s where nature has something remarkable to teach us.
The Forest Doesn’t Care About Your To-Do List
One of the reasons forest therapy feels so restorative is that it gently shifts us toward a state of regulation.
No notifications. No deadlines. No performance reviews.
No one asking whether you’ve earned your rest. Whether you’re keeping up. If you’re winning at life or whether your worth is keeping pace with your to-do list. No one asking whether you’ve justified your existence through accomplishment.
The forest would NE-ver. Trees are refreshingly difficult to impress.
And somehow that’s exactly what makes them healing.
In the forest, many people experience what feels like a serotonin bath. 🛁
A quiet sense that everything is okay.
Not perfect. Just okay. Perfectly imperfect.
The more often we experience that state, the more familiar it becomes. Eventually regulation starts feeling less like a vacation and more like home.
A Forest Therapy Practice for Chronic Willpower
If you recognize yourself in this article, try this simple practice.
Step 1: Walk Slowly
Spend 10 to 15 minutes walking without a destination.
Not hiking. Not exercising. Not trying to get your steps.
My body budget got so far in the red it was basically applying for bankruptcy protection.
Looking back, I wonder how many so-called midlife crises are actually the moment the bill for decades of nervous system debt comes due. The strategies that helped us survive and succeed for years suddenly stop working.
What feels like falling apart may actually be the beginning of a profound transformation. I explored that idea more deeply in Midlife Crisis to Chrysalis.
When you can access a place of peace, something surprising often happens. The answers you’ve been chasing become easier to see. The next step becomes clearer.
Not because you forced it.
Because you finally became quiet enough to hear it.
Sometimes healing isn’t found in pushing harder.
Sometimes it’s found wandering through a lush, green forest, realizing your body wasn’t fighting you all along.
It was actually trying to draw your attention upstream, where the real answers were waiting. Guiding you away from the noise. To a place of stillness. Back to who you were before the push. Your natural self.
When you’re living with chronic pain, migraines, fatigue, hormonal changes, or an autoimmune condition, every ounce of energy matters.
So it can be frustrating to discover that many of the products we use every day may be working against us.
The reality is that we live in a world filled with chemicals, pollutants, and environmental stressors. While our bodies are remarkably resilient, they weren’t exactly designed for a daily cocktail of synthetic fragrances, plastics, pesticides, and mystery ingredients with names that sound like they belong in a chemistry textbook.
I recognize that in speaking on this topic, I now resemble a kooky, woo woo spokeswoman for all things unconventional. But stick with me.
If you’ve ever looked at an ingredient label and thought, “I have no idea what any of these words mean, but I’m about to put them directly on my skin,” you’re not alone.
I’ve reached the age where reading labels is apparently one of my hobbies.
Welcome to the wacky world of hormone disruptors.
What Are Hormone Disruptors?
Hormone disruptors, also called endocrine disruptors, are chemicals that interfere with your body’s endocrine system, the network responsible for producing, transporting, and regulating hormones.
Think of hormones as your body’s communication system. They send messages that help regulate everything from sleep and metabolism to mood, reproduction, energy, and immune function.
Hormone disruptors can interfere with those messages by:
Mimicking natural hormones
Blocking hormone receptors
Altering hormone production
Affecting how hormones are transported or eliminated
In other words, they’re the equivalent of someone repeatedly hitting “reply all” on emails that were never meant for them.
My hormones wake up everyday and choose unpredictability. They have the organizational structure of a flock of startled geese.
Why Does This Matter?
For years, many people with chronic conditions have been told that their bloodwork is normal, their tests look fine, and everything appears to be functioning as expected.
Meanwhile, they’re exhausted.
They’re in pain.
They’re dealing with migraines, inflammation, brain fog, sleep disturbances, mood changes, or symptoms that don’t fit neatly into a box.
Hormone disruptors aren’t necessarily the cause of these conditions.
But if your body is already managing chronic inflammation, pain, migraines, fatigue, hormonal changes, or autoimmune symptoms, reducing unnecessary stressors may give your system one less thing to deal with.
It’s not a cure.
But every little bit of support matters.
Symptoms That May Be Linked to Hormone Disruption
Hormone disruption can show up in many different ways Some common symptoms include:
Fatigue
Brain fog
Sleep disturbances
Mood changes
Anxiety
Weight gain or difficulty losing weight
Headaches and migraines
Skin issues
Fertility challenges
Irregular menstrual cycles
Low libido
Increased inflammation
The challenge is that many of these symptoms overlap with chronic illnesses, making hormone disruption difficult to identify.
Which is somewhat rude, if you ask me.
My Experience
When I first started learning about hormone disruptors, I had two reactions.
First:
“Well, that’s concerning.”
Second:
“There is absolutely no way I can afford to replace everything I own, let alone find the time and energy to make everything!” (mentally checks out of this topic)
Thankfully, I’ve since learned that reducing exposure isn’t about perfection.
It’s about making practical choices that support a body that’s already working hard.
Because if the wellness industry had its way, I’d be replacing every item I own by Tuesday. And while I appreciate the enthusiasm, my budget and my sanity have other things to do.
Where Are Hormone Disruptors Hiding?
Unfortunately, they’re not hiding very hard.
Personal Care Products
Shampoo
Conditioner
Hair products
Lotions
Makeup
Perfumes
Deodorants
Nail polish
Household Products
Air fresheners
Scented candles
Dryer sheets
Fabric softeners
Cleaning products
Food Storage and Packaging
Plastic food containers
Plastic water bottles
Plastic wrap
Certain canned food linings
Some non-stick cookware
Environmental Sources
Pesticides
Herbicides
Some furniture treatments
Certain stain-resistant coatings
One of the most common concerns is simply the ingredient listed as:
Fragrance
That single word can represent dozens. Or sometimes hundreds of undisclosed ingredients.
The goal is reducing your overall toxic burden where you reasonably can.
Some labels contain enough syllables to qualify as a spelling bee challenge. At what point does an ingredient list stop feeling informative and start feeling mildly threatening?
A Gentle Approach to Reducing Exposure
Put your garbage bags down.
You don’t need to throw everything away and start making your own soap from dandelions and determination.
You cannot eliminate every toxin.
You cannot control every environmental exposure.
And honestly, trying to do so would probably create more stress than benefit.
The goal isn’t perfection.
Small, sustainable changes tend to be far more effective than dramatic overhauls.
Start with one product.
Then another.
And keep going at a pace that feels manageable.
Homemade Alternatives
One reason many people choose homemade products is because the ingredients are simple, familiar, and transparent.
When you know exactly what’s in something, there’s less mystery.
You may also reduce your exposure to fragrances, preservatives, and other unnecessary additives.
Here are a few of my favourite homemade recipes:
Homemade Deodorant
Recipe @ healthylifetrainer Note: Unlike antiperspirants, which block sweat glands, this recipe functions as a deodorant. It helps control odour while allowing your body to sweat naturally. The other thing to be aware of is its ability to turn into deodorant soup when stored above room temperature. Store it in the cooler if you go camping!⛺️
A Forest Therapy Practice for Simplifying Your Routine
One of the biggest challenges with reducing hormone disruptors is deciding where to start.
Forest therapy offers a different approach.
Rather than creating a long list of things you have to change immediately, begin with awareness.
Take a slow walk in nature.
Leave your phone in your pocket.
Notice what catches your attention.
Listen to the sounds around you.
Feel the ground beneath your feet.
Allow your nervous system to settle.
When you find a place that feels inviting, sit quietly for a few minutes.
Ask yourself:
What products do I use every day?
Which products spend the most time on my skin?
Which products do I inhale regularly?
Which product would be easiest to replace?
Which change feels supportive rather than stressful?
Then ask:
“If I could change one thing this month, what would make the biggest difference?”
Forest therapy reminds us that healing doesn’t always happen through doing more.
Sometimes it begins by slowing down enough to notice what our bodies have been trying to tell us.
When I started forest therapy the trees and I got along immediately. Unlike my hormones 😖 😡.
Perimenopause
Slowly losing every chemical that was helping me tolerate people.
Health Is More Than Avoiding Toxins
Removing unnecessary exposures can be helpful.
But building health is equally important.
Sometimes we become so focused on what we should eliminate that we forget what we need to add.
The foundations matter.
Prioritize Sleep
Sleep is when your body repairs, regulates hormones, supports immunity, and recovers from daily stress. Clean up your sleep routine.
Eat Nourishing Foods
Focus on foods that support your body rather than aiming for perfection. Slowly move towards the diet your body needs.
Move in Ways That Work for You
The best exercise is the one your body can recover from. That answer looks different for everyone.
Get Outside
Sunlight helps regulate circadian rhythms, mood, and overall wellbeing. Get out in the first minutes of your day.
Nelipot
English; a rare and poetic word that refers to someone who walks barefoot, one who feels than earth beneath their feet, often implying a connection with nature or a simple, grounded lifestyle.
Put Your Feet on the Ground
Whether you call it grounding, earthing, or simply standing barefoot in the grass, many people report feeling calmer and more connected afterward. I concur.
Spend Time in Nature
Nature lowers stress, restores attention, and creates opportunities for rest and reflection. More than getting outside it is connecting with the natural world.
The forest continues to offer something many modern products can’t: simplicity. The more time I spend in nature, the more I understand why my body keeps asking me to return. The message is clear.
Less fragrance. More forests.
My nervous system is a strong advocate for sunshine, birdsong, and not reading every ingredient.
Why Forest Therapy Matters
Forest therapy isn’t about replacing medicine, specialists, or common sense.
It’s about creating conditions that support healing.
I’ve seen it support people who were struggling.
I’ve also seen it elevate people who were already doing well.
Nature doesn’t ask us to be healthy before we show up.
It simply offers an environment that encourages restoration, resilience, and connection.
Whether you’re managing chronic illness or simply trying to feel your best, time in nature can be one of the simplest and most accessible forms of self-care available.
Turns out one of the healthiest things I can do is wander through the forest looking slightly lost.
Final Thoughts
Nature has never pulled me aside to discuss my skincare routine. I don’t have to be a perfect version of myself before I can join.
It simply reminds me to take the next step.
Sometimes that’s all healing requires.
We can’t control every toxin, every chemical exposure, or every challenge life throws our way. But we can support our bodies through simple, consistent practices.
Sleep. Movement. Nutritious food. Sunshine. Fresh air. Time in nature. Small choices made repeatedly over time often have the greatest impact
Not because they’re dramatic. But because they’re sustainable.
And unlike the mystery bottle hiding under your bathroom sink since 2014, those habits never expire.
Maybe living your best life just means slowing down enough to see how good it already is.
Years ago, I became convinced I was getting less intelligent.
I would walk into a room and forget why. Lose all my trains of thought mid-sentence. Derailed. No coming back.
I’d constantly search for words that had wandered off unsupervised. They would come back hours later, long after it was needed and with no apology whatsoever.
I blamed stress.
I blamed being busy.
I blamed getting older.
In reality, it was probably all of those things, mixed with hormonal changes I didn’t fully understand yet.
Female hormones are funny. They’re a bit like a Saskatchewan summer storm. One minute the sky is clear, the sun is shining, and life feels manageable. The next, the wind picks up, the clouds roll in, and you’re wondering if you should have brought a jacket, umbrella and storm cellar.
The weather didn’t become bad.
It changed.
Our hormones do too.
Female hormones are a bit like Saskatchewan weather. If you don’t like what’s happening right now, wait ten minutes.
Most of us think of hormones as reproductive messengers, but they influence far more than our cycles. They affect sleep, memory, focus, mood, energy, and even how connected we feel to the people around us.
One of the most interesting ideas I encountered from a recent podcast interview with Dr. Anna Cabeca. While estrogen, progesterone, and testosterone get most of the attention, hormones like cortisol and oxytocin may have an even bigger impact on how we experience daily life.
Oxytocin is often called the love hormone. It’s associated with connection, belonging, trust, laughter, affection, friendship, pets, nature, and community.
Likewise, oxytocin and cortisol tend to pull in opposite directions.
But the story doesn’t end there. The plot thickens.
As any prairie girl knows, sunshine and thunderstorms often share the same forecast.
When stress becomes chronic, such as in a body dealing with chronic pain, connection often suffers.
Many of us don’t just feel tired. We feel disconnected.
From ourselves.
From others.
From the things that once brought us joy.
Progesterone plays a role too. It supports sleep, cognition, brain health, and nervous system regulation.
Testosterone contributes to motivation, confidence, energy, and focus. Both naturally decline as we age, and both can be influenced by chronic stress.
Side note: I would like to point out that aging naturally isn’t nearly as freaky as whatever is happening with the people trying desperately to avoid it. Also, at what age do we start meeting for Bingo? Because I’m ready.
Progesterone naturally declines in women, typically beginning in the mid-thirties as ovarian function gradually changes.
My body got the memo that the warranty has expired. All systems started responding the way you’d expect at the end of a warranty. (despite the fact that I was built in the 70s and should have been made to last)
Looking back at my own health journey, I spent years trying to solve individual symptoms.
If I could just stop the migraines.
If I could just overcome the fatigue.
If I could just break the insomnia.
What I eventually learned is that the body doesn’t divide itself into neat little boxes the way we often do.
Sleep affects stress.
Stress affects hormones.
Hormones affect mood.
Mood affects relationships.
Relationships affect wellbeing.
Pull one thread and the whole thing unravels.
That’s why healing often requires support from multiple directions.
👏 Good food.
👏 Movement.
👏 Sleep.
👏 Stress management.
👏 Connection.
👏 Time outdoors.
The podcast also reinforced something I’ve known for years: nature has a remarkable way of helping us regulate.
Not because it magically solves our problems, but because it reminds our nervous systems what calm feels like.
Like sitting quietly in warm sunshine after a long winter.
Like hearing nothing but leaves rustle in the breeze.
The Practice
One simple forest therapy practice is this:
Stop
Notice 5 things moving around you (leaves, clouds, grass, insects, birds)
Listen for 3 sounds
Notice 2 scents
Take one slow breath
It’s amazing how quickly the nervous system responds when we give it the chance.
The body benefits from movement, and the mind benefits from stillness.
This is the first post in a hormone series. Next week we’ll look at hormone disruptors: where the biggest offenders are hiding, and what to use instead.
The longer I live with chronic pain, the more convinced I am that modern medicine is excellent at saving lives and often terrible at helping people live them.
That is not an attack on medicine.
I am deeply grateful for surgeons, emergency rooms, diagnostics, imaging, specialists, antibiotics, and every medical professional who dedicates their life to helping people heal. If my arm bone is hanging on by hope and duct tape, I am not reaching for turmeric and positive affirmations. I want a surgeon. Immediately.
My mom shattered her foot in multiple places in a car accident. Her toe was essentially powder. No longer a toe. She needed surgery, pins, screws, and acute medical care. No amount of herbal tea or breath work was going to fix those bones.
Conventional medicine is extraordinary in moments like that.
But chronic illness and chronic pain are often different beasts entirely.
My body failed to coordinate its symptoms in a way convenient for modern medicine.
This is where many patients begin discovering the enormous disconnect between conventional medicine and a more holistic approach to healing.
And by holistic, I do not mean anti-science wellness influencers waving potions around while trying to sell bottled mountain air and enlightenment in the same online bundle.
There is a fine line between integrative medicine and someone trying to sell you powdered optimism for $89.99.
I mean looking at the body as an interconnected system instead of isolated symptoms.
I mean considering nutrition, supplementation, nervous system regulation, sleep, movement, physical therapies, mindfulness, environmental stressors, and individualized treatment options alongside conventional care.
Not instead of medicine. Alongside it.
Because pain doesn’t stay politely inside one department.
The body cannot always be divided into neat specialties simply because the healthcare system is.
One point especially stood out to me. Roberts referenced pain scientist Lorimer Moseley from the University of Adelaide, discussing how conventional medicine often compartmentalizes the body into isolated systems. The gut, the brain, the joints. When chronic pain rarely behaves that neatly.
Pain spills into everything.
Your nervous system changes. Your sleep changes. Your digestion changes. Your stress response changes. Your sense of safety changes.
The nervous system remembers suffering long after scans stop showing it.
For years I was bounced between specialists who all told me some variation of, “Everything looks normal.” 👍 👍
Which was excellent news except for the small detail that I was getting worse.
There’s an exhaustion that comes from hearing “everything looks normal” while actively deteriorating.
Every appointment felt a bit like medical speed dating except nobody wanted a second date with my file.
I was essentially told to go back to physio. This wasn’t really a medical issue anymore.
I believe in physiotherapy. Deeply. It has helped me tremendously. But there comes a point where patients stop needing another treatment and start needing someone to ask bigger questions.
Nothing discourages a person quite like enthusiastically trying a stretch or strengthening exercise that immediately makes things worse.
Every specialist confidently searches for answers inside their own department like medical-themed escape rooms.
Somewhere between “try yoga” and “have you considered drinking more water?” I began expanding my own research.
And I’ve lost count of the books and podcasts that begin with the exact same storyline:
“I was trained in conventional medicine. I trusted the system completely… until I became the patient.”
At first, these doctors often dismiss holistic approaches entirely. Patients mention supplements, meditation, dietary changes, nervous system work, or alternative therapies, and the response is cautious at best and dismissive at worst.
Snake oil. Pseudoscience. Non-compliance.
But then something shifts.
The doctor develops chronic pain. An autoimmune condition. A lingering injury. Burnout. A nervous system disorder.
And suddenly certainty cracks open into curiosity.
Chronic pain turns you into a part-time researcher, part-time philosopher, and full-time reluctant detective.
I have spent an unreasonable amount of my adult life trying to determine whether I am injured, inflamed, overtired, under-rested, dehydrated, stressed, or simply existing incorrectly.
Living with chronic pain means constantly performing the world’s least fun science experiment on yourself.
By year three of unexplained symptoms, I could practically earn honorary medical credits.
To be fair, holistic spaces are not immune to problems either. There is misinformation, exploitation, fearmongering, and an endless supply of expensive miracle cures marketed toward vulnerable people desperate to feel better.
Pain makes people easy to manipulate. Both systems can fail people in different ways.
That’s why I don’t believe the answer is abandoning conventional medicine for holistic healing.
I believe the answer is integration.
An actual partnership.
Healing is bigger than symptom management.
Patients do not need doctors to be omniscient. We need them to be curious.
Surgeons are trained to operate. Doctors are trained to diagnose and prescribe. Specialists are trained to identify patterns within their specialty.
We need practitioners who understand both the power and the limitations of their training. And openly work with other practitioners, conventional and holistic, to find a root cause and treatment plan.
This matters enormously to a patient just trying to survive.
Chronic illness does not always fit neatly inside textbook timelines and diagnostic boxes.
Medicine’s symbol speaks of healing being available. Yet many people with chronic illness spend years moving through appointments feeling like fragmented symptoms instead of whole human beings.
Stacey Roberts described asking chronic pain patients to remember a time before they lived with pain. Then she asks them to imagine themselves in the future doing something that currently hurts. Picking up grandchildren. Bending over. Any repetitive movement, without pain.
And many people simply cannot picture it.
Their bodies have become so conditioned toward pain and protection that even imagining safety feels impossible.
This is your forest therapy practice for this week. Find a quiet place in nature and practice this visualization.
Chronic pain doesn’t only affect muscles and joints. It reshapes expectation. Identity. Fear. Hope.
Roberts discussed using visualization, breathing, mindfulness, and repetition to help retrain the nervous system’s response to pain.
That idea connects to what I’ve experienced through forest therapy and time in nature.
Regulation comes while standing beneath trees while wind moves through their branches overhead. The nervous system seems to recognize something there before the mind does. The movement. The rhythm. The reminder that not everything in the world is bracing for impact.
Healing and pain elimination are not always the same thing.
Chronic pain teaches your nervous system to scan constantly for danger. Nature quietly teaches it another language.
No performance. No productivity. No pressure to fix yourself.
Just space to exist in a body that has spent far too long preparing for the next flare.
I appreciated many of the points Stacey Roberts made in the podcast. But I struggled with the title of her book, The Pain-Free Formula.
Not because I don’t believe improvement is possible. I do.
I absolutely believe there are things we can do to reduce pain, improve quality of life, calm the nervous system, support healing, and function better in our bodies.
But chronic illness eventually teaches many of us something medicine rarely does:
Sometimes the greatest medical harm is making patients feel invisible.
At some point I stopped obsessing over becoming pain free and started focusing on becoming supported.
I decided healing would come in time. And if not, I would still be okay.
Not because I had given up. But because I finally realized I had the tools, support, and guidance I needed to endure whatever my condition threw at me.
Ironically, that mindset shift brought me more peace than years spent desperately chasing the next solution.
Sometimes acceptance is more freeing than the absence of pain we searched for so desperately.
I hope Stacey Roberts never fully understands that distinction.
Because for her to truly understand it, she may have to suffer at a depth I would not wish on anyone.
At the end of the podcast, the host asked how she would redesign the healthcare system for chronic pain patients. Roberts discussed the need for more investment into preventative health, nutrition research, nervous system regulation, and understanding why certain non-pharmaceutical interventions help people heal.
And honestly, I think she raised important questions.
Because if someone improves through movement, nutrition, mindfulness, supplementation, therapy, nervous system regulation, or lifestyle change, why should that healing be dismissed simply because it did not originate from a prescription pad?
People in pain do not need to be fixed before they are worthy of compassion.
I do think our healthcare system needs to evolve.
Not because doctors are evil. Not because science has failed. Not because medicine lacks value.
Listen to your patient; he is telling you the diagnosis.
Listen. Not just for the keywords that trigger familiar treatment pathways. But for the whole story.
For the grief patients carry. For the exhaustion. For the devastation of losing trust in your own body. And for the courage it takes to keep asking for help after years of disappointment.
Healing should never have become a battle between conventional and holistic medicine.
People in pain deserve both.
And if you’ve ever had to redefine what healing or success looks like inside a difficult body, I wrote more about that here as well. You Are a Success Story
That, perhaps, is the difference between a crisis and a chrysalis. One keeps us frozen in fear. The other slowly reshapes us.
Technically, I’m not even fully in my midlife years yet.
And yet my body arrived early to the party.
A complete hysterectomy fast-tracked me into conversations I thought I still had years to prepare for.
Ironically, some circles don’t allow me in to the conversation because I’m “far too young” to know what menopause is.
It seems my reproductive system retired before society was emotionally prepared to handle it. Medically, I pass the test but I always get ID’d at the door.
I was medically launched into menopause with all the glamorous perks.
Hot flashes. Joint pain. An increasingly fragile relationship with sleep. And the deeply humbling realization that apparently your underarms and mid range can become flabby despite hours of working out at the gym.
(Nothing prepares you for sneezing incorrectly in your 40s.)
My body has adopted the classic expired warranty strategy, catastrophic synchronized failure. I’ve entered the ‘everything squeaks, leaks, or spasms unexpectedly’ chapter of ownership. My body has moved beyond ‘minor repairs’ and into ‘have you considered replacing the whole unit?’ territory.
Which is why a phrase I recently heard on the podcast Hello Menopause! grabbed my attention.
“Midlife chrysalis.”
Not midlife crisis. Midlife chrysalis.
The episode featured Chip Conley talking about reinvention, and I chose to listen to this episode because crisis sounds like collapse. Losing control. Becoming less.
Like panic bangs and plans to live “off-grid” and taking up emotional support hobbies. Sourdough starter anyone?
But chrysalis?
That sounds like transformation.
Messy. Strange. Hidden. Uncomfortable. Necessary.
A chrysalis says. You are not falling apart. You are simply changing form.
I think many of us who have experienced chronic illness, disability, grief, loss, burnout, etc. arrive at this transformation long before the culture expects us to.
Some of us are forced into reinvention before we even finish becoming who we thought we would be.
The Crisis
Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart.
Sometimes crayon. When I need a little more whimsy in my days.
There were years where survival became the main objective. Years where my nervous system felt like a shaken vending machine full of stress hormones. Years where I thought resilience meant pushing harder instead of listening deeper.
And then came the hysterectomy.
One of those dividing-line experiences where life becomes Before and After.
Before, I still secretly believed if I tried hard enough I might someday return to the old version of myself.
After, I slowly began realizing there may not be a way back. Emotional landslides and experiential cave-ins had blocked that passage way.
Forward and through became my only options. Through self-realizations. Humbling concessions. Constant negotiations between mind and body.
And maybe that is where the chrysalis begins.
The Chrysalis
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
A chrysalis does not look impressive from the outside.
It looks still. Inactive. Even broken down.
But inside? An extraordinary reorganization is happening.
And I think that’s what midlife (or medically-induced midlife-adjacent existentialism) can become.
Not a crisis to survive. But a transformation to participate in. Whole-heartedly.
Chip Conley talked about how the first half of life is often about accumulation.
We gather. Relationships. Responsibilities. Possessions. Roles. Expectations. Obligations. Dreams that once fit.
And eventually we become emotionally overstuffed.
He described midlife as “a great midlife edit.”
As I listened I considered the fact that chronic illness forces the edit whether you volunteer readily or not.
You simply cannot carry everything forever when your body already feels like it’s carrying a weighted backpack full of loose cutlery.
At some point you must ask important questions.
What still fits?
What actually matters?
What has become lukewarm in my life?
Do you know what a lukewarm life looks like? One of the lines from the podcast,
Pouring out part of your tea allows you to pour some hot new tea into the cup.
Because some things are not meant to last forever. Not every friendship. Not every role. Not every expectation you once had for yourself.
And maybe releasing those things is not failure. Maybe it’s pruning.
The forest understands this better than we do.
The Forest
One of the reasons forest therapy has become so meaningful to me is because the forest never panics about transformation.
Forest therapy has taught me that stillness is not the same thing as stagnation. Sometimes what appears dormant is actually becoming. I wrote more about that in this post, Nourish Your Nervous System: Forest Therapy Insights
Deadfall becomes nourishment. Burned places grow new life. Trees release entire branches to survive harsh seasons. These changes that seem negative are essential to a healthy forest.
Humans also require those experiences that appear negative and are actually essential for a healthy life.
In the forest, decay and renewal, soft and hard, smooth and sharp are all happening simultaneously.
And honestly, that feels like midlife too.
Especially for those of us living in bodies that have known pain.
We have experienced days where tears of pain rolled down the left cheek while tears of joy rolled down the right.
We know how to hold grief and gratitude at the same time.
That depth changes a person.
We know what it is to laugh in waiting rooms. To find beauty in tiny victories. To feel gratitude and grief sharing the same chair.
I have learned that emotional pain cannot simply be numbed away the same way physical pain can. There is no ibuprofen for identity loss. No heating pad for disappointment. No prescription for becoming someone new.
And while suffering itself is not noble, I do think deep experiences deepen people.
My chronic comrades know this.
Pain can also make people bitter, stuck, isolated, hardened.
That, perhaps, is the difference between a crisis and a chrysalis. One keeps us frozen in fear. The other slowly reshapes us.
If we allow ourselves to learn from it. We can become more compassionate. Tender. Wise. Present. Better able to sit beside someone else’s suffering without looking away.
As they said in the podcast,
Our painful life lessons are the raw material for our future wisdom.
I believe that in my soul.
The Offering
Sometimes our culture subtly teaches that the people worth listening to are the successful ones. The polished ones. The credentialed ones. The endlessly productive ones
What can we do about this imbalance? If you ever deem somebody less than you… ask yourself what they can teach you.
Because some of the wisest people I know have had their lives interrupted.
Some had to abandon dreams they loved. Some never got the education they were capable of and deserved. Some are rebuilding lives with parts and pieces they never would have chosen.
And still. They carry wisdom.
Do not think less of yourself because your life required adaptation. You are not behind because your path bent unexpectedly.
Some of us have earned emotional depth the hard way.
And if you cannot live the exact life you once pictured?
Find something to run toward anyway.
Even if your pace looks different now. Even if you have to limp toward it some days. Even if your dream has changed shape entirely.
A chrysalis does not become what it originally was.
That is the whole point!
A Forest Therapy Invitation: Chrysalis Walk
The next time you’re in a forest, park, or tree-lined path, try this:
Walk slowly and notice signs of transition.
What is decomposing?
What is emerging?
What is shedding?
What is adapting?
What still carries beauty despite visible damage?
Then ask yourself:
What version of myself am I grieving?
What no longer fits?
What wants to emerge now?
What if this season is transformation instead of failure?
You do not need immediate answers.
The forest is always becoming new. Slowly. Over time.
The Question
One question from the podcast we can all ask ourselves,
Ten years from now, what will I regret if I don’t learn or do now?
Conley called anticipated regret a form of wisdom. Chronic illness teaches you that later is not guaranteed. Perfect timing is imaginary. And someday can become never surprisingly fast.
So maybe this chapter is not about trying to reclaim who we once were.
Maybe it is about becoming more fully ourselves.
Hot flashes. Heating pads. Existential growth. And all.
What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.
SUNBEAM ACRES 