pammunkholm

Living on the Edge of Pain-Free

October 6, 2026 pammunkholm

I feel unbalanced living in a body that looks perfectly capable of holding itself together. When the truth is, it can do nothing of the sort.

I mean this in more ways than one. I am physically unbalanced more often than I am balanced. This is due to my very unstable joints.

And then I look around and see the life I formed to manage this body, that it is in opposition to the rest of the world. Making emotional balance feel next to impossible.

I can walk. I can hike. I can play with my grandchildren.

I can carry things, bend down, climb over things I probably shouldn’t climb over and occasionally convince myself that I am a completely normal person who has this whole body thing figured out.

And then someone leans against me. Or my dog steps on my foot. Or I turn slightly to walk around someone. Or I roll an ankle on a trail.

And suddenly I become a sack of bones doing their best, more than that of a functioning skeleton.

When your body is a little too enthusiastic about movement

I live with hypermobile joints.

Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (hEDS) is one of the conditions that can fall under the hypermobility spectrum. It is a connective tissue disorder associated with generalized joint hypermobility, joint instability, chronic musculoskeletal pain and a collection of other fun features.

There isn’t currently a laboratory test that simply says, Yep. You’ve got it. Diagnosis is clinical and involves looking at the whole person rather than one isolated symptom. (The Ehlers Danlos Society)

Hypermobility isn’t simply being unusually flexible. It isn’t about being the kid who could put her feet behind her head. Or fold her eyelids inside out. It isn’t a party trick.

(That doesn’t mean I can’t do the tricks)

For some of us, the problem isn’t that our joints can move farther than everyone else’s. It’s that sometimes they keep going when we’d really prefer they didn’t. Past what tendons can protect and ligaments can control.

My joints can be remarkably cooperative about leaving their assigned positions.

For example:

My grandson wanted to show me something the other day. He leaned over me, and his little elbow dug into my ribs.

His little elbow. My adult rib. Click!

Three days after my physiotherapist put me back together.

She and I have a standing monthly appointment.

So now I wait. 27 days.

Because correcting too often in a case like mine can make the problem far worse.

This is not the life I expected. But it’s my life.

There are other examples.

Trying to walk around someone and somehow putting bones out in my foot. 🦶🤨

Playing with my granddaughter when she decided to give me a little shove and those ribs that love to move, eagerly allowed her to rearrange them. 🩻 😑

My dog stepping on my foot and somehow moving everything around. 🐕 🦶

Going hiking and rolling my ankle, spraining various parts and pieces of myself while trying to enjoy the great outdoors. 🥾 😣

These examples are only the tip of the iceberg. They have all happened in the past few months.

I love my family. Most of the time I love my dog. I love hiking.

I do not love constant pain. Therefore, I would like to formally request to be encased in bubble wrap. (Unfortunately my physio says that’s not a viable option either.)

Antara
(Sanskrit) The space between what you feel and what you show.

The problem with explaining pain nobody can see

One of the hardest things about chronic pain is explaining something that doesn’t have an obvious beginning, middle and end.

There is an injury.

There is pain.

There is a scan.

There is treatment.

There is recovery. Hooray!

But when this isn’t the progression.

There is pain, but the imaging doesn’t explain the pain.

Joints are unstable but this doesn’t show up neatly on a picture.

The answer is essentially, Everything looks normal.

When you get stuck in an endless loop of injury, pain, scan. Nothing. Injury, pain, scan. Nothing…

You begin to wonder if maybe you are the problem.

Maybe you’re exaggerating. 🤔

Maybe you’re weak. 😔

Maybe you’re just sensitive. 😢

Maybe you should exercise more. 🏃‍♀️

Maybe you should exercise less. 😣

Maybe you need to think positively. 😃

Maybe you need to stop thinking about it. 🧘‍♀️

Meanwhile, your body is sitting there like:

I would love to participate in this discussion, but unfortunately my rib muscles are currently screaming so loudly I can’t hear anything else.

A diagnosis doesn’t magically make pain disappear.

But a name can change something.

There is power in having a name

There is something different about being able to say:

I have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.

Instead of:

“Well, I’ve had pain for years, and my joints move too far, and sometimes things come out of place, and my muscles have to work really hard to stabilize everything, and I have all these other weird things going on, and I know it sounds strange, but…”

A name is shorter. A name means someone believed you.

A name is understood… sometimes. Which is better than never.

A name gives your experience a place to stand.

It can feel like a credential for suffering. 🪪

Not because suffering needs a certificate. It shouldn’t.

But because there is a difference in saying, This is a recognized condition, instead of feeling as though you have to build a courtroom case every time you describe what your body is doing.

And there is another thing a name gives you:

Other people.

You discover that there are other people who understand why walking across a parking lot can sometimes feel like an athletic event.

People who know what it means to have a joint suddenly become unreliable.

People who have learned the pain in I hurt myself again.

People who don’t need the entire history before they understand the sentence.

There is comfort in that shorthand.

There is camaraderie in saying, Wait, that’s normal?

Skin that flaps under an automated hand dryer. Feeling like your brain is being jostled when you run. Those are normal in some circles?!?

Even the measuring stick is changing

For years, one of the tools used to assess generalized joint hypermobility has been the Beighton score.

It is a nine-point scale based on whether certain joints, such as little fingers, thumbs, elbows, knees and the spine, move beyond particular ranges. Under the current criteria, the score is used as a screening measure for generalized joint hypermobility. (The Ehlers Danlos Society)

But there is a problem with measuring an entire complicated body by asking a handful of joints to perform five tricks.

What about the hips?

The shoulders?

The feet?

The jaw?

What about joints that used to be hypermobile but have become stiffer because you’ve spent years protecting them?

What about the person whose biggest problems aren’t located in the nine places being measured?

Researchers involved in the international Road to 2026 project have been examining these limitations. An expanded assessment that looks at four additional joints is being studied alongside the Beighton score, and the hEDS/HSD diagnostic framework. Even the way generalized hypermobility is assessed is being reconsidered. (The Ehlers Danlos Society)

The new international classification is expected to be published in December 2026, replacing the 2017 criteria. The Ehlers-Danlos Society has said the classification publication is scheduled for December 2, with best-practice care guidance expected in March 2027. (The Ehlers Danlos Society)

So even the measuring stick is being re-examined.

I find that hopeful.

I am currently diagnosed with generalized joint hypermobility. But that doesn’t tell the whole story.

I look forward to the updated measuring stick. Not because I need a better score.

But because science is admitting that perhaps the way we’ve been measuring this isn’t telling the whole story.

Sometimes the person doesn’t fit the measuring tool.

That doesn’t necessarily mean the person is wrong.

Sometimes the measuring tool needs work.

A diagnosis doesn’t make you more real

This is something I have to remind myself of.

With the diagnostic criteria change, I don’t suddenly become more or less in pain.

If my score changes, my ribs don’t politely and apologetically fall back in line.

If the medical community discovers a better way to describe hypermobility, my body doesn’t suddenly become easier to manage.

A diagnosis can give language to an experience.

It can open doors.

It can help doctors understand.

It can connect you with other people.

It can change treatment.

It can stop some of the exhausting explaining.

But it doesn’t create the suffering.

The suffering was already there.

A label doesn’t make the pain real. It gives the pain somewhere to be understood.

Living on the edge of pain-free

I think this is one of the most striking things about chronic illness.

I don’t necessarily live in constant unbearable pain.

Sometimes I almost feel good. I have gone pain- free for as long as a few days and as short as a few hours after a physiotherapist appointment.

Close enough that I start thinking, Maybe I’m finally getting somewhere.

Maybe this is the week.

Maybe my body is settling down.

Maybe I can do a little more.

Maybe I can hike a little farther.

Maybe I can play a little longer.

Maybe I can just live normally.

And then something happens.

A foot.

A rib.

An ankle.

A muscle.

A joint.

Something reminds me that normal is still a little outside my reach.

I live on the edge of pain-free.

I can see it.

I can sometimes almost touch it.

But I can never quite get there.

Some days this feels draining.

Some days it is really frustrating.

Because I don’t want to spend my life carefully negotiating with my skeleton.

I want to pick up my grandchildren without calculating angles.

I want to walk around someone without wondering whether my foot is going to object.

I want to hike without wondering which part of me will need time to heal after this.

I want to live. Not perfectly. Just freely.

So what does forest therapy have to do with a body like this?

Forest therapy doesn’t ask my body to perform.

There is no gold star for going farther. 🌟

No prize for walking fastest.

No requirement to conquer the trail.

And perhaps most importantly, there is no expectation that I have to force my body into being something it isn’t.

One of my favourite practices for hypermobility is sensory noticing while walking slowly.

Not hiking.

Walking.

There is a difference.

I can take a few steps and notice what my feet are telling me.

Not to judge them.

Or correct them.

Just notice.

Where is the ground?

What does the trail feel like beneath my shoes?

Am I gripping with my toes?

Am I locking my knees?

Am I holding my shoulders up around my ears?

Is there a place where I can soften?

Can I take one smaller step?

Can I pause?

Can I let the forest set the pace rather than my ambition?

And if my body says, That’s enough, then enough is enough.

Sometimes forest therapy means sitting on a bench while everyone else keeps walking.

Sometimes it means five minutes instead of an hour.

Sometimes it means finding a tree and letting myself simply be near it.

The forest doesn’t seem disappointed in me.

It doesn’t say, You used to walk farther.

It doesn’t say, Try harder. As though I just need a little more motivation.

It doesn’t say, But you look fine. Making me feel like I need to act fine too.

It just keeps being a forest.

Maybe the goal isn’t to reach pain-free

Maybe the goal is to build a life that still has room for joy while living with a body that requires extra care.

That isn’t giving up. It isn’t settling.

It isn’t saying, Well, I guess this is all my life will ever be.

It is learning a different definition of living.

I can be frustrated and grateful at the same time.

I can wish my joints were more reliable and still love the body that carries me through the woods.

I can be tired of pain without being hopeless.

I can want better treatment without believing my life is on hold until I get it.

And I can laugh with my grandson after he accidentally rearranges my ribs.

Eventually. Not immediately. But eventually.

Because sometimes humour is the little bit of space between this is ridiculous and this is my life.

And I want that space. I want the hikes. The grandchildren. The dog. The trees.

The ordinary moments that don’t require a medical explanation.

I want to keep noticing what my body can do without pretending that what it can’t do doesn’t matter.

Maybe that’s the hope.

Not that one day my body will become uncomplicated.

Maybe the goal is simply to stop waiting for a pain-free life before recognizing that a meaningful one is also valuable.

My body may keep moving the goalposts. I’m learning that I can still choose to keep getting up.

And for today, that’s enough.

Note: This post is about my lived experience and is not medical advice. Hypermobile EDS and other hypermobility conditions are complex, and diagnosis should be made by an appropriately qualified healthcare professional. The international EDS/HSD diagnostic criteria are being updated in 2026, so some of the information and terminology around diagnosis may change when the new classification is published. (The Ehlers Danlos Society)

When the Future Feels Too Heavy

September 29, 2026 pammunkholm

Inside me, the Protector, the Wounded Child, the Survivor, and the Healer all dance in a quiet circle. Each one longs to be seen, to be heard, to be held. And when I finally stop to witness them, their chaos becomes a rhythm… and their rhythm becomes my healing. 
-recoverytrauma.ltd

I heard something recently that has been rolling around in my head. It was a conversation about worry versus wisdom.

The idea was that worry keeps us stuck, while wisdom keeps us moving.

One of the concepts was this, sometimes we feel stuck because we want two things that can’t exist at the same time.

I want to be healthy, but I don’t want to change anything.
I want to feel better, but I don’t want to slow down.
I want to have more energy, but I don’t want to give anything up.
I want my nervous system to settle, but I keep filling every available minute.

And with chronic pain, there can be a whole extra layer of this.

I want to do the things I used to do, but my body can’t always do them.
I want to feel better, but I can’t control whether I have a good pain day or a terrible one.
I want answers, but sometimes there are no tidy solutions.

So I worry. I think. I analyze. I replay. I predict. (I’m actually a delight. But you wouldn’t know it because I’m so tired and irritated all the time.)

I consider every possible scenario until my brain has apparently opened approximately 47 tabs, and none of them are helpful.

And somewhere in all of that thinking, I can become very, very stuck.

But then I look at my grandkids.

They might know something I have forgotten.

They don’t spend nearly as much time worrying about what happened yesterday or what might happen tomorrow.

They deal with right now.

If they’re hungry, they eat.

If they’re tired, they lie down.

If they see a bug, suddenly that bug is the most fascinating creature on Earth.

If someone says something funny, they laugh.

If they fall down, they may cry. And then, remarkably, five minutes later they’re deeply invested in something completely unrelated.

They don’t seem to spend a lot of time thinking:

I really shouldn’t have fallen down yesterday.

Or:

What if I fall down again tomorrow?

They are busy being where their feet are. Kids have a PhD in being where their feet are. (Wise little beings.)

Not because the past doesn’t matter. Not because the future doesn’t matter.

But because this moment is the only one I can actually do anything with.

And I think that is part of the difference between worry and wisdom.

Worry keeps asking:

What if?

Wisdom asks:

What now?

What if I stopped trying to solve tomorrow?

One of the things I love about forest therapy is that nature gives me a place to practice being present.

Not by sitting perfectly still and trying to empty my mind.

My brain 🧠- Director of Unnecessary Mental Load 🪪

Instead, I can go outside and let my attention wander.

I call this a sensory wander.

Rather than walking with a destination in mind, I slow down and follow whatever catches my attention.

Maybe it’s the shape of a leaf.

The sound of something moving in the grass.

The smell of wet earth.

A tree with strange bark.

The way sunlight hits one little patch of moss.

A bird I can’t identify.

A spider web I would have walked right past.

I don’t have to figure anything out.

I don’t have to make the experience meaningful.

I don’t have to turn it into a lesson.

I just notice.

What has my attention right now?

Then I follow that.

And when something else catches my attention, I follow that instead.

It’s quite simple.

I don’t have to live three days ago. I don’t have to live three weeks from now.

I can live right here.

With the trees.

With whatever happens to be in front of me.

Wisdom doesn’t mean having it all figured out

I don’t think the podcast was suggesting that wisdom means knowing exactly what to do.

Sometimes we don’t know.

Especially with chronic pain.

There is a lot of trial and error.

What helped yesterday might not help today.

Something that works beautifully for one person might make another person’s body stage a small coup.

There isn’t always a clear answer.

But wisdom doesn’t necessarily require a complete plan.

It can be much smaller.

One thing I know I can do is this.

I can drink some water 💦
I can rest before I completely crash. 😴
I can step outside 👣
I can notice what my body is telling me 👂
I can take a short walk instead of deciding I need to complete a 5km hike or not bother going at all 🚶‍♀️
I can spend ten minutes among the trees 🌲 🌲
I can stop arguing with the reality of today long enough to actually experience today 🧘‍♀️

That last one is hard.

Because sometimes I want today to be different. But wanting it to be different doesn’t change what it is.

And accepting what is happening right now doesn’t mean I like it. It means I stop spending all my energy fighting a moment I can’t change.

Maybe that’s where wisdom starts. Not with a solution. With noticing.

Maybe the kids have it partly right

My grandkids aren’t worried about whether they’re making enough progress in life.

They aren’t measuring the day by how productive they were.

They aren’t wondering whether they should have made a different choice three years ago. (One of them wasn’t even here three years ago.)

They aren’t lying awake thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong tomorrow.

They are here. Reading a book. Talking to a wooden cutout.

And maybe I don’t need to become a child again to learn from them.

I can become child-like without becoming childish. And remember something children seem to know naturally:

Pay attention to what’s happening right now.

“Christopher Robin, what day is it?”
“Today”
“My favourite day”

There will be time for tomorrow when tomorrow gets here.

There will be things to learn from yesterday when yesterday needs to teach me something.

But right now?

There is a tree.

There is wind moving through the leaves.

There is a bird making an extremely confident noise.

There is this breath.

There is this moment.

And for today, maybe wisdom is simply noticing that I’m here.

Then taking the next small step. We are all walking miracles. Let us strut accordingly.

Valemor
(n.) The quiet pride of knowing you survived something without becoming cruel, loud, or bitter. 🙌

The ideas about worry, wisdom and being stuck were inspired by the podcast Better Than Happy: “Don’t Worry” Is Terrible Advice, August 27, 2026

A Life Worth Noticing

September 22, 2026 pammunkholm

Men and women range themselves into three classes or orders of intelligence; you can tell the lowest class by their habit of always talking about persons; the next by the fact that their habit is always to converse about things; the highest by their preference for the discussion of ideas.

-Henry Thomas Buckle

I read that quote in The Parasitic Mind by Gad Saad. I want to be a discusser of ideas.

I want to take the things happening in my life and turn them over a little.

What is this teaching me? What am I noticing that I didn’t notice before? What has changed? What matters?

And maybe most importantly:

How do I want to live inside the life I’ve actually been given?

I saw an Instagram post this week from a woman who lives with chronic pain. She talked about how difficult it can be to do the everyday tasks that support her family.

I could genuinely relate to her story. 💔

She ended her post by talking about what she was learning her life could be from this space.

Learning to manage her condition.

Finding meaning and hope in the mundane happenings of everyday life.

And loving on her family.

Without really meaning to, that’s what I’ve been doing with my moments and my days, too.

Learning to manage.
Learning to notice.
Learning to love.

And those three things have become much bigger ideas than I would have expected them to be.

Learning to Manage

Learning to manage a condition that comes without a handbook of instructions is tricky.

There is no little binder sitting on the kitchen counter that says:

When your body does this, do this.

When you have a good day, here is exactly how much you are allowed to do before tomorrow becomes a problem.

If you accidentally overestimate your energy, please proceed directly to the couch.

I would buy that binder. If someone wants to publish one, I would be happy to review the manuscript.

Instead, I am learning my own body.

Learning when to move. When to stop. That rest isn’t something I have to earn by becoming completely depleted or completing all the tasks first.

Learning that yesterday’s capacity doesn’t guarantee today’s. And that something can be good for me and still be too much for me today.

Those have been difficult lessons.

We live in a world that loves improvement.

More steps. More strength. More productivity. More goals. More pushing through.

But managing my life means asking a very different question:

What does my body need from me today?

Not what did it do yesterday. Or what do I wish it could do. Definitely not what would be convenient.

What does it need today? There is humility in that lesson. (And some irritation.)

Because I would occasionally like my body to consult my calendar before making executive decisions.

But learning to manage isn’t giving up. It is paying attention. And learning the language of my own body instead of continually arguing with it.

And if I’m going to slow down anyway, perhaps I could learn to notice what is here.

Learning to Notice

Helen Keller wrote in 1933:



“I, who cannot see, find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough shaggy bark of a pine.

I feel the delightful velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions, and something of the miracle of nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree, and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things.

If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight? Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of colour and action which fills the world is taken for granted.

It is a great pity that in the world of light, the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.”

Those who have eyes apparently see little.

Ouch. 😣

I used to be very good at getting somewhere.

Getting the groceries. Getting the laundry done. Getting through the day. Getting where I needed to go. Getting the thing crossed off the list so I could move on to the next thing.

Chronic pain has interfered rather dramatically with my relationship with getting somewhere.

Sometimes my body simply says, We’re not doing that today.

So I have been forced to slow down.

At first, I didn’t particularly appreciate this arrangement. But slowing down has done something unexpected.

It has made me notice.

The light coming through the trees.

The way a breeze moves one kind of tree differently than another.

A tiny mushroom tucked beside the trail.

The ridiculous personality of a crooked tree.

The smell of damp earth.

The sound of a bird I can’t identify.

The feeling of bark underneath my hand.

The tiny things growing in places I would have walked straight past.

The forest didn’t suddenly become more interesting.

I became available to more of it.

Mary Oliver wrote,

Attention is the beginning of devotion.

I think that’s true of more than forests. Attention changes things.

When I pay attention to my body, I begin to understand it.

When I pay attention to the forest, I begin to notice what is alive around me.

And when I pay attention to the people I love, I begin to see things I might otherwise miss.

A tiredness behind someone’s irritability.

A worry hiding underneath a question.

A child becoming more independent.

A grandchild changing almost overnight.

A husband who doesn’t need me to solve anything. He might just need me to sit beside him.

Sometimes love isn’t another thing to do.

Sometimes love is simply being there long enough to notice.

Learning to Love

My husband, my children and my grandchildren are my greatest joys.

And my greatest trials.

Apparently loving people means occasionally watching them make choices you would not have made.

Who knew?

I want to protect them. I want to help them. I want to make their lives easier. I want to spare them pain. I want to offer advice.

And sometimes I want to offer advice so badly that I can practically feel it forming in my mouth before anyone has asked for it.

But love is teaching me.

I can support them without taking over.

I can be available without being responsible for every outcome.

I can pray for them without trying to write the ending of their story.

These people are precious to me. Their hurts hurt me. Their mistakes make me nervous. Their happiness makes me ridiculously happy.

Sometimes their choices make me want to grab the steering wheel from the passenger seat.

Motherhood: the lifelong study of how to live with your heart walking around outside your body.

But then I remember:

They are not mine to control. They are mine to love.

And as I pray for them, I often find myself seeing more clearly where to step in and where to step back.

It feels like a dance. Except the dance floor keeps moving. And the steps keep changing.

Some days I’m pretty sure I’m doing the dance equivalent of stepping on everyone’s toes while insisting I’m helping.

Just when I think I’ve finally figured out this particular part… the music changes.

Someone grows. Someone struggles. Someone needs something different. Someone doesn’t need me in the same way anymore.

Relationships change shape. And I have to learn the steps again.

I don’t think the goal is to memorize the dance. Maybe the goal is to stay present enough to notice when the music changes.

The Forest Knows

I see this same lesson in the forest.

A forest is not a collection of things that have successfully figured out how to stay the same.

It is constantly changing.

Trees grow.

Branches break.

Leaves fall.

New plants appear.

Old trees become habitat for other things.

A fallen log becomes food, shelter and eventually soil.

Nothing is standing still.

And yet, it all belongs.

There is no frantic attempt to force everything back into its previous shape.

The forest adapts. It makes room. It lets go. It grows around obstacles. It responds to what is happening.

Maybe people need some of that wisdom, too.

Maybe I do.

A Forest Therapy Practice: Notice What Changes

One of the simplest practices I use in forest therapy is a sit spot.

Find a place where you can sit comfortably.

Then stay.

Not to accomplish anything.

Not to identify every plant.

Not to take the perfect photograph.

Not to have a profound spiritual experience.

Just stay long enough for your attention to settle.

Start with your senses.

What can you see?

What can you hear?

What can you feel?

What can you smell?

Then ask:

What changed while I was sitting here?

Maybe the light moved.

Maybe the wind shifted.

Maybe a bird appeared.

Maybe something that seemed ordinary at first became interesting when you looked longer.

And sometimes the biggest change isn’t in the forest. It’s in you!

You arrived thinking about everything you needed to do. You leave having noticed that you were actually here.

That is the practice I keep needing in the rest of my life, too.

Notice.

Before fixing. Before advising. Before reacting. Before deciding that I already know what is happening.

Notice.

Perhaps This is the Point

It’s hard not to think a meaningful life is defined by what I can accomplish and accumulate. Prepare for the future. Save. Invest. That’s the focus of so many people. It’s not a bad focus. But it’s not mine. Not for now anyway.

I need to remember a meaningful life has far more to do with what I give my attention to.

What I notice. What I make room for. Who I love. How willing I am to keep learning when the instructions change.

I don’t want to romanticize chronic pain.

There are still days when pain takes up far too much space. When I am frustrated with my body. Days when resting feels less like a peaceful spiritual practice and more like being grounded by a particularly unreasonable parent.

But there are also leaves.

Birds.

Sunlight.

Grandchildren.

My husband’s hand in mine.

Family dinners.

Conversations.

Ordinary moments that somehow become the moments I remember.

Maybe the gift isn’t that pain taught me something. I don’t need to call pain a gift. That’s going a little too far.

The gift is that, because of it, I have learned to look differently at the life happening around me.

To manage what I can.

To notice what I might have missed.

To love the people I cannot control.

When I learn to manage myself, I have more room to notice. When I learn to notice, I see more clearly what matters. And when I see what matters, I can love it better.

I don’t need to figure out every step. I don’t need to control the dance floor. I don’t even need to know what’s coming next.

I just need to listen for the music.

And when it changes, pay attention.

The antidote to exhaustion is not necessarily rest but wholeheartedness.

-David Whyte

The Art of Losing Your Train of Thought

September 15, 2026September 15, 2026 pammunkholm

Menopause, memory, and learning to live in a new season

There is a seasonal transition happening inside my brain. Even if the natural world is slow in its transition to fall.

I know this is happening because things keep falling out of said brain. Like dry leaves off a tree on a windy day.

Thoughts. Words. Names. Entire conversations.

Sometimes I can actually feel the thought leaking out.

It was there. I had it. I was about to say it.

And then whoosh. Gone.

Much like the leaves outside right now, my thoughts have decided they have fulfilled their purpose and are ready to return to the earth.

The problem is that I haven’t said them yet. And suddenly all thoughts are gone. And I still have to appear as though I can converse like a regular adult.

My brain has entered autumn

Autumn is a strange season.

Everything is changing, but nothing is necessarily wrong.

The leaves change colour. The days get shorter. The temperature drops.

Trees stop doing what they did all summer and start conserving their resources.

The whole landscape looks different. And yet we don’t stand in the forest pointing at a poplar tree and say,

“The poor dear.”

We understand that it’s a transition.

A season. A change in the way the tree functions.

I think menopause can be a little like that.

Except nobody warned me that my brain might start dropping leaves. And suddenly be bare naked.

The disappearing conversation

One of my most ridiculous symptoms is what happens when I’m talking to someone.

It doesn’t matter who. A family member. A friend. A complete stranger.

If something catches my attention, even for a split second, I can lose the entire train of thought I was following.

Not the general idea. Not one little detail. The whole train. It has left the station. Immediately derailed. No survivors.

So I’m standing there looking at another human being vacantly and frantically wondering:

What was I talking about? Two seconds ago!

I imagine this does very little for the other person’s confidence in my abilities as a functioning member of society.

That’s fair.

If someone did that to me, I’d probably wonder if I should quietly take their car keys.

Then there was Nemo.

The other day I was telling my mom a story about a friend. In front of this friend.

Except I had ALL of the facts mixed up.

I got basically every piece of information wrong.

This friend, sitting there while I told the story corrected me.

I continued. She corrected me again. I continued. She corrected me again.

Five corrections in three sentences?!?

It gave strong Finding Nemo vibes. Remember when Dory is telling a school of fish passing by about Nemo while Marlin repeatedly corrects her?

“His son Fabio” “Nemo” “Nemo. Right.” “His son.” “Nemo.”

It was basically this scene. Except this time I was Dory, my friend was Marlin, and my mom was the poor unsuspecting school of fish.

I was one correction away from jumping in the lake.

There are days when my brain is so foggy from medication, exhaustion, hormones, or some magical combination of all three that I sound less like regular Dory and more like Dory speaking whale.

I think it’s important to laugh.

Because if I don’t laugh, I might start Googling early-onset dementia every time I forget the name of a friend I’ve had for 20 some years.

I’m not broken.

This is the part I wish more women heard. I’m not broken. And neither are you.

We are not pathetic. Ridiculous. Deficient.

Brain fog is a real and common experience during the menopause transition.

The Menopause Society reports that roughly 40–60% of midlife women experience cognitive symptoms, including forgetfulness, difficulty concentrating, distractibility and trouble finding words. These changes can be frightening because they can feel like something really serious is happening.

But the cognitive changes typically associated with the menopause transition should be mild, and dementia at midlife is rare. (The Menopause Society)

That doesn’t mean we’re imagining it. Or that our challenging experience isn’t valid.

And it doesn’t mean we should simply shrug and say, “Oh well. I’m old now.”

No. Our brains are changing.

There can be a loss of confidence that comes with this.

You know you’re capable. You’ve spent decades accumulating knowledge and experience.

You’ve solved problems. Raised children. Built careers. Managed households. Made decisions.

Remembered 47,000 things nobody else even noticed needed remembering. And then suddenly you’re getting an Error 404 message every time you try to access the frontal brain.

Or you’re halfway through a sentence and all suitable words abandon you in an ultimate betrayal of trust.

Or someone is looking at you while you desperately try to retrieve the thought that was just there.

And you start wondering:

Am I losing it?

There is an actual biological reason for this.

Estrogen receptors are widely distributed throughout the brain, including areas involved in memory, mood and other cognitive functions. During perimenopause, estrogen levels can fluctuate considerably before eventually settling at a much lower level after menopause. Research has found changes in brain structure, energy metabolism and blood flow during this transition, particularly in areas involved in memory and executive function. (The Menopause Society)

And then there are all the other things menopause can throw into the mix.

Hot flashes. Night sweats. Poor sleep. Anxiety. Mood changes. Stress. Fatigue. 💀

All of those things can make it harder to concentrate and remember.

So sometimes the problem isn’t that your brain has forgotten how to work.

Sometimes your brain is working while simultaneously dealing with approximately seventeen other things.

No wonder it occasionally says,

“You know what? I’m putting this thought down and walking away.”

But it could work on its timing.

Disclaimer: If something is interfering with your ability to work, function, communicate or enjoy your life, it’s worth talking to a healthcare professional. Especially if the changes are sudden, severe, progressively worsening, or feel very different from your usual brain fog.

The invisible part

I think the hardest part isn’t always the forgetting.

It’s what the forgetting can do to your confidence.

Because women are still expected to function.

We still have jobs. Families. Parents. Grandchildren. Appointments. Bills. Groceries. Passwords.

We have spent decades proving that we’re capable.

Then suddenly we can’t remember the word we have used approximately 900 times in our lives.

And that can mess with your head.

You begin wondering whether other people notice. Whether they think you’re less capable. Whether they’re quietly questioning you. Whether you’re losing something you aren’t going to get back.

That fear is hard. And so is the embarrassment.

Experiencing brain fog does not mean you’ve become less intelligent.

It doesn’t erase everything you’ve learned. It doesn’t erase your competence. It doesn’t erase the person you have spent your entire life becoming.

You are not broken.

You are living through a biological transition that can affect the way your brain functions.

That’s very different.

My experience is a little more complicated than the average menopause story. Perhaps yours is too.

Mine was surgical menopause, so there wasn’t a gradual transition. My ovaries were removed and my body went from producing its usual supply of hormones to suddenly having to figure out life without them.

I also had a bad reaction when I tried hormone replacement therapy, so that isn’t an option for me. Which means some of the symptoms that can be mildly annoying for one woman can feel like they’ve been turned up to eleven for me.

The brain fog, the temperature swings, the sleep disruption, the whole neurological circus can be a lot 😵 . I’m not saying that for sympathy. It’s simply part of the landscape I’m learning to navigate.

And then there’s the fact that I generally look fine.

That’s the slightly ridiculous thing about invisible conditions.

From the outside, I look like a perfectly ordinary woman going about her day. You can’t see the pain, the nervous system overload, the fatigue, the brain fog, or the amount of energy it can take just to appear like a functioning adult.

Add menopause to the mix and there’s even more happening behind the scenes that nobody can see.

Until I overheat.

Then suddenly my body’s commitment to being discreet completely falls apart.

I can go from looking perfectly normal to sweating so profusely that I resemble the co-pilot in the movie Airplane. Ridiculously conspicuous, completely unable to pretend everything is fine. As the sweating and heat achieve new heights people wonder what’s happening. While I am left wondering if anyone has a towel.

It’s almost impressive. If it weren’t so disgusting.

And there is something isolating about looking fine when you don’t feel fine. People naturally respond to what they can see.

If you look healthy, capable and put together, it’s easy for everyone, including yourself, to forget how much work is happening underneath the surface.

So yes, I might look fine. My brain might seem fine. My body might look fine.

And yet sometimes the inside is working through some stuff.

The forest doesn’t panic when the leaves fall

This is one of the reasons I keep coming back to the forest.

The forest is remarkably good at transitions. It doesn’t fight autumn. Or apologize for losing its leaves.

It doesn’t stand there trying to tape them back onto the branches. It lets them go.

And then it changes how it spends its energy.

There is something I need to learn from that. Because when my brain isn’t behaving the way it used to, my first instinct can be to push harder.

Try harder. Remember harder. Concentrate harder. Be more productive. Fix it. Get back to normal.

But I don’t think this season is asking me to get back to normal. I hear it asking me to learn a new normal.

That doesn’t mean accepting every symptom without question.

It doesn’t mean ignoring significant changes or assuming everything is menopause.

New, severe or progressively worsening cognitive symptoms deserve that conversation with a healthcare professional.

Then there’s forest therapy.

***Forest therapy does not replace medical care.***

But i have found it to be an effective tool for managing some of the symptoms that can accompany menopause.

Numinous
(Adj) the feeling that something sacred and mysterious is present in nature.

So what can the forest actually do?

A forest can’t restore my estrogen. It can’t remember Fabio’s name for me. It can’t make a hot flash disappear on command.

And it definitely can’t stop me from walking into a room and immediately forgetting why I’m there.

But it can give my nervous system a break from the constant demand to perform.

Forest bathing research has found short-term reductions in cortisol and other indicators associated with stress (PubMed)

And that matters because stress, poor sleep, anxiety and other menopause symptoms can all pile onto cognitive difficulties.

Sometimes managing the environment around the symptom is useful, even when you can’t eliminate the symptom itself.

The forest gives us an opportunity to slow down.

To pay attention without having to accomplish anything.

To move gently.

To breathe.

To notice.

To let the nervous system come down a notch.

And sometimes that is enough to make the brain feel a little less like the squirrels are running the office. 🐿️ 🥜

Try a seasonal brain reset

The next time your brain feels particularly autumnal, find somewhere outside where you can sit comfortably.

You don’t need a spectacular trail. A backyard will do. A park. A quiet corner under a tree.

Then try something I call Let the Leaves Fall.

Sit somewhere you can see a tree. Don’t try to clear your mind.

That is entirely too much pressure for a brain that currently can’t remember what it was doing three seconds ago.

Instead, notice the tree. Look at the leaves. Find one that is still attached. Find one that has fallen. Notice the movement. The colour. The texture. The spaces between the branches.Then notice your own body.

Where are your shoulders? Your jaw? Your hands? Your feet?

Take a slow breath and feel your feet against the ground.

Then ask yourself:

What am I holding onto that I don’t need to solve right now?

You don’t need an answer. That’s the point. Let the question sit there. Let your thoughts come and go without chasing them.

If a thought disappears, let it. If another one arrives, notice it.

You’re not trying to force your brain back into summer. You’re practicing being present in autumn. And that’s what regulation sometimes looks like.

Not fixing. Not forcing. Not fighting.

Just creating enough safety and quiet that your brain doesn’t have to work quite so hard.

Every season asks something different of us

The forest reminds me that change doesn’t always mean decline.

A tree losing its leaves isn’t dying.

It’s adapting. Resting. Reallocating. Preparing for what’s next.

Maybe we can offer ourselves the same grace. I don’t need to be embarrassed every time I lose a thought. I can simply say,

“Hang on. My brain just sprung a leak.”

And laugh.

I can ask someone to remind me what I was saying without assuming they’ve lost faith in my ability to function.

I can stop measuring this version of myself against the woman I was before my hormones decided to rearrange the furniture.

And maybe, when my brain won’t brain, I can remember:

I’m not broken.

I’m in a season of change. The leaves are falling. The landscape looks different.

Some things are harder. Some things may need more rest. Some things may need more support.

And some things might surprise me by growing in ways I couldn’t see coming.

I don’t have to love every part of the season. But I can learn to live in it.

And maybe, every once in a while, I can go sit beneath a tree and let the forest remind me that changing doesn’t mean failing.

It just means the season changed. And so did my memory.

Now…

What was I talking about?

Everything Hurts, Now What?

September 8, 2026 pammunkholm

There is a specific genre of complaining that I have become suspicious of. 🕵️‍♀️

Not the legitimate kind.

Not the “I have been awake since 3:17 a.m. because my nervous system is holding a fire drill” kind.

Not the “Why does getting showered and dressed feel like an Olympic event?” kind.

And definitely not the “Who designed this world without considering people who have pain?” kind.

Some things are a genuine bummer.

Chronic pain is hard. Fatigue is hard. Having a body that doesn’t always cooperate is hard. Watching other people casually do things that require me to carefully plan and then recover, can be hard.

My body doesn’t always recognize my authority. There’s a department. A committee. Tons of red tape. It’s a whole thing.

I am not talking about pretending those things aren’t hard.

I’m talking about what happens when complaining slowly becomes the neighbourhood we live in. And we didn’t even know we moved!

Because sometimes I wonder if complaining is one of the ways we get duped by the lies of this world.

Sneaky lies.

The kind that slip in wearing sensible shoes.

E.g.

Busy means productive
More is always better
Everyone else has it better than me
Your worth is measured by what you accomplish or have
You should be able to do it all
Other people should behave the way I think they should

Some lies show up more in certain arenas. In the arena of chronic pain I have narrowed down to two societal lies that are at the top of my list.

The first lie of chronic pain sufferers: Life is supposed to be easier than this.

Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the idea that if I worked hard enough, made good choices, took care of myself, tried to be positive and generally behaved like a reasonably responsible adult, life would eventually cooperate.

🤭 Cute.

I have since learned that life comes with considerably more fine print.

And chronic pain has a particularly efficient way of magnifying those terms and conditions 🔎 .

You can eat well. You can exercise within your abilities. You can rest. You can take your medication. You can go to appointments.

You can stretch and strengthen and meditate and breathe and try every reasonable suggestion known to humanity.

And then Tuesday morning shows up, completely ignoring the fact that I had a lovely little breakthrough on Monday. My body still hurts. The dust is still judging me from across the room. The laundry has continued breeding. Nothing has been resolved, healed, folded, or otherwise put right.

That doesn’t mean you failed.

It means you’re human.

The second lie of chronic pain sufferers: If I can’t have the life I wanted, I can’t have a good life.

This one is considerably more dangerous.

Because chronic pain can shrink our world.

First we stop doing something because it hurts.

Then we stop doing something because we’re afraid it will make things hurt worse.

Then we stop making plans because we don’t know how we’ll feel and we are tired of cancelling.

Then we start thinking about everything we’ve lost.

And eventually our attention becomes almost completely occupied by what isn’t possible.

The thing is, nothing has to be invented. The losses are real.

But the brain can take a real loss and turn it into a much larger story.

I can’t live like I used to becomes:

I can’t do anything.

I’m having a terrible pain day becomes:

I’m always in unmanageable pain.

I can’t make plans reliably becomes:

My life is completely out of my control.

That’s where I think complaining can become a trap.

We’re no longer simply describing our circumstances.

We’re rehearsing them.

Over and over.

And our brains are remarkably good at getting better at whatever we repeatedly practice.

But here’s where I need to be careful.

Because there is another lie that can sneak into this conversation.

“If people are tired of hearing about my pain, I should just tuck that thought back in the vault where it belongs.”

No.

Absolutely not.

I have chronic pain.

This is not a part-time hobby.

If something hurts every single day, pretending it doesn’t hurt so that everyone around me can have a more comfortable afternoon isn’t healthy either.

Sometimes I need to say:

“Today really hurts.”

Sometimes I need somebody to know that I’m struggling.

Sometimes I need to be able to say, “This is really hard, especially today,” without having to immediately follow it with something inspirational so nobody gets uncomfortable.

I don’t need a motivational quote.

I need a witness.

And sometimes the person we need to hear us is the person who is tired of hearing it.

This is one of the hardest parts of chronic pain.

Because pain doesn’t take weekends or holidays off.

It doesn’t understand that those closest to you have already heard about it yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. For what seems infinity.

It doesn’t care that your family has had a long day.

It doesn’t politely wait until everyone is emotionally available.

And the person who loves you may eventually reach a point where they think:

I know you’re hurting. I know. But I don’t know what else to say.

And sometimes that comes out as:

“That sucks.”

Then they go back to whatever they were doing.

Ouch 😣

Because when you’re hurting badly enough to finally say something, “That sucks” can land less like validation and more like:

Please stop talking about this 🙄 .

But there is another possibility.

Maybe they’re not saying:

Your pain doesn’t matter.

Maybe they’re saying:

I don’t know how to fix something I can’t fix 🔧.

Maybe they’re exhausted too.

Maybe they have heard about your pain so often that they have become emotionally numb. Not because they don’t love you, but because human beings aren’t particularly good at repeatedly witnessing something they can’t make better.

And here’s an inconvenient truth:

Both people can be hurting.

The person with chronic pain can need to be heard.

And the person who loves them can need a break from pain being the centre of the room.

Those two things can be true at the same time.

So how do we complain in a healthy way?

Maybe the answer isn’t don’t complain.

Maybe it’s learn how to communicate the need underneath the complaint.

Because sometimes what I’m really asking isn’t:

“Would you like to hear the latest installment of Everything That Hurts?”

Sometimes I’m asking:

“Can you please just acknowledge that this is hard?”

That’s a different request.

Instead of:

“Everything hurts today. My back is killing me, my hips are aching, I barely slept, my hands hurt, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to get anything done…”

I might try:

“I’m having a really bad pain day. I don’t need you to fix it. I just need you to hear me for a minute.”

Or:

“Can I have two minutes to complain without you trying to solve it?”

Or even:

“I need a little reassurance right now. Can you tell me you understand that this is hard?”

That gives the other person a job they can actually do.

They don’t have to cure chronic pain.

They don’t even have to have the perfect response.

They just have to be present.

And I think we can give them permission to tell us when their tank is empty.

This one is tricky.

Because if someone says, “I can’t listen to this right now,” it can feel devastating.

Especially when you already feel like your pain is an inconvenience.

But perhaps we can build a different language around it.

“I love you. I believe you. I just don’t have the capacity to talk about pain right now. Can we come back to this later?”

(Hold them to talking about it later, or they are just avoiding the issue)

That is very different from:

“I’m sick of hearing you complain.”

One establishes a boundary.

The other makes the person feel like the problem.

And research on chronic pain couples backs up the importance of this distinction. Validation communicates that the person’s experience is real and understood, while invalidation can interfere with emotional and pain regulation. At the same time, studies also suggest that very frequent pain-related disclosure can wear down supportive responses. (PubMed)

So perhaps healthy communication lives somewhere in the middle.

Tell the truth.

Don’t catastrophize the truth.

Ask for what you actually need.

Give the other person permission to have limits.

And don’t make one person your entire emotional support system.

Because that’s a lot to ask of one human being.

Even if that human being is married to you.

Your brain is listening to you.

Our brains don’t simply receive information from our bodies like a receptionist taking messages.

They’re constantly interpreting what is happening.

Attention, emotion, memory, expectation and perceived threat can all influence the experience of pain.

Chronic pain isn’t simply a matter of damaged tissue sending an identical pain signal over and over again. The nervous system can become sensitized and change the way sensations are processed.

And repetitive negative thinking (ruminating about pain, what it means, what might happen, how unfair it is) can add another layer of distress.

In very simple terms:

What we repeatedly pay attention to gets easier for the brain to notice.

That does NOT mean chronic pain is imaginary.

It does NOT mean positive thinking cures illness.

And it absolutely does NOT mean that if you’re still hurting, you just aren’t trying hard enough.

Puh-lease. ✋

I have enough on my plate without wondering whether I’m handling my suffering correctly.

But it does mean there may be a difference between:

“This hurts.”

and

“This hurts, this always happens, this is never going to change, I can’t do anything, my life is terrible, nobody understands, and why does everyone else get to have a normal body?”

The first is information.

The second is a story.

And stories can either help us carry reality or make reality heavier.

Validation isn’t the same thing as agreement.

This is an important distinction.

If I say:

“I’m scared this pain will never get better.”

You don’t have to get in the pit with me and say:

“Yes. The dumpster fires persist but so do we.”

You can say:

“I can understand why you’re scared. You’ve been dealing with this for a long time.”

That’s validation.

You’re not agreeing with the prediction. You are not forecasting something different.

You’re acknowledging the experience.

Researchers studying chronic pain couples have found that empathic and validating responses are generally associated with better emotional and relationship outcomes, while invalidating responses tend to be associated with worse outcomes. A 2025 systematic review of chronic pain couples reached a similar overall conclusion. ((PMC)PubMed Central)

And interestingly, even brief training in validation has been shown to improve validating responses from spouses and reduce negative affect in partners living with chronic pain. (PubMed)

Which means perhaps we don’t need our loved ones to become pain experts.

Maybe we just need to teach each other a few life-saving sentences.

🛟 “I believe you.”

🛟 “That sounds really hard.”

🛟 “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

🛟 “Do you want me to listen, help, or give you some space?”

Sometimes I need help.

Sometimes I need someone to sit beside me while I have spectacular pity party.

And sometimes I need everyone to leave me alone.

Which brings me to the forest.

The forest is a third party in the conversation.

One of the reasons I love forest therapy is that it gives me somewhere else to take my pain.

Not to hide it. Not to deny it. Just to put it down for a little while.

The forest doesn’t say:

“Again with the pain?”

It doesn’t say:

“You’ve already told me this.”

It doesn’t say:

“That sucks.”

It simply gives me something else to notice.

The sound of wind moving through branches.

The texture of bark.

Birdsong.

The smell of damp earth.

Bosky
Covered with bushes, shrubs, and small trees, or having a woody and shady appearance. (Dictionary.com)

Light moving through leaves.

My feet touching the ground.

My breath silent as I watch the deer across the ravine and she watches me.

And suddenly my attention isn’t completely occupied with the running commentary in my head.

Nature exposure has been associated with reduced stress, and research on forest therapy has found changes in measures such as cortisol, heart rate and parasympathetic activity.

The evidence isn’t perfect, and the forest isn’t a cure for chronic pain. But it can offer the nervous system a different kind of input. Slower, safer, less demanding.

Sometimes that is enough to interrupt the loop.

Try this the next time you catch yourself complaining.

Don’t shame yourself.

That’s just complaining about your complaining. You’ve now created a sequel nobody asked for 🤦‍♀️.

Instead, pause.

Ask:

What am I actually needing right now?

Am I needing to be heard? practical help? reassurance? rest? Am I feeling lonely? frightened? angry?

Am I simply needing someone to say:

“That really sucks.”

Because sometimes that is enough.

Then ask yourself:

Who is the right person to give me that support right now?

Maybe it’s your spouse.

Maybe it’s a friend who understands.

Maybe it’s a support group.

Maybe it’s a therapist.

Maybe it’s a journal.

Maybe it’s the forest.

And maybe sometimes it’s you.

I’m not trying to become a person who never complains.

Frankly, that sounds exhausting.

I still complain.

But I’m trying to notice when complaining stops being a way of expressing something and starts becoming a way of seeing everything.

And I’m also trying to remember that needing to talk about my pain doesn’t make me a burden.

I can tell the truth about what hurts. I can ask to be seen. I can let someone say, “I love you, but I don’t have the capacity for this conversation right now.”

I can find more than one place to put my pain.

And I can learn the difference between telling the truth and allowing the pain to tell me the story of my entire life.

So many views from one sit spot. Depending on where I point the lens.

Because maybe that’s one of the great tricks of this life:

The lie isn’t always that our circumstances aren’t difficult.

Sometimes the lie is that our circumstances are all there is.

Pain is part of my life. It isn’t the whole of it.

Fatigue is part of my life. It isn’t the whole of it.

The things I can’t do are part of my life. They aren’t the whole of it.

And when I walk into the forest, I get reminded of something my occasional complaining brain conveniently forgets:

There is still a world happening outside my symptoms.

There is still beauty. There is still laughter. There are still surprises.

Maybe I don’t have to fight my life into becoming the one I thought I was promised.

Maybe I can stop complaining about the moment long enough to find a life well-lived.

Even if it hurts. Especially then.

What Does My Soul Need Today?

September 1, 2026 pammunkholm

I have a confession.

I hear the word retreat and my brain starts packing a bag.

Preferably for somewhere with trees, a mountain, a few trails and nobody asking me what’s for dinner.

A retreat sounds lovely.

It also sounds like something that requires time, money, planning, a reservation, and quite possibly a whole new wardrobe.

But what if retreat doesn’t have to be a big event?

What if it can be ten minutes? A half hour? Or an afternoon?

What if you don’t have to go anywhere?

I’ve been reading Caroline Sylge’s How to Retreat, and I love the idea that retreat can be much more accessible than we tend to make it. A retreat can be a deliberate step away from the noise of ordinary life, and it can look very different depending on what you need.

Which got me thinking about a question I probably need to ask myself more often:

What does my soul need today?

Not what does my calendar say? Not what am I behind on? Not what would make me feel impressively productive?

What does my soul need today?

And sometimes the answer is surprisingly simple.

Āloka
Sanskrit and Pali. Meaning light, brightness, vision or enlightenment. When something inside you finally becomes clear.

Yesterday, apparently, my soul needed to get rained on.

I woke up thinking I should go to the gym.

That meant walking there, working out, and walking home again.

Then I looked outside. It was cloudy and raining.

My immediate response was something along the lines of, Excellent. Perhaps I shall simply allow these blankets to absorb me.

But eventually I got myself moving. Rain gear on. Out the door.

Only a few minutes from home, I noticed something. I was enjoying the rain. I could feel it on my hands. I could hear it hitting my hood. The air smelled different. The whole world seemed quieter.

By the time I reached the gym, I was more than ready to move.

I hadn’t needed to convince myself. I just needed to get outside long enough for my nervous system to catch up with the plan.

Sometimes we don’t need a retreat just a walk in the rain on the way to the gym. And sometimes we need the gym.

That’s the tricky thing about asking what your soul needs.

The answer isn’t always rest.

Sometimes it is movement. Adventure. Solitude. People. A nap. Fresh air.

The micro-retreat

I think this is where the idea of a micro-retreat joins well with the idea of forest therapy.

We have somehow managed to turn rest into another achievement.

Apparently we need the perfect location, the perfect playlist, the perfect journal, the perfect candle and three uninterrupted hours to properly relax.

I would like to formally announce this is unnecessary protocol.

Your retreat can be tiny. You could put a plant on your desk. Turn on a little water feature. Put your phone somewhere you can’t see it.

Sit there for ten minutes. Listen. Look. Breathe.

That’s it!

You have not travelled anywhere. Your bank balance remains unchanged. No achieved enlightenment. But you stepped outside the usual stream of demands.

That counts.

And tomorrow, your retreat might look completely different.

Maybe you need to sit in a cozy chair and read. Or wander for thirty minutes through a park while the leaves are turning. Perhaps you have enough energy for a three-hour mindful walk through the forest. Or just enough energy to sit on a bench and watch water move.

All valid needs.

Forest therapy makes room for all of this

One of the things I love about forest therapy is that there isn’t a mileage requirement.

Nobody hands you a medal at the end because you managed to walk seven kilometres while being mindful.

You don’t have to conquer the forest. You don’t even have to walk very far.

The forest isn’t a treadmill with better scenery. It’s an invitation to slow down and notice.

And the beautiful thing is that you can scale that invitation to whatever your life (and your body) can manage.

Nature can be a forest. It can also be a tree outside your door. A houseplant. A garden. Rain on your hood. The sound of a creek. Ten minutes watching birds. A patch of grass.

There is some pretty fascinating neuroscience behind this.

We don’t have to make nature complicated. Sometimes we just need to stop long enough to realize it is there.

Your brain might thank you

Our brains spend a tremendous amount of time directing attention, filtering distractions, making decisions and responding to demands.

Nature seems to give that hard-working attention system a bit of a vacation.

Researchers call one part of this soft fascination.

Instead of forcing yourself to concentrate on something, your attention gets gently captured by things like moving leaves, clouds, birds, water or sunlight.

You aren’t doing nothing. Your brain just isn’t working quite so hard at doing everything.

A 2025 systematic review and meta-analysis found that nature exposure was, on average, more cognitively restorative than non-nature exposure, particularly for working memory and attentional control. Interestingly, around 30 minutes appeared to be a particularly useful window in the studies they examined.

And a 2026 review looking across 108 neuroimaging studies found evidence of changes in brain networks involved in stress, attention and self-referential processing following exposure to natural environments.

Now, before we all start dumping our meds out the window, putting a houseplant beside our bed and declaring ourselves neurologically healed, a little caution is appropriate.

This is promising research, though not a magic prescription.

Studies differ in their methods, environments and participants, and researchers are still figuring out exactly what kinds of nature experiences work best, for whom, and for how long.

But the evidence is increasingly pointing in an interesting direction:

Getting away from the constant demands on our attention may actually give our brains some room to recover.

And I will happily take more reasons to go sit in the sun.

What if creativity is the point?

Unused creativity is not benign. It metastasizes. It turns into grief, rage, judgment, sorrow, shame.

-Brene Brown

This is another part of Sylge’s thinking that really caught my attention.

Creativity can be part of the retreat.

But it can also be what comes out of the retreat.

Sometimes you retreat because you need to write.

Other times you finally get quiet enough for the idea you’ve been carrying around in your head to come knocking.

Maybe you take photographs or write or sketch or paint.

Maybe you start noticing colours, shapes, textures and tiny details you normally walk straight past.

You don’t have to be an artist. You don’t have to produce anything profound.

Take a picture of a leaf because you like the way it looks. Write three sentences. Draw a tree that looks like a potato. It’s okay! The potato tree has value.

The point isn’t necessarily to create something impressive.

The creative act may simply be another way of paying attention.

And sometimes, when we stop trying so hard, something unexpectedly creative finds its way through.

My Micro-Retreat Menu

So, if you are wondering what retreat might look like today, here are a few possibilities.

🌱 5 minutes: Find one living thing. Look at it properly. Notice something you’ve never noticed before.

💧 10 minutes: Sit beside water. Real water is excellent. Tiny tabletop water feature? Also acceptable.

📖 20 minutes: Make yourself a cozy space and read. No multitasking. No “I’ll just check one thing.”

🍂 30 minutes: Take a slow seasonal wander. Notice what has changed.

📷 45 minutes: Take your camera and photograph whatever catches your attention. No theme required.

🎨 60 minutes: Write, draw, photograph, paint, collage, doodle. Follow your curiosity.

🌲 2–3 hours: Go into the forest. Walk slowly. Sit down. Listen. Notice. Journal. Rest. Let the experience unfold instead of trying to accomplish it.

And then there is:

🛋️ The “my body has voted” retreat: Stay home. Make tea. Read. Listen to rain. Look out the window. Rest without turning it into a failure.

Because sometimes the most mindful thing you can do is listen when your body says no.

Aging is when your brain says, “We ride at dawn.” And your body says, “We absolutely do not.

Retreat so you have something to give

There is another aspect of this that I think gets overlooked.

We don’t retreat only so we can feel better. Sometimes we retreat so we can return. Because when we’re depleted, we don’t have much left to offer anyone.

Our patience gets shorter. Our creativity dries up. Everything feels like one more demand.

And sometimes we need to step away. Not because we don’t love people, but because we do.

I’ve written about this before in A Grid of Love and Light, because I believe our light is meant to reach beyond ourselves.

But we can’t shine indefinitely on an empty tank. Sometimes we need to step back and replenish. Not so we can become more productive. So that we can return with a little more presence.

A little more patience. Creativity. Light.

So ask the question

Before you automatically do what you always do, stop for a moment.

Put down the phone. Look out the window. Take a breath. And ask yourself:

What does my soul need today?

Maybe it needs a forest. Or rain. Perhaps a workout. Or a book. Maybe it needs creativity. Or a friend. Maybe solitude. Or ten quiet minutes beside a plant.

Maybe it needs to crawl back under the covers and put out a Do Not Disturb sign for the world.

The answer doesn’t have to be the same tomorrow.

That’s the beauty of it.

A retreat doesn’t have to be a place. It can be a response.

A response to what your body needs. What your mind needs. What your soul needs.

And perhaps the goal isn’t to retreat far enough away that we become someone else. Perhaps it is simply to step out of the noise long enough to remember who we already are.

You don’t have to escape your entire life. You can simply step out of it for a little while.

Living in the Pause

August 25, 2026 pammunkholm

“The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.”
—often attributed to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

I’ve been thinking about the pause. The spaces between the things we think make a life important.

We live in a culture obsessed with the notes.

The promotion.
The house.
The vacay.
The degree.
The business.
The six-figure salary.
The awards.
The followers.
The accomplishments we can put on a résumé.

More. More. More.

More recognition.
More experiences.
More things.

These things absolutely have their place and purpose. But somewhere along the way, we started measuring ourselves and others by those notes. What if, hear me out, the music is actually in the silence between? In the pause.

A forest is never truly silent. There is wind moving through the branches, birds calling, insects buzzing, leaves rustling, footsteps on the trail.

But there are pauses between the sounds. If you notice them, those pauses make you notice the sounds that much more.

Maybe life works the same way. Maybe the pause isn’t empty. Maybe it is where we hear what we would otherwise miss.

I don’t have the wealth or notoriety or conventional accomplishments that can make a life look impressive from the outside.

And often, I’ll admit, I struggle with that.

I want to work. I want to contribute. I want to be useful. I want to afford to live. I want nice things. I want to go fun places.

I want to get groceries without having to figure out which ones I can afford to put back (calculus- level grocery shopping.)

I want to say yes to things without factoring in the 2-3 business days of recovery. I don’t want to be a burden on others.

And when I look around and see everyone else accomplishing things, building careers, travelling, buying houses, starting businesses and living their lives, comparison can sneak in.

And comparison has never once left me somewhere good. It usually leaves me grieving the life I thought I was “supposed to have.”

Maybe I’m not missing the music. Maybe I’m living in the pause.

That reoccurring thought has changed some neural pathways in my brain.

Billy Graham once said, “You’ve never seen a hearse with a U-Haul behind it.”

We don’t take our houses. We don’t take our bank accounts. We don’t take our titles. We don’t take the things we’ve accumulated. We don’t even take our accomplishments.

People sometimes leave a legacy through museums, buildings, scholarships, roads and schools named after them. (And there is nothing wrong with that.)

But I’ve started asking myself a different question:

What if the most important legacy isn’t what has my name on it?

What if it’s who I became while I was here? And whose name I have written on my heart at the end of it all?

What if the real question isn’t, “What did you accomplish?”

But:

“Who did you become?”

Did I become kinder? More compassionate? More patient? More generous? More loving?

And, if you believe as I do, “Do you pause to recognize this is who you have become with God’s help?”

That changes the way I look at my days.

I believe the only things I ultimately get to take with me when I leave this life are my relationships with the people I love and what I have become in the process of living it.

So if this is the pause, I don’t want to waste it.

I want to live here intentionally.

Interruptible-y.

I’ve spent a lot of my life focusing on productivity.

What’s next? What needs to get done? What am I accomplishing? How do I fit everything in?

But what happens when I build my life so tightly around my plans that there is no room for interruption?

What if the interruption is the point?

I still have a loose outline for each day. Things I want to accomplish.

But I want to be interruptible. I want to leave room for God.

For people. For a conversation. For a need. For beauty. For a compassionate detour.

What does living in the pause look like for me?

I’ve started organizing my life around four areas.

Not perfectly.

But intentionally.

1. Spiritual growth

I start with God. I pause to pray to speak to Him. Then I read scripture to listen.

Sometimes I’ll sit in the sunshine while I pray. There’s something about feeling the warmth of the sun on my face, noticing the light, and remembering that I’m part of something much bigger than whatever is happening inside my own head. Or my body.

Soulucence
A coined spiritual and artistic term meaning the radiant, unarmored light of your true soul, shining to the world.

I try to carry that awareness with me through the day. That light. That connection.

The reminder that my life has a purpose beyond what I can accomplish.

Because if I spend all my energy trying to build a life that looks successful but neglect the person I’m becoming, I’ve missed the point.

I don’t have to earn my worth by being useful.

I can simply be His.

And from that place, I can become more interruptible. More available. More attentive.

More willing to notice what He might be putting in front of me.

2. Physical health

My body gets a significant portion of my attention these days.

I go to the gym three days a week. I have a routine for each visit.

I generally walk there, which means going to the gym can consume a surprisingly large portion of my day.

Not much keeps me home.

Ribs out? Still going.

Bone structure held together by ligaments there more for decoration than integrity? Still going.

Bad weather? Still going.

The people who were supposed to meet me there cancel? Still going.

Apparently I have become that person.

Until. Ice. Then I stay home.

I also spend time trying to support my body in other ways. Light therapy, castor packs, and other things that have become part of my detox routine.

I’m working toward an anti-inflammatory way of eating. Let’s just say this is a work in progress.

I can make a beautiful, healthy breakfast and then my good intentions meet a snack.

My next goal is finding healthy lunches I actually enjoy and snacks that don’t make my inner snack gremlin revolt.

I’m also working on drinking more water. If you have a solution for this other than “just drink more water 🙄,” I’m listening 👂.

I make homemade body products and cleaning products too. One day a week is usually devoted to refilling whatever is running low.

It’s not glamorous. But it is part of caring for the body I’ve been given. And I’m learning that caring for my physical health isn’t about forcing my body to perform like it used to.

It’s about listening to it. Respecting it. Working with it. And sometimes, that means adjusting the plan.

Which brings me back to:

Being Interruptible.

A healthy life isn’t necessarily a perfectly executed schedule. Sometimes it’s knowing when the schedule needs to change.

3. Intellectual and creative growth

“Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.”

— often attributed to Mahatma Gandhi

A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

I don’t want to stop learning just because my life doesn’t look the way I once imagined it would.

So I read. I listen to books and podcasts. Not mindless gibber-jabber. I want to learn things. Understand things. Try things.

I’m interested in how people work, how the brain works, how the body works, how nature affects us, how faith shapes us, how we can live better.

And then I try to do something with what I’m learning. I recognize it’s about more than just taking in. Our output of that knowledge benefits us and others.

I write. I blog. I create. I try new skills. I play. I experiment. I make room for curiosity.

And I’m trying to bring meditation back into my routine this fall. That one has fallen somewhat spectacularly off the summer wagon schedule.

Maybe summer isn’t the season for stillness for me. Maybe it’s the season for gathering enough light to carry me into the winter pause.

Living in the pause doesn’t mean creating another impossible list of things I must accomplish in time.

It means paying attention and following what works for the day. Or pursuing a completely unplanned thought.

Such as taking a compassionate detour.

Which brings me to the fourth part.

4. Relationships

This might be the most important one.

I start my day with a loose outline.

But I try to remain interruptible.

If a friend needs to talk, I want to have room for that.

If someone needs support I can give, I want to be available.

If my husband and I have an opportunity to go for a walk or grab a treat, I don’t want to be so committed to my schedule that I miss it.

We’ve had some top tier walks this season.

I intentionally build visits with friends into my week. Sometimes we go for a walk. Lay on the beach. Or we just sit and talk.

Some people leave me energized. Some people deplete my energy.

I’m learning to recognize the difference, being mindful without judging either one. Because relationships are not an optional extra to a healthy life. They are part of a healthy life.

I believe that the people I love are part of what I take with me into eternity, so investing in those relationships isn’t time away from my purpose.

It is part of my purpose.

Being interruptible means leaving enough room in my life for another human being to matter.

I still have days when I desperately want the notes.

I want the accomplishments. I want the freedom. I want to contribute more. I want to travel more. I want to buy something without having to calculate whether it’s practical.

I want a life that feels bigger sometimes.

But I don’t want wanting them to blind me to the life I’m already living.

The pause isn’t wasted time.

I used to think of the spaces between accomplishments as empty.

Waiting. Stuck. Behind.

I’m starting to see them differently.

Maybe this is where the music is. Where I learn to listen to God. Where I learn what matters. Where I become.

And maybe the pause isn’t the part of my life that happens while I’m waiting to get back to the real thing.

Maybe this is the real thing.

So I’m going to try to live here. In the pause.

To pray. To learn. To care for my body. To create. To laugh. To love my people. To take compassionate detours. To notice the rain. To sit in the sunshine. To walk through the forest.

And to become the kind of person I hope to be when all the notes have finally ended.

Because perhaps the music was never in the accomplishments.

Perhaps it was always in the silence between them.

And maybe that’s one of the reasons I keep coming back to the forest.

Forest therapy teaches that you don’t have to force a forest to perform for you. You simply enter it, slow down, notice what is already there, and become receptive to what you might otherwise miss.

The wind between the trees. The birdsong between the sounds. The light between the branches. The breath between one moment and the next.

The pause. I’m due for another sit beside the rushing water beneath the tall trees. A lay down under clear, bright, starry skies.

So here’s a question for you:

What would change in your life if you stopped seeing the pause as wasted time and started asking what it might be teaching you?

Be led by joy. It’s the whole point.

-Mike Dooley

The Things I Keep in My Pockets: What Music, Mistakes and the Forest are Teaching Me

August 18, 2026 pammunkholm

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.

The pain is real. So is the beauty.

Lessons From the Trail

August 11, 2026 pammunkholm

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.

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.

I’m not quite ready for what’s coming next.

But I’m getting there. Details to come.

Understanding Fibromyalgia: 10 Surprising Symptoms

July 21, 2026 pammunkholm

Out of difficulties grow miracles.

–Jean de La Bruyère

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.

–Brené Brown

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.

–Erica Layne