chronic illness – SUNBEAM ACRES

Caught in a Battle Between Conventional and Holistic Medicine- A Chronic Sufferer’s Experience

June 9, 2026 pammunkholm

The longer I live with chronic pain, the more convinced I am that modern medicine is excellent at saving lives and often terrible at helping people live them.

That is not an attack on medicine.

I am deeply grateful for surgeons, emergency rooms, diagnostics, imaging, specialists, antibiotics, and every medical professional who dedicates their life to helping people heal. If my arm bone is hanging on by hope and duct tape, I am not reaching for turmeric and positive affirmations. I want a surgeon. Immediately.

My mom shattered her foot in multiple places in a car accident. Her toe was essentially powder. No longer a toe. She needed surgery, pins, screws, and acute medical care. No amount of herbal tea or breath work was going to fix those bones.

Conventional medicine is extraordinary in moments like that.

But chronic illness and chronic pain are often different beasts entirely.

My body failed to coordinate its symptoms in a way convenient for modern medicine.

This is where many patients begin discovering the enormous disconnect between conventional medicine and a more holistic approach to healing.

And by holistic, I do not mean anti-science wellness influencers waving potions around while trying to sell bottled mountain air and enlightenment in the same online bundle.

There is a fine line between integrative medicine and someone trying to sell you powdered optimism for $89.99.

I mean looking at the body as an interconnected system instead of isolated symptoms.

I mean considering nutrition, supplementation, nervous system regulation, sleep, movement, physical therapies, mindfulness, environmental stressors, and individualized treatment options alongside conventional care.

Not instead of medicine.
Alongside it.

Because pain doesn’t stay politely inside one department.

The body cannot always be divided into neat specialties simply because the healthcare system is.

I recently listened to a podcast episode from Untangle: Exploring What it Takes to Be Pain Free featuring Stacey Roberts, and so much of the conversation echoed what I’ve experienced navigating chronic pain myself.

One point especially stood out to me. Roberts referenced pain scientist Lorimer Moseley from the University of Adelaide, discussing how conventional medicine often compartmentalizes the body into isolated systems. The gut, the brain, the joints. When chronic pain rarely behaves that neatly.

Pain spills into everything.

Your nervous system changes.
Your sleep changes.
Your digestion changes.
Your stress response changes.
Your sense of safety changes.

The nervous system remembers suffering long after scans stop showing it.

Pain is real, even when the cause is unclear.

–Lorimer Moseley

For years I was bounced between specialists who all told me some variation of, “Everything looks normal.” 👍 👍

Which was excellent news except for the small detail that I was getting worse.

There’s an exhaustion that comes from hearing “everything looks normal” while actively deteriorating.

Every appointment felt a bit like medical speed dating except nobody wanted a second date with my file.

I was essentially told to go back to physio. This wasn’t really a medical issue anymore.

I believe in physiotherapy. Deeply. It has helped me tremendously. But there comes a point where patients stop needing another treatment and start needing someone to ask bigger questions.

Nothing discourages a person quite like enthusiastically trying a stretch or strengthening exercise that immediately makes things worse.

Every specialist confidently searches for answers inside their own department like medical-themed escape rooms.

Somewhere between “try yoga” and “have you considered drinking more water?” I began expanding my own research.

And I’ve lost count of the books and podcasts that begin with the exact same storyline:

“I was trained in conventional medicine. I trusted the system completely… until I became the patient.”

At first, these doctors often dismiss holistic approaches entirely. Patients mention supplements, meditation, dietary changes, nervous system work, or alternative therapies, and the response is cautious at best and dismissive at worst.

Snake oil.
Pseudoscience.
Non-compliance.

But then something shifts.

The doctor develops chronic pain.
An autoimmune condition.
A lingering injury.
Burnout.
A nervous system disorder.

And suddenly certainty cracks open into curiosity.

Chronic pain turns you into a part-time researcher, part-time philosopher, and full-time reluctant detective.

I have spent an unreasonable amount of my adult life trying to determine whether I am injured, inflamed, overtired, under-rested, dehydrated, stressed, or simply existing incorrectly.

Living with chronic pain means constantly performing the world’s least fun science experiment on yourself.

By year three of unexplained symptoms, I could practically earn honorary medical credits.

To be fair, holistic spaces are not immune to problems either. There is misinformation, exploitation, fearmongering, and an endless supply of expensive miracle cures marketed toward vulnerable people desperate to feel better.

Pain makes people easy to manipulate.
Both systems can fail people in different ways.

That’s why I don’t believe the answer is abandoning conventional medicine for holistic healing.

I believe the answer is integration.

An actual partnership.

Healing is bigger than symptom management.

Patients do not need doctors to be omniscient. We need them to be curious.

Surgeons are trained to operate.
Doctors are trained to diagnose and prescribe.
Specialists are trained to identify patterns within their specialty.

We need practitioners who understand both the power and the limitations of their training. And openly work with other practitioners, conventional and holistic, to find a root cause and treatment plan.

This matters enormously to a patient just trying to survive.

The shoe that fits one person pinches another.

–Carl Jung

Chronic illness does not always fit neatly inside textbook timelines and diagnostic boxes.

Medicine’s symbol speaks of healing being available. Yet many people with chronic illness spend years moving through appointments feeling like fragmented symptoms instead of whole human beings.

Stacey Roberts described asking chronic pain patients to remember a time before they lived with pain. Then she asks them to imagine themselves in the future doing something that currently hurts. Picking up grandchildren. Bending over. Any repetitive movement, without pain.

And many people simply cannot picture it.

Their bodies have become so conditioned toward pain and protection that even imagining safety feels impossible.

This is your forest therapy practice for this week. Find a quiet place in nature and practice this visualization.

Chronic pain doesn’t only affect muscles and joints. It reshapes expectation. Identity. Fear. Hope.

Roberts discussed using visualization, breathing, mindfulness, and repetition to help retrain the nervous system’s response to pain.

That idea connects to what I’ve experienced through forest therapy and time in nature.

Regulation comes while standing beneath trees while wind moves through their branches overhead. The nervous system seems to recognize something there before the mind does. The movement. The rhythm. The reminder that not everything in the world is bracing for impact.

Healing and pain elimination are not always the same thing.

Chronic pain teaches your nervous system to scan constantly for danger. Nature quietly teaches it another language.

No performance. No productivity. No pressure to fix yourself.

Just space to exist in a body that has spent far too long preparing for the next flare.

You can read more about that experience in my post about forest therapy and nervous system regulation. 🌲 Activating Your Vagus Nerve With Forest Therapy 🌲

I appreciated many of the points Stacey Roberts made in the podcast. But I struggled with the title of her book, The Pain-Free Formula.

Not because I don’t believe improvement is possible. I do.

I absolutely believe there are things we can do to reduce pain, improve quality of life, calm the nervous system, support healing, and function better in our bodies.

But chronic illness eventually teaches many of us something medicine rarely does:

Sometimes the greatest medical harm is making patients feel invisible.

At some point I stopped obsessing over becoming pain free and started focusing on becoming supported.

I decided healing would come in time.
And if not, I would still be okay.

Not because I had given up.
But because I finally realized I had the tools, support, and guidance I needed to endure whatever my condition threw at me.

Ironically, that mindset shift brought me more peace than years spent desperately chasing the next solution.

Sometimes acceptance is more freeing than the absence of pain we searched for so desperately.

I hope Stacey Roberts never fully understands that distinction.

Because for her to truly understand it, she may have to suffer at a depth I would not wish on anyone.

At the end of the podcast, the host asked how she would redesign the healthcare system for chronic pain patients. Roberts discussed the need for more investment into preventative health, nutrition research, nervous system regulation, and understanding why certain non-pharmaceutical interventions help people heal.

And honestly, I think she raised important questions.

Because if someone improves through movement, nutrition, mindfulness, supplementation, therapy, nervous system regulation, or lifestyle change, why should that healing be dismissed simply because it did not originate from a prescription pad?

People in pain do not need to be fixed before they are worthy of compassion.

I do think our healthcare system needs to evolve.

Not because doctors are evil.
Not because science has failed.
Not because medicine lacks value.

Oliver Sacks suggests,

To restore the human subject at the center. The suffering, afflicted, fighting human subject. We must deepen a case history to a narrative.

Patients with chronic illness need practitioners who are comfortable saying:
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me more.”
“I believe you.”
“Let’s keep looking.”

Rachel Naomi Remen said,

The most basic and powerful way to cconnect to another person is to listen.

And William Osler advised:

Listen to your patient; he is telling you the diagnosis.

Listen. Not just for the keywords that trigger familiar treatment pathways. But for the whole story.

For the grief patients carry. For the exhaustion. For the devastation of losing trust in your own body. And for the courage it takes to keep asking for help after years of disappointment.

Healing should never have become a battle between conventional and holistic medicine.

People in pain deserve both.

And if you’ve ever had to redefine what healing or success looks like inside a difficult body, I wrote more about that here as well. You Are a Success Story

From Midlife Crisis to Midlife Chrysalis

June 2, 2026 pammunkholm

That, perhaps, is the difference between a crisis and a chrysalis. One keeps us frozen in fear. The other slowly reshapes us.

Technically, I’m not even fully in my midlife years yet.

And yet my body arrived early to the party.

A complete hysterectomy fast-tracked me into conversations I thought I still had years to prepare for.

Ironically, some circles don’t allow me in to the conversation because I’m “far too young” to know what menopause is.

It seems my reproductive system retired before society was emotionally prepared to handle it. Medically, I pass the test but I always get ID’d at the door.

I was medically launched into menopause with all the glamorous perks.

Hot flashes. Joint pain. An increasingly fragile relationship with sleep. And the deeply humbling realization that apparently your underarms and mid range can become flabby despite hours of working out at the gym.

(Nothing prepares you for sneezing incorrectly in your 40s.)

My body has adopted the classic expired warranty strategy, catastrophic synchronized failure. I’ve entered the ‘everything squeaks, leaks, or spasms unexpectedly’ chapter of ownership. My body has moved beyond ‘minor repairs’ and into ‘have you considered replacing the whole unit?’ territory.

Which is why a phrase I recently heard on the podcast Hello Menopause! grabbed my attention.

“Midlife chrysalis.”

Not midlife crisis. Midlife chrysalis.

The episode featured Chip Conley talking about reinvention, and I chose to listen to this episode because crisis sounds like collapse. Losing control. Becoming less.

Like panic bangs and plans to live “off-grid” and taking up emotional support hobbies. Sourdough starter anyone?

But chrysalis?

That sounds like transformation.

Messy. Strange. Hidden. Uncomfortable. Necessary.

A chrysalis says. You are not falling apart. You are simply changing form.

I think many of us who have experienced chronic illness, disability, grief, loss, burnout, etc. arrive at this transformation long before the culture expects us to.

Some of us are forced into reinvention before we even finish becoming who we thought we would be.

The Crisis

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart.

–Rainer Maria Rilke

There absolutely was a crisis season.

Not just medically.

Existentially.

There is something disorienting about realizing your body is not going to cooperate with the original blueprint for your life.

You grieve things.

Energy. Ease. Predictability. The version of yourself who thought she could plan her future in permanent marker.

I’ve written before about the strange ache of living in a body that refuses to follow the original architectural plans. This season feels deeply connected to that journey. An All-Too-Familiar Tale in Misdiagnosed/ Underdiagnosed Female Chronic Pain: This Is My Story

Now I write my plans lightly in pencil.

Sometimes crayon. When I need a little more whimsy in my days.

There were years where survival became the main objective. Years where my nervous system felt like a shaken vending machine full of stress hormones. Years where I thought resilience meant pushing harder instead of listening deeper.

And then came the hysterectomy.

One of those dividing-line experiences where life becomes Before and After.

Before, I still secretly believed if I tried hard enough I might someday return to the old version of myself.

After, I slowly began realizing there may not be a way back. Emotional landslides and experiential cave-ins had blocked that passage way.

Forward and through became my only options. Through self-realizations. Humbling concessions. Constant negotiations between mind and body.

And maybe that is where the chrysalis begins.

The Chrysalis

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

–Anaïs Nin

A chrysalis does not look impressive from the outside.

It looks still. Inactive. Even broken down.

But inside? An extraordinary reorganization is happening.

And I think that’s what midlife (or medically-induced midlife-adjacent existentialism) can become.

Not a crisis to survive. But a transformation to participate in. Whole-heartedly.

Chip Conley talked about how the first half of life is often about accumulation.

We gather. Relationships. Responsibilities. Possessions. Roles. Expectations. Obligations. Dreams that once fit.

And eventually we become emotionally overstuffed.

He described midlife as “a great midlife edit.”

As I listened I considered the fact that chronic illness forces the edit whether you volunteer readily or not.

You simply cannot carry everything forever when your body already feels like it’s carrying a weighted backpack full of loose cutlery.

At some point you must ask important questions.

What still fits?
What actually matters?
What has become lukewarm in my life?

Do you know what a lukewarm life looks like? One of the lines from the podcast,

Pouring out part of your tea allows you to pour some hot new tea into the cup.

Because some things are not meant to last forever. Not every friendship. Not every role. Not every expectation you once had for yourself.

And maybe releasing those things is not failure. Maybe it’s pruning.

The forest understands this better than we do.

The Forest

One of the reasons forest therapy has become so meaningful to me is because the forest never panics about transformation.

Forest therapy has taught me that stillness is not the same thing as stagnation. Sometimes what appears dormant is actually becoming. I wrote more about that in this post, Nourish Your Nervous System: Forest Therapy Insights

Deadfall becomes nourishment. Burned places grow new life. Trees release entire branches to survive harsh seasons. These changes that seem negative are essential to a healthy forest.

Humans also require those experiences that appear negative and are actually essential for a healthy life.

In the forest, decay and renewal, soft and hard, smooth and sharp are all happening simultaneously.

And honestly, that feels like midlife too.

Especially for those of us living in bodies that have known pain.

We have experienced days where tears of pain rolled down the left cheek while tears of joy rolled down the right.

We know how to hold grief and gratitude at the same time.

That depth changes a person.

We know what it is to laugh in waiting rooms. To find beauty in tiny victories. To feel gratitude and grief sharing the same chair.

I have learned that emotional pain cannot simply be numbed away the same way physical pain can. There is no ibuprofen for identity loss. No heating pad for disappointment. No prescription for becoming someone new.

And while suffering itself is not noble, I do think deep experiences deepen people.

My chronic comrades know this.

Pain can also make people bitter, stuck, isolated, hardened.

That, perhaps, is the difference between a crisis and a chrysalis. One keeps us frozen in fear. The other slowly reshapes us.

If we allow ourselves to learn from it. We can become more compassionate. Tender. Wise. Present. Better able to sit beside someone else’s suffering without looking away.

As they said in the podcast,

Our painful life lessons are the raw material for our future wisdom.

I believe that in my soul.

The Offering

Sometimes our culture subtly teaches that the people worth listening to are the successful ones. The polished ones. The credentialed ones. The endlessly productive ones

What can we do about this imbalance? If you ever deem somebody less than you… ask yourself what they can teach you.

Because some of the wisest people I know have had their lives interrupted.

Some had to abandon dreams they loved. Some never got the education they were capable of and deserved. Some are rebuilding lives with parts and pieces they never would have chosen.

And still. They carry wisdom.

Do not think less of yourself because your life required adaptation. You are not behind because your path bent unexpectedly.

Some of us have earned emotional depth the hard way.

And if you cannot live the exact life you once pictured?

Find something to run toward anyway.

Even if your pace looks different now. Even if you have to limp toward it some days. Even if your dream has changed shape entirely.

A chrysalis does not become what it originally was.

That is the whole point!

A Forest Therapy Invitation: Chrysalis Walk

The next time you’re in a forest, park, or tree-lined path, try this:

Walk slowly and notice signs of transition.

What is decomposing?
What is emerging?
What is shedding?
What is adapting?
What still carries beauty despite visible damage?

Then ask yourself:

What version of myself am I grieving?
What no longer fits?
What wants to emerge now?
What if this season is transformation instead of failure?

You do not need immediate answers.

The forest is always becoming new. Slowly. Over time.

The Question

One question from the podcast we can all ask ourselves,

Ten years from now, what will I regret if I don’t learn or do now?

Conley called anticipated regret a form of wisdom. Chronic illness teaches you that later is not guaranteed. Perfect timing is imaginary. And someday can become never surprisingly fast.

So maybe this chapter is not about trying to reclaim who we once were.

Maybe it is about becoming more fully ourselves.

Hot flashes.
Heating pads.
Existential growth.
And all.

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.

–Richard Bach

Healing from Burnout: Lessons from Forest Therapy

May 19, 2026 pammunkholm

A forest therapy reflection on burnout, surrender, and learning to live gently inside your own life.

There was a period of time where my nervous system was running entirely on stress and outrage. I was carrying so much tension I could feel it humming beneath my skin. I wore it like an armour.

I was teaching piano almost full time.
Helping my children survive school systems that did not know how to support kids with ADHD.
Trying to advocate for a child who had endured years of bullying only to be treated like he was the problem once he finally reacted.

There were meetings. Emails. Phone calls. Policies. Assessments. Endless explanations.

And somewhere in there, I was also managing a farm, a household, meal planning, grocery shopping, appointments, chronic pain, surgeries, inflammation, and a body that kept submitting maintenance requests I could no longer ignore. Sound familiar?

Outer chaos eventually becomes inner weather.

Then there was the car.

Oh, the car.

Marketed as “off-road capable,” apparently as long as your idea of off-roading was driving over a decorative gravel patch at a golf resort once annually.

When our Saskatchewan roads started dismantling it piece by piece, we were informed it wasn’t actually built for daily gravel roads. Then every winter the same part broke because it apparently also wasn’t designed for… winter?

I remember thinking, Well neither am I, but you don’t see me breaking down.

(foreshadowing 😳)

This felt a little too intentional of a design flaw for something sold in Saskatchewan.

At the time, I was angry at everything.

The educational system.
The medical system.
The government.
Corporations.
World events.
Every injustice.
Every failure.
Every person who made life harder than it needed to be.

And underneath all of it was one desperate belief:

If I fight hard enough, maybe I can force the world to become safe.

So I fought.

And every phone call tightened my muscles more.
Every conflict wound my nervous system tighter.
Every injustice became another brick in the emotional dam I was trying to hold together.

Even now, writing about it, I can feel traces of that tension in my body.

My nerves were tight.
My jaw was tight.
My shoulders were tight.
My thoughts were tight.

My energy felt dark and electric and sharp. Warnings were everywhere:

Do Not Touch: Load Bearing Delusions Ahead.

Eventually, the dam broke.

Not in some poetic, graceful collapse.
More like a nervous system mutiny. Everything in my body was operating like an emergency broadcast system.

Everything I had stuffed down flooded upward at once:
bad information, bad coping, bad core beliefs, fear, grief, anger, exhaustion.

It was physically excruciating. I’d been on my last straw for like 300 straws, and finally I ran out of straws.

After the initial effects subsided, I remember lying in bed unable to function. A puddle of a human being. All the fight inside me still existed but now it lived in a body that couldn’t move and a brain that couldn’t think.

I didn’t know it at the time but this would become my new beginning.

You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.

-C S Lewis

Echoes of Stillness in the Forest

Nature welcomes us before we are healed.

–John Burroughs

One of the greatest gifts forest therapy gave me was this:

Nature does not spend its energy resisting its own seasons.

The forest does not panic because decay exists beside growth.

Yet so many women live as though rest is failure.

We push through pain.
Push through exhaustion.
Push through grief.
Push through our intuition.
Push through limits our bodies are desperately trying to communicate.

We fight every battle. Carry every burden. Solve every crisis.

And then we wonder why we are chronically exhausted, inflamed, anxious, disconnected, and burned out.

I see it everywhere.

Women who are always tired.
Always hurting.
Always “fine.”
Always one more obligation away from collapse.

Forest therapy taught me something radical.

Stillness is not laziness.
Stillness is regulation.

Outer stillness creates the conditions for inner calm.

Not because the world becomes peaceful.
But because you stop feeding every storm.

A Forest Therapy Practice: The Sit Spot

One of the simplest and most powerful forest therapy practices is called a sit spot.

You choose one place outdoors and return to it regularly.

That’s it.

No performance.
No hiking goals.
No fitness tracker congratulating you for elevated heart rates.
No optimizing your experience into a competitive sport.

Your only job is to sit and notice.

(The chickadees remain unimpressed by productivity culture)

How To Practice

Find a place outdoors where you feel safe and comfortable.

A forest trail.
A park bench.
A tree in your yard.

Then:

Sit quietly for 10–20 minutes.
Notice what moves and what remains still.
Listen farther away than you normally do.
Feel where your body touches the earth or chair.
Allow your nervous system to settle before asking anything of yourself.

You do not need to “achieve” calm.

The forest does not demand that from you.

It simply offers regulation through rhythm, repetition, sensory softness, and presence.

Over time, your body begins remembering something it forgot. It does not have to remain in survival mode forever.

From Fighting Everything To Tending Something

It has taken me years to pare down my list of fights to zero.

Not because I stopped caring.

But because I realized anger was consuming the very life I was trying to protect.

Now, instead of fighting constantly, I create spaces of calm.

I meditate.
I practice energy work.
I use affirmations.
I spend time in the forest like it is medicine because for me, it is.

Despite the chaos that can still exist around me, I guard my energy carefully.

From this space, I choose where I can genuinely be of service.

I try to listen when my body whispers instead of waiting until it screams through symptoms.
I create rituals that bring me back to myself when I wander too far into fear or overwhelm.
I practice gratitude daily because gratitude softens the nervous system’s constant scanning for danger.

And when concerns arise, I do my best to voice them clearly and compassionately.

Then I let them go.

Not because they do not matter.
But because I matter too.

There Is Possibility Everywhere

Norman Vincent Peale once said:

Become a possibilitarian. No matter how dark things seem to be or actually are, raise your sights and see possibilities. Always see them, for they’re always there.

Forest therapy helped me understand this deeply.

Possibility exists everywhere in nature.

A burned forest regenerates.
A fallen tree becomes nourishment.
A cracked open pinecone releases seeds.
Life keeps finding ways forward.

And humans can too.

Not always by forcing harder.
Sometimes by softening enough to notice another path entirely.

What Makes A Good Life

There’s a quote from Donald Miller that has stayed with me for years. In it, he imagines sitting with God under a tree outside heaven, remembering the story of his life together.

And what moves me most is this idea:

That God would have favourite parts of our story.

Not just the successful moments.
But the moments we grew.
The moments we softened.
The moments we overcame.
The moments we kept loving despite pain.

The moments we learned how to become fully human.

To me, this is what a good life looks like.

Not a perfectly optimized one.
Not one where we won every fight.
Not one where we proved ourselves endlessly useful.

But one we could sit down and talk about with tenderness.

A life where our soul is no longer thirsty.

A meaningful life is not built through perfection but presence.

–John O’Donohue

Turning Pain Toward Purpose

People tell me it’s wonderful that I’ve turned my pain into something useful or helpful. And I appreciate the kindness in that.

But honestly, sometimes purpose looks less glamorous than people imagine.

Sometimes it’s simply this:

If you do it wrong, you know how to tell somebody else what to avoid. If I walk into an invisible wall, I’m going to let others know about it. This wall is invisible and solid!

If I can help someone avoid walking into walls or burning themselves to the ground trying to hold up the entire world, then my pain served a purpose.

If I can help another woman understand that rest is not weakness…
that stillness is healing…
that her nervous system deserves gentleness…
that she is allowed to stop fighting every battle…

Then maybe this story matters.

An Invitation To The Forest

So if you are exhausted…

If your body hurts all the time…
If your mind never stops spinning…
If your nervous system is tight as a fence wire in January…

Come to the forest.

Not to fix yourself.
Not to become more productive.

Just come back to being human.

The forest remembers how.

And slowly, patiently, you may remember too.

🤍The Hidden Struggles of Connective Tissue Disorders🤍

May 12, 2026 pammunkholm

Back in my day, some kids brought hockey cards and sticker collections to school. I brought an alarming range of ligament-based entertainment.

Sometimes hypermobility first appears as a child who seems unusually bendy or clumsy, often both at once. 🙋‍♀️

The child who sits in a W position on the floor because it feels natural.
The one who, without pausing to question it, contorts themselves into strange positions during movie night.

What they may not see is the child constantly running into walls because their body struggles to map itself properly in space. Bruises appearing mysteriously across shins. Ankles rolling on flat ground. Sleeves chewed because pain and overstimulation are difficult to explain at seven years old.

And then there are the “growing pains.”

Except many children with connective tissue disorders experience pain far beyond the occasional ache adults remember from childhood.

Deep bone pain at night.
Legs throbbing so intensely sleep becomes impossible.
Crying after gym class.
Exhaustion after seemingly normal activities.

Many hypermobile children become experts at masking early. They laugh while joints slip. They keep playing while hurting because they assume everyone else feels this too.

Some become the “dramatic” child.
Others become the “tough” one.

Honestly, I was the child trying to survive in a body I did not yet have language for.

What am I even doing bending my neck like that?

The thumb that bends too far backward.
The knees that point in unusual directions.
The shoulder that clicks when slipping in and out.
Being crazy talented in a yoga class my first day.

What people don’t see is that connective tissue is not merely a few loose ligaments behaving badly.

Connective tissue is infrastructure.

It is the architecture holding the body together. The webbing woven through blood vessels, skin, organs, fascia, tendons, heart valves, lungs, digestive systems, pelvic floor, eyes, nerves, and joints. It is scaffolding. Suspension bridge. Packaging tape. Elastic waistband. Shock absorber.

And when connective tissue is faulty, life can begin to feel like living in a house where every screw has loosened itself by half a turn.

Not enough to collapse all at once.
Enough that everything creaks. And left unchecked, more and more areas become unstable, then require constant repairs. Eventually some rooms just become unusable.

A Sad Commentary: AKA My Brush with Organized Sports

My joints approached organized sports with more enthusiasm than stability. More optimism than skill.

In a small town, everybody played volleyball or there simply wasn’t a volleyball team.

So I played volleyball.

I hated it.

Looking back now, I wonder why I stayed in as long as I did. Every practice left my forearms covered in bruises. Big ones, tiny ones, overlapping ones. I looked part Dalmatian. Nobody else seemed to bruise like that, so naturally the conclusion was that I was doing it wrong.

Turns out my connective tissue was doing it wrong. Not me.

I was terrible at volleyball. Not for lack of trying, either. I could picture exactly what my body was supposed to do, but the execution never matched the image in my head. It always felt like there was a lag between my brain and my limbs, like someone had replaced my coordination with an unreliable Wi-Fi signal.

The only part of volleyball practice I excelled at was stretching.

That should maybe have been a clue.

I could also run forever, but the muscle fatigue before, during, and after was brutal. My legs and ribs constantly felt tight and overworked, like my muscles were trying to compensate for a body that refused to stabilize itself properly.

The solution offered to me was always the same:
“Practice more.”
“You just need to focus, Pam.”
“Try harder.”
“Don’t give up so easily all the time.”

My P.E. teacher, who was also my coach, and I were not exactly compatible personalities. I suspect I ranked fairly high on his “lazy kid” list. My feelings toward him and his teaching style don’t need to be discussed for the purpose of this post. Perhaps he was doing the best he knew how 🤷‍♀️.

What hurt most was that I wasn’t used to being bad at things.

I excelled in music. Dance. Academics. If I tried something, I usually became good at it eventually. But anything involving proprioception. Balance, coordination, spatial awareness, reaction time, exposed a kind of weakness I couldn’t outwork.

No matter how hard I tried, my body never responded the way everyone else’s seemed to. I felt like I was being asked to build a stable life with elastic bands where other people were given rope.

After enough years of that experience, something in me quietly stopped trying.

Not everywhere. Just there.

I realized I could put in enormous effort and still end up with roughly the same P.E. grade as the kid half-heartedly wandering laps around the gym. So eventually, I became that kid instead. The one at the back of the class who didn’t seem invested. The one teachers assumed didn’t care whether they passed.

Stemming from humiliation in trying my hardest while looking like a fool and as though I wasn’t trying at all.

It’s an incredibly discouraging place for a young person to live.

Some kids are exhausted.
Discouraged.
In pain.
Disconnected from bodies that refuse to cooperate. In retrospect, my body had all the stability of a shopping cart with one bad wheel.

The whole point of physical education is supposedly to encourage lifelong movement and confidence in your body.

Ironically, I now walk everywhere, go to the gym regularly, and deeply value movement. I suspect that may not be the case for those classmates that achieved gold stars for gym class back in the day.

Children are often graded on visible performance without anyone asking what invisible barriers may exist underneath it. 🍌 🍌 🍌

And maybe that experience is part of why I later felt drawn toward educational support work. Because I remember exactly what it feels like to be misunderstood in a classroom. To be trying harder than anyone realizes while appearing like you are trying the least.

Some kids are not lazy.

Sometimes what looks like apathy is actually years of silent defeat.

So Much More Than Loose Joints

My body has taught me that fragility and resilience are not opposites. Sometimes they exist in the very same tissue.

People often imagine connective tissue disorders as orthopedic inconveniences.

A sore knee.
An ankle sprain.
Being exceptionally bendy.

Playing twister with my now-26-year-old. Not to brag, but I was very good.

But connective tissue does not politely stay in one department.

It influences how blood vessels constrict and relax. Why standing up can feel like gravity suddenly doubled. Why heart rates race while brushing teeth. Why exhaustion arrives not after effort, but before and during it.

It influences the skin. Fragile, stretchy, slow to heal, easily bruised.

It influences digestion. Because the digestive tract also depends on connective tissue and smooth coordination. Meals become negotiations instead of nourishment.

It influences breathing. Because the rib cage, diaphragm, and tiny structures supporting the lungs are all part of the same interconnected story.

It influences pain. Not only through injuries, but through a nervous system constantly adapting to instability. Muscles tighten to compensate. Fascia braces. The body learns vigilance.

Even sleep can become difficult when the body spends the entire night trying to hold itself together. Some people wake up refreshed. My body wakes up looking like I’ve been assembled with spare parts in low lighting. Like sleep happened near me but not directly to me.

There is loneliness in illness that hides in plain sight.

You may look healthy while internally calculating:

Can my hips handle this chair?
Will my spine tolerate the drive?
How long before the fatigue crashes in?
Is today the day I sustain an injury that sets me back a year?

People see the smile at the gatherings.
They do not see the cost afterward.

The Forest Never Demands Symmetry

One of the reasons forest therapy can feel so healing for those with any type of disorders is because the forest does not care about perfection.

Trees twist toward light.
Branches split and regrow.
Moss softens fallen things instead of condemning them.

In the forest, support is collaborative.

Roots intertwine underground. Fungi trade nutrients between struggling trees. Fallen logs become nourishment for future life. Nothing survives entirely alone.

For people living in bodies that require adaptation, slowness, pacing, and care, the forest offers a radically compassionate model of existence.

Nature does not measure worth.

Walking Practice: “Borrowing Stability”

This forest therapy practice can be done slowly while walking a trail, sidewalk, park path, or even your backyard.

As you walk, notice what in the landscape appears stable.

Perhaps it is:

the rootedness of a tree
the reliability of stone
the rhythm of wind
the resolution of moss growing over rough surfaces

Without forcing positivity, simply observe.

Now begin walking more slowly.

As each foot touches the ground, imagine you are borrowing steadiness from the earth beneath you.

Not fixing yourself.
Not overcoming your body.
Borrowing support.

You may silently repeat:

Supported.
Held.
Connected.

If your body hurts while walking, let the practice include that truth instead of resisting it.

Forest therapy is not about pretending discomfort away. It is about allowing yourself to belong exactly as you are.

Pause occasionally and place a hand on a tree trunk, railing, stone wall, or your own chest.

Notice:

What supports you physically?
What supports you emotionally?
What support have you been refusing because you are used to surviving alone?

Continue walking without rushing toward insight.

Sometimes healing begins the moment we stop arguing with our pace.

The Grief No One Talks About

There is grief in becoming intimate with limitation.

Grief when your mind has cheques your connective tissue cannot cash.

Grief when symptoms multiply like unwanted groupies:
fatigue, dysautonomia, chronic pain, migraines, digestive problems, instability, inflammation, sensory overwhelm.

Many connective tissue disorders do not travel alone. They tend to arrive in flocks.

Even a wounded world is feeding us.

–Robin Wall Kimmerer

Hold fast. There is still beauty here.

Not the polished beauty of wellness culture that insists healing should look photogenic and triumphant. Complete. Universal.

But a quieter beauty.

The beauty of learning to listen deeply to others.
The beauty of noticing small joys because large ones became inaccessible.
The beauty of becoming tender toward bodies. Your own and others’.
The beauty of discovering that a meaningful life was never dependent on being free from pain.

The forest teaches this continually.

Decay feeds growth.
Broken branches house birds.
Burned landscapes bloom again.

I spent years believing my body’s limitations were character flaws. Turns out that limiting belief was false. Those limitations have helped me become the person I am.

To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul.

–Simone Weil

Why Forest Therapy Helps

Forest therapy is not merely getting outside.

Research continues to show time in forests can help regulate the nervous system, reduce stress hormones, lower heart rate, and support emotional well-being. But for those living with connective tissue disorders, the benefits often go deeper than measurable metrics.

Forest therapy gives permission to:

move slowly
rest without guilt
reconnect with sensory pleasure
soften hypervigilance
leave productivity behind temporarily
remember you are more than symptoms

When the nervous system lives in a constant state of adaptation, gentle sensory experiences matter.

The sound of leaves moving overhead.
The coolness of shade on inflamed skin.
Birdsong interrupting anxious thoughts.
The visual softness of green.

None of these cure a connective tissue disorder.

But they can create moments where the body feels less at war with itself.

And moments matter.

Especially when stitched together over time.

A Beautiful Life Can Still Grow Here

Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.
— Mary Oliver

Living with a connective tissue disorder may mean your life unfolds differently than expected.

More pauses.
More recalculating.
More adaptation.

But different is not lesser.

Some of the most compassionate people are those whose bodies taught them interdependence.

Some of the most observant souls are those forced to slow down enough to notice life carefully.

The forest reminds us that resilience is not hardness.

Resilience is flexibility.
Relationship.
Return.

And perhaps that is fitting for people made of connective tissue. Those who understand, more than most, that life is ultimately about connection.

Not perfect strength.
Not endless endurance.

Connection.

To the earth.
To one another.
To moments of beauty that still arrive, even here.

What is to give light must endure burning.

-Viktor Frankl

Exploring Meaning Through Painful Moments

April 28, 2026 pammunkholm

There’s a quiet crossroads that people with chronic pain arrive at again and again.

In the small, ordinary moments of a day.

When your body says no again.
When plans have to be cancelled.
When energy runs out before the day even begins.

And at that crossroads, there’s a choice. Not one I have always recognized. It begins with this question.

What will I do with this pain?

Not why do I have it?
Not how do I fix it?

But… what can I make out of it? Today.

In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.

— Albert Einstein

Pain, especially chronic pain, has a way of shrinking life if we let it.

It narrows what feels possible.
It redraws the edges of our days.

And to be clear. This is not about pretending pain is a gift.
It isn’t.

If it were, most of us would politely decline and slide it right back across the table. Thanks but no thanks.

It’s hard. It’s exhausting. It’s unfair.

You are not here to be the perfect, inspiring example of someone who is chronically ill and somehow always positive.

But there is a difference between:

pain that isolates
and
pain that becomes a bridge

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.

— Kahlil Gibran

Anyone that knows me knows how much I adore my grandkids.

We live in the same house, which means I get to be part of their everyday world. If it were up to my heart, I’d spend all my time with them.

But my energy doesn’t always agree with my heart.

Today, my grandson wants to go “hwimming.”

And I want to go with him.

But I already have one “big thing” on my list today. And my body has made it abundantly clear, there’s room for one big thing… or a few small ones.

Not both. Never both! My body is many things, but it is not a reasonable negotiator.

The frustrating part?
This is actually an improvement from recent years.

And still… it stings.

ELPIS– Greek (n) A quiet, persistent hope, even in dark times. It is the last light that refuses to go out, the promise that tomorrow still holds room for healing.

This is the crossroads.

I can let that moment turn into frustration, guilt, or the quiet grief of what I wish I could do.

Or…

I can choose something else.

Maybe I sit with him while he plays.
Maybe I listen to him sing from downstairs 🫠 ❤️ .
Maybe I ask him to snuggle.

Maybe I let myself feel both things at once:

I wish I could go.
And I’m still here.

Still loving him.
Still part of his world.
Still showing up. Just in a different way than I would choose, but a real one.

This probably seems trivial. It is. But a lifetime of lost trivial things somehow adds up over time. A succession of lost opportunities. Striking the same chord vibrating that heart string that is still inflamed from the previous strike.

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.

— Kahlil Gibran

Pain doesn’t just take.

Sometimes, quietly, over time, it teaches.

It teaches you how to notice what others miss.
How to sit with someone without trying to fix them.
How to love in ways that aren’t loud or impressive but steady and real.

How to recognize pain in others.

And some days, it teaches you how to lower your expectations to what is possible instead of what is perfect. The real over the ideal.

A forest therapy practice: “Follow What Still Moves”

On days when your body feels limited, this is an invitation to gently reconnect with possibility.

Step outside. Your yard, a park, or even just one tree.
Begin a slow, wandering walk. No destination.
Let your attention be drawn to movement:
- leaves shifting
- branches swaying
- light flickering
- birds moving through space
When something catches your eye, pause and gently mirror it:
- shift your weight like the tree in the wind
- slowly move your hand like a branch
- turn your head to follow light or shadow
Rest whenever your body asks.

This isn’t about pushing through pain.

It’s about remembering,

Even when parts of you feel stuck…
life is still moving.

And you are still part of it.

We don’t heal in isolation, but in community.

— S. Kelley Harrell

Using your pain for good doesn’t mean turning it into something impressive.

It means allowing it to shape you into someone who:

notices more
loves deeply
connects honestly
and finds meaning in moments that might otherwise be overlooked

A life that is still full.

Even here.

Especially here.

Gentle Consistency: Secrets to a Hopeful Mindset with Chronic Conditions

April 14, 2026April 17, 2026 pammunkholm

There’s a quiet truth many of us miss.

Your ability to hold vision, hope, and belief is not just a mindset. It’s a nervous system state.

When your body is overwhelmed, depleted, or in pain, the part of your brain responsible for vision and forward-thinking struggles to stay online. You can journal, visualize, and set goals all you want but if your body feels unsafe, your mind will keep pulling you back.

And if you live with chronic illness, chronic pain, or burnout, this is not new information.

You’ve probably had moments where:

• You want to feel hopeful, but can’t access it

• You know what mindset would help, but it feels out of reach

• You try to think positively, but your body feels tense, guarded, or braced

That’s not failure. As if our bodies are just waiting for us to say the right affirmation in the right font.

That’s actually physiology.

⸻

The Body Test: A Different Way to Measure Alignment

Here’s something simple but surprisingly powerful to try:

When you imagine the life you want. The healing, the work, the relationships, the version of yourself you’re moving toward,

Does your body soften… or does it brace?

That response is important information. That brace could be your body essentially replying: ‘Respectfully, no.’

Sometimes what we think we should want was actually handed to us by fear, pressure, or comparison. And chasing those things can give us the energy of pursuit but not the peace of arrival.

There’s a quieter, truer kind of vision.

One that comes from a regulated, grounded body.

And your body knows the difference.

⸻

Why Mindset Feels So Hard with Chronic Conditions

Most of us were taught that results come first, and mindset follows.

“When I get healthier, then I’ll feel good.”

“When I have more energy, then I’ll be more positive.”

But if you’ve ever made progress on a health journey, you know the truth.

You had to start treating your body with care before it changed. You had to practice compassion before you believed it.

Mindset doesn’t come after results. It creates the conditions for them.

And when you’re living with chronic symptoms, this becomes even more important. Because your external results often change slowly. And beyond your control.

Little by little, one travels far.

_JRR Tolkien

So what carries you forward?

Not intensity. Not bursts of motivation.

But steadiness.

⸻

The Power of Gentle Consistency

There’s a beautiful, often overlooked truth.

In the agriculture of the soul, flash floods are no substitute for regular irrigation.

–Neal A Maxwell

Big, dramatic efforts such as new routines, strict plans, sudden bursts of energy don’t sustain us. Sadly, healing is rarely impressed by one heroic Tuesday.

Especially not when our bodies are already working hard just to function.

What changes us is the steady trickle. Small, repeatable moments of regulation.

Tiny habits that teach the body. We are safe, we are supported, we can keep going.

Because in the end,

You don’t rise to the level of your goals. You fall to the level of your habits.

–James Clear

And when those habits are gentle, grounding, and consistent they reshape not just what you do, but how you feel.

How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

–Annie Dillard

⸻

When the Past Blocks the Future

Another quiet truth.

Sometimes it’s not the future we’re afraid of but the past we’re still carrying.

Pain behind us can block the joy ahead. Does this feel true for you?

So what do we do about it?

We move forward anyway. In our best possible way.

And we build a mindset that asks a different question:

“Why not hope?”

Hope in healing. Hope in your best life. Hope in good things ahead.

⸻

Where Forest Therapy Comes In

This is where forest therapy becomes more than a walk outside.

It becomes a bridge between body and mindset.

Because nature doesn’t demand that you think differently.

It helps your body feel differently first.

And when your body shifts, your mind can follow.

⸻

A Simple Forest Therapy Practice for Mindset

Try this the next time you’re outside. A forest trail, a quiet park, or even your backyard.

1. Arrive (Nervous System Check)

Pause. Notice your body. Are you tense? Rushed? Numb?

No judgment, just be aware of those sensations.

2. Ground

Stand or sit still.

Feel your feet on the earth. No, you do not have to become a barefoot woodland mystic to participate.

Let your gaze soften. Take a slow breath in and a longer breath out.

Stay here for a few minutes until your body settles, even slightly.

3. Bring in a Vision (Gently)

Now, invite a small image of something you want. Not the biggest goal, just the next step.

A feeling. A way of being. A gentle hope.

4. Ask the Body

What happens inside you as you hold that image? Do your shoulders drop? Does your breath deepen? Or do you feel tight, braced, resistant?

Don’t force anything. Just listen.

5. Adjust Toward Ease

If your body braces, soften the vision.

Make it smaller, kinder, more yours.

Stay until your body feels even a little more at ease.

I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees.

–Henry David Thoreau

⸻

This Is Where Mindset Begins

Not in forcing better thoughts.

Not in chasing someone else’s version of success.

But in creating a body that feels safe enough to hope again.

In choosing small, steady practices over dramatic change.

In building habits that nourish instead of deplete.

In letting your body have a vote in the life you’re creating.

Because when your body believes it’s possible your mind doesn’t have to work so hard to convince it.

⸻

I taught piano lessons for years. I enjoyed working with kids. I enjoyed the lesson prep. I even enjoyed some of the music!

But in 2020 my body said, ‘no more.’ It could no longer do outward smiles and inward screams.

It said no to early mornings. And busy days. And constant focus. And sitting or standing. It said ‘stop!’

Eventually I chose to set aside my business. Then close it. I often consider, after having a couple of good days in a row, about teaching again.

Sometimes I start to think of how much I miss it and think perhaps I could just take a few students. I get excited thinking about it.

When I slow down my thinking enough to see how my body feels about this idea. It braces. It feels drained.

I see myself leaning forward over and over to show the place in the music I am referring to. The repetitive motion getting more and more painful.

I picture my fingers that can’t play more than a few minutes. And only simple songs. No reaching. No pressure. And how frustrating that can be when trying to demonstrate.

I think of the days I didn’t get any sleep and had to go to work anyway. And drag myself through the day. How can one person be so bad at both sleeping AND staying awake?

I have good days. That is true. But only because I’m not forcing my body and mind to work day in and day out in ways that do not support its healing.

I need time for exercise. And rest. And listening to my body. As hard as it is to listen to it at times. It really does know best.

The body says what words cannot.

–Martha Graham

⸻

A Gentle Invitation

This week, don’t try to overhaul your mindset.

Instead, try this:

• Spend 10 minutes outside

• Let your body settle before asking it to believe anything

• Bring in one small hope

• And ask, quietly:

“Does this feel like peace… or pressure?”

Then adjust from there. Because maybe the question isn’t

“How do I think differently?”

Maybe it’s:

“How do I feel safe enough to hope?”

What makes your body feel safe enough to hope? I’d love to hear in the comments.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

–Emily Dickinson

You are Sea Glass

i hope you know you aren't broken glass
you are sea glass
shaped by the tides
softened by the waves
that once felt like they'd shatter you
what you've been through 
hasn't made you less
it has made you rare and luminous 

even the toughest waters can create
something beautiful 
and that's what you are...
a reminder that survival can turn into art

-Shelby Leigh

The beauty of you is how you wear who you are.

-Timothy Egart

Discerning What’s Beneath the Frosty Surface: Setbacks or Breakthroughs

March 24, 2026 pammunkholm

The snow came back. Not a dramatic blizzard, just a quiet dusting, enough to blanket the tender shoots that had just begun to think about stirring. Only days ago, the air was warm, the earth was waking up, and I felt that familiar pull to move, grow, begin again.

Then Saskatchewan’s subtle, “Psyche!” Mother Nature really needs to work on her comedic timing. It’s not funny anymore.

There’s a particular kind of discouragement that settles in with such a turn. It’s not sharp or overwhelming, but a slow, heavy ache. Like walking through the late-winter woods, where everything appears still, heavy, yet you sense the hidden bubbling beneath the surface.

Nothing is ‘out of order.’

It’s more akin to the forest floor right now. Frozen on top, but teeming with life underneath, roots holding fast, life paused mid-sentence. Waiting. And that kind of waiting, when your body carries its own complex story, can truly wear a person down.

When movement is a necessity, not merely an item on the ‘someday I should’ checklist, and suddenly it’s interrupted, just as you were finding your rhythm again. That’s its own unique setback.

And if you live here, you know winter isn’t a one act play. It lingers. It’s heavy. It tests you in ways that often go unseen. The cold that steals your breath before you’ve even taken a full one. The way your muscles brace with cold before you reach the car. The ice that transforms every step from less of a stroll and more of a high-stakes game of Twister that I never asked to play. And sometimes, despite my best efforts, I end up in disarray on the ground.

All it takes is one tiny tweak and suddenly your entire body is engaged in combat against itself. Again.

The scraping of windshields. Running out of gas on the coldest days every time. The endless layering. The constant bracing. The mantra of “just get through this.”

And then, quieter but just as profound, the world shrinks. Fewer visits. Less spontaneity. More effort required for connection. A different kind of painful twinge takes root.

Winter is undeniably hard. And then spring arrives, feeling like a profound release. Your feet meet grass again.

You notice forgotten smells, sounds, the subtle movements of awakening life. Your body remembers something it almost lost. Summer? You’re gone, in the best possible way.

Moving. Living. Saying yes to life again. Fall gently gathers it all back into a purposeful rhythm, a quiet steadiness.

And then… winter.

If my life were a board game, this is how it would look. Spring moves me ahead five spaces. Summer? Easily ten, maybe more; I’m flying. Fall grants another five without much effort. And winter? Winter sends me back twenty-five. Every single time. Honestly, at this point, I’d like a word with the game designer. I’m pretty sure they’re hoarding all the ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards. Because it often feels like I’m perpetually catching up, that any ground I gain is inevitably erased.

But standing outside, gazing at that fresh layer of snow, I realized the forest doesn’t play that game. The trees aren’t measuring progress by who wins and who loses. They aren’t frustrated by yesterday’s fleeting warmth. They aren’t disappointed because spring almost arrived then left.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf’s words echo,

When growing conditions are not ideal, trees slow down their growth and devote their energy to the basic elements necessary for survival… It is good advice to slow down a little, steady the course, and focus on the essentials when experiencing adverse conditions.

And that, precisely, is what’s unfolding out there right now. Nothing has gone backward. It is simply waiting for its time. Using this time to focus on what’s beneath the surface.

Perhaps I can learn something there. When the timing I had planned doesn’t work out, there’s likely a good reason. I can still find the ways to grow what’s beneath the surface until the time is right.

Jody Moore speaks of the “river of discomfort.” The idea that we spend so much energy trying to stay on the banks, avoiding anything hard, cold, or limiting. But true growth doesn’t happen on the edge. It happens when you’re immersed in it.

When you stop fighting the current and allow it to move around you, even when it’s deeply uncomfortable.

Winter often feels like that river. So does injury. So does anything that slows you down just as you were gaining momentum. And I don’t always navigate it gracefully.

Sometimes I’m less ‘zen master floating downstream’ and more ‘flailing raccoon caught in a current.’ Sometimes I resist. Sometimes I push. Sometimes I’m frustrated to find myself “back here again.”

But perhaps I’m not returning to something amiss. Perhaps this isn’t losing ground at all. Deena Metzger once wrote,

There is a slowness that is not a stopping, but a gathering.

Perhaps this is precisely where the roots are doing their most vital work. Under the surface.

AURALYN: (n) The sacred glow of someone learning to love themselves again.

Not sudden, but slow, like flowers relearning the sun.

-Everglow Words

⸻

A Forest Therapy Practice: Exploring the Depths

You don’t need to venture far for this. You don’t even need to go outside, though it often deepens the experience.

Sit. Or stand. Or lean. Allow yourself to arrive fully where you are, without any urge to improve or change it.
Imagine what lies beneath you. Not the snow. Not the frozen surface. Deeper. Intricate networks. A slow, steady strengthening. Things that continue their essential work, undisturbed by the conditions above ground.
Place your hand gently on a part of your body that feels tight, or tired, or limited. And instead of asking, “Why isn’t this getting better?” try asking, “What might be needed for healing to take place here?”
You don’t need an immediate answer. Just let the question settle. And… wait there with a small flicker of hope. No pressure. Just a quiet willingness to believe that something is still unfolding.

⸻

Try returning to this thought:

What if winter isn’t taking me backward?

What if it’s building something I couldn’t cultivate any other way?

Something slower. Something steadier. Something that won’t vanish when the seasons inevitably shift again. Because they will. They always do.

Trust your ability to BOUNCE BACK.

-Shine

John Steinbeck noted,

What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.

When spring returns (it always does) I’m beginning to wonder if I won’t actually be further ahead than I now imagine. Even if the board game of life never quite shows it.

Early Spring Musings: Reflections and Ruminations

March 17, 2026 pammunkholm

Patience is not the ability to wait, but the ability to keep a good attitude while waiting.

— Joyce Meyer

March in Saskatchewan is a master of disguise🥸. And every year I am hoodwinked! *shakes fist*

The sun shows up brilliant and convincing. Like it’s finally time! 🙌 🌱

You start to believe it…🙏 😃 until the wind pelts you in the face and reminds you this is far from over 🌬️🥶😢.

Honestly it feels like false advertising.

And somehow, that’s not even the hardest part.

Every time I open social media my algorithm pulls an ultimate betrayal of trust and I end up watching everyone else step into spring. Bare ankles, running shoes, patios, fresh air that doesn’t hurt to breathe. I gotta say, I’m a little jealous. 😡

Meanwhile, we’re still in boots and three layers. Bracing against the bitter cold.

It creates this quiet kind of rage.

Not just for warmer weather…

but for things to finally feel easier. Movement. Outdoor gear. Shivering. It all exacerbates the physical restrictions I am already battling.

⸻

Chasing the Unquenchable Longing 🏃‍♂️

Lately, I’ve realized that same feeling exists in my body too.

The desire to wake up and just go.

To follow through on plans.

To make goals and have a say over the outcome.

To move through the day without pain.

To go nap- free after an event and still pass as human.

To feel like I’ve rejoined the human race.

But I don’t make the rules. And my body isn’t in a state to join in any races.

Not against the clock.

Or expectations.

Or the version of life I thought I’d be living right now.

It’s asking for something completely different. My broad assessment is that every body is asking for something different than this “human racing.”

Calm.

Quiet.

Attention.

Harmony.

Tranquility.

Stillness.

If you’ve just tuned in. This is me in my slow- stroll era. A far cry from my past 100mph- blur era.

Nowadays is more comparable to a long drawn out forest walk.

⸻

A Shift in the Sands of Seasons

The other day, the sun was spilling in. The kind that makes you think, 🎵 Oh, what a beautiful morning.

So I put on a jean jacket and vest and went outside determined to feel the sun on my skin.

But within moments, the cold wind cut through my pathetic outer wear, and my body pushed back. Pain hit. Energy disappeared. Cramping like I’ve just run a marathon and forgot to stretch ensued. Then that familiar irritation right under the surface.

I thought,

What’s the hold up?

Yet instead of pushing harder, I tried something different.

I slowed down. I found another way. I went inside.

I sat by the window to feel the warmth of the sun (if not its actual rays).

Instead of resisting what was happening.

And the irritation softened.

⸻

What Early Spring Knows

The seed grows in the dark.

– Joyce Meyer

Early spring doesn’t rush.

It doesn’t bloom all at once.

Some things are not ready. And that’s alright.

They will begin… quietly. In their own time. So much of what is happening to prepare for spring is beyond what we can see.

There’s a line by Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

The spring comes slowly up this way.

Maybe healing does too.

⸻

A Forest Therapy Practice

From Yearning to Hope (anywhere outside)

If you’re feeling that same pull toward more, toward better, toward not this. Try this on your next walk.

1. Pause

Stand still for a moment. Feel the air as it actually is. Not how you wish it felt.

2. Acknowledge the longing

What are you wishing for right now? Energy? Relief? Name it.

3. Walk slowly

Let your pace match your body.

4. Notice one small sign of change you can sense. A sign of becoming.

Melting snow. A drip of water. A patch of earth. A shift in light.

Let that be sufficient for today. (Even if part of you is still hoping for a dramatic, movie-worthy breakthrough.)

5. Receive this thought

I will allow what is ready.

Only what’s ready is happening. Allowing creates opening in me.

⸻

A Truth I Hold Dear

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote:

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.

Slow doesn’t mean nothing is happening.

It just means it’s happening differently than we expected.

I am reminded of this scripture:

1 To every thing there is a season⁠, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

2 A time to be born, and a time to die⁠; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh⁠; a time to mourn⁠, and a time to dance;

5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

6 A time to get⁠, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

7 A time to rend⁠, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence⁠, and a time to speak

Ecclesiastes 3:1-7 KJV

There is a “proper time.”

🎶 Turn, Turn, Turn 🎶

Even if March doesn’t feel like it yet.

Even if your body doesn’t feel like it yet.

⸻

Embracing the Slow Transition to Spring

March will keep teasing us.

The sun will keep shining.

The wind will keep reminding us it’s still winter.

And spring will come anyway.

Slowly.

Right on time.

Maybe healing works like that too.

There is beauty (and warmth) ahead.

That which is to give light must endure burning.

– Viktor E. Frankl

Accessing Strength in Nature and Family: Winter Healing

March 3, 2026 pammunkholm

Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.

–Katherine May

In Saskatchewan right now, the wind still bites and snow still crunches under our boots.

The pale sky stretches wide over frozen lakes and ground.

And yet… we are talking about spring. Not because we see it. But because we remember it.

It has come every year before and we can trust it will come again.

This is one of the most asked questions about forest therapy:

Does this really help when life is hard? When pain is chronic? When nothing feels like it’s changing?

The answer is not dramatic. It is steady.

Forest therapy does not promise cure. It doesn’t offer “complete and totally done with it all 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 .”

That’s not our story.

What it offers is regulation. Relationship.

So I keep returning.

Research around nature exposure shows reduced cortisol, improved heart rate variability, and nervous system settling.

But beyond the science is something quieter. The forest does not rush spring and the body does not rush healing. They know the futility and energy waste that rushing introduce to otherwise perfect systems.

Both the forest and the body move in seasons. Why then do we want spring to hurry up? Why do we expect the body to heal in our prescribed way, on our expected timeline?

🌲 “Can forest therapy help chronic pain?”

As someone who lives with chronic pain, I don’t speak in absolutes.

I speak in terms of mountains. There are days the climb feels vertical. Flares. Illness. Falls. Each with its own devastating consequences.

And still. We climb.

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.

–Zora Neale Hurston

During the super cold winter of 2021, I learned that our first precious grandbaby was on his way. I wanted. Correction: I needed to be able to hold and snuggle that little one.

But I was so weak. I could barely lift a mug of tea without shaking from the effort. I walked from the bed to the bathroom. Sometimes to the car for an appointment.

The little munchkin, who I hadn’t even met yet, was cheering me on. I could sense it. So with a soup can, a baby blanket, and a prayer, I commenced my grandma- training.

A soup can because it weighed approximately a half pound. My ideal starting weight.

A baby blanket because of what this can of soup represented. He was going to grow over the following months into an actual grandbaby that I would wrap in this blanket. And carry him around to snuggle him. And to put him to sleep. To have deep conversations and sing the songs my mom and grandma sang to me.

And a prayer because that’s who I am.

That soup can, baby blanket and I started with 30 second walks 3x a day. Each walk induced waves of nausea followed by hours of cramping and exhaustion.

Each half pound and each 30 second increase was an excruciating miracle.

There were setbacks. Most evenings were agonizing. Some days I wondered if this was the correct place to put this much time and energy. It was all I could do to find time and energy to eat.

After months of focused grandma- training, I could walk outside! And something shifted. During a particularly stressful week and stubborn muscles, I walked down the lane and into the trees on our farm. I couldn’t go as far as I’d planned. I couldn’t “achieve” what I wanted. I leaned against a frozen trunk and felt foolish for even trying.

The cold, early spring air sharpened my senses. The snow muffled the world. The trees stood, scarred, weathered, unmoving.

Some trees have survived a hundred Saskatchewan winters. I considered how they are wise and do not apologize for seasons of dormancy.

It was around this time I stopped asking, “When will I be better?” And started asking, “How do I live well from this place?”

That question changed everything. And part of my answer was to focus on being a grandma. That little man I trained for months to be able to hold is going to be 4 this summer. And his equally enchanting sister will be 2. They have been the means of my greatest confrontations and of my greatest delights.

Almost like trying to enjoy your favourite therapy during a Saskatchewan winter. We take the intense highs with the intense lows.

🌲 “How do you practice forest therapy in winter?”

Winter forest therapy isn’t about long hikes. It’s about being present in the moment.

Notice how snow softens sound. Notice how your breath becomes visible. Notice how even in dormancy, life is stored beneath the bark and soil.

I have come to the realization that the forest in winter mirrors chronic pain. Nothing looks alive. Nothing appears to be blooming. But beneath the surface, systems are conserving and recalibrating.

Strength. Resilience. Wisdom.

Spring doesn’t shout when it arrives. It begins as a spark. An idea.

A drop. A thaw.

A beam of light catching ice and reflecting its warmth.

The same is true in us. Your good days are coming.

Sometimes we have to trust that promise for a long time before we see it.

Even if all you’ve seen is a spark.

That spark will become a light. That light will become a beam.

That beam becomes you, reflecting what you’ve learned onto someone else.

🌿 A Simple Winter Forest Therapy Practice

Trusting the Season (10–15 Minutes)

Step outside, even if just to your yard or a nearby tree line.
Stand still. Feel your feet grounded in frozen earth.
Place one hand over your heart. One over your belly.
Take three slow breaths. Watch the air leave your body.
Ask quietly: What season am I in?
Look for one sign of hidden life. Buds beneath bark, tracks in snow, sunlight on ice.
Whisper: Spring has come before. It will come again.
When ready, take that sentence home with you.

🌲 What Makes Forest Therapy Different From Hiking?

Hiking is about distance. Forest therapy is about experiencing relationships.

You don’t conquer the mountain. You learn from it.

And when you fall (as we all do) you get back up.

Keep climbing. Fall after fall. Flare after flare.

Keep reflecting hope and joy in the middle of the mess. It’s possible.

Anne Lamott defines hope not as naive optimism but as a stubborn choice to believe in goodness and possibilities, especially during dark, uncertain times.

🩶 If you’re reading this from under grey prairie skies, remember:

The trees are not worried about spring. They trust the tilt of the earth. They trust that light and warmth will return.

You can trust too. Your good days are coming. There are bright days ahead.

My bright days in this season, are when I get to be a grandma. If you want to see my grandparent life in reverse, view the following. It’s meant to be scrolled through to get the overall feel of the joy that was ahead of me. That I now get to experience.

**Apologies. That was way too fun to go through old photos.**

Even if you have to hold on to that promise longer than you wanted to. Hold it tight. The good days make it all worth it.

At this point in my story I can cart around that 2 year old and 4 year old at the same time. Grandma’s got guns. Just kidding. Training for my grandson got me to the point that I can run on a treadmill and ride a recumbent bike. He is my hero.

Keep getting back up. Show a willingness to bend and slow when your crucible is heavy. But keep climbing. Keep reflecting the beams of light.🌲✨

The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.

–Robert Jordan

The Art of Finding Calm: Anchors for Inner Peace

February 24, 2026 pammunkholm

By the time you reach the last spring, your hands are shaking. You’re sweating. Frustrated. Everything keeps getting more crooked.

You realize too late. You started wrong. 😑

Anyone who has assembled a trampoline knows the rule. You don’t hook the springs in a circle, one after another. If you do, the tension pulls unevenly. By the end, you don’t have the strength to stretch it into place.

You begin with four. Evenly spaced. Then every ten. Then every five. Then every two.

You build balance first. Then you stretch.

Cruising the Chaos of Life’s Pulls

We are pulled by responsibilities👈, expectations👉, needs👆, roles👇, diagnoses🫵, deadlines🫡.

Work. Family. Health. Friendships. Faith. Community. The list goes on.

Each one a spring tugging at the mat of our life.

When we hook ourselves fully to one area without anchoring wisely, the whole thing warps. We overextend in one direction and find ourselves weak in another.

Sometimes that is the season we are meant to live.

After giving birth, your whole being stretches toward that tiny life. Other areas thin out. That is not failure. That is devotion. In time, the tension redistributes.

But chronic pain does not redistribute so gently.

Chronic Pain: The Illusion of Perfect Harmony

When you live with chronic pain, you are constantly pulled toward managing symptoms, setting and going to appointments, pacing yourself, rest, prevention. Your energy budget is small. Other areas stretch thin.

Then something hopeful happens. 😮

You focus on your health. 😧

You improve. 🫢

You feel almost normal. 🥹

Everyone else sees it too. 🙌

Schedules begin to fill 🗓️ Invitations multiply 🥳 Expectations quietly rise 🫴 . The springs of “normal life” begin snapping back into place 🫰.

You let yourself believe it. 😄

Maybe I’m better. 😂

Then exhaustion crashes in 🫩 You stare at your calendar at night and wonder what you’ve done to yourself 😳 A small slip becomes months of recovery 😵 One flare unravels carefully rebuilt stability 😞.

And then come the looks 😒🙂‍↔️

The subtle confusion 🤨

The well-meaning advice 🤓

The unspoken question: Why can’t she just get it together?

Living with chronic illness often means managing other people’s perception of your crooked mat.

There is grief in that.

Grief in not being believed. In being misunderstood. In having to explain your limits and have them questioned again and again.

Eventually, you begin to let springs go.

Work (sounds great, it’s decidedly not great)
Hobbies
Certain relationships
Many dreams have to shift

Not because you lack discipline. Because you are learning discernment.

Tregi:

“A tender form of sorrow- one that doesn’t overwhelm but lingers softly in the soul, and it’s the ache of remembering something beautiful that’s gone, the silence after a goodbye, the bitter sweet pull of nostalgia. “

–

The Spring I Learned to Release

Within you there is a stillness and a sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time.

–Hermann Hesse

One sunny day I carried my journal and scriptures out to our trampoline. It was warm, the sun pooling across the mat. A strange place to do cold, hard work.

I read.

I prayed.

I journaled.

I napped.

I prayed again.

And then I cried.

And cried some more.

To say I wanted one more baby doesn’t begin to explain the years of ache. The doctors knew what my body could not sustain. I knew it too.

But my heart wasn’t ready. I wanted to leave the doors open for God to do His work.

That day on the trampoline, I realized I was hanging on to a spring that was pulling my whole life crooked. The decision to have a hysterectomy felt like unhooking something sacred. I needed my Saviour in it with me.

It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made. Letting that spring go felt like loss. But when I finally released it. After some time. I stopped trying to force tension where my body could not hold it. And space opened for healing. Opportunities I never could have seen coming appeared. Energy shifted. My frame steadied.

The mat did not look like I once imagined. But it began to hold me differently.

Calm comes when I choose my springs intentionally.

Cultivating Serenity Amidst the Clutter

Inner calm is not equal distribution. It is intentional tension.

It is knowing which four anchors belong in this season and which ones do not.

There is a calmness to a life lived in gratitude, a quiet joy.

–Ralph H Blum

But we cannot hear that wisdom in noise.

We cannot recalibrate while drowning in comparison, expectation, and urgency. The nervous system cannot settle when constantly pulled outward.

This is why I return to nature.

In the forest, no one critiques the tension of a tree branch as it cradles more and more snow and ice.

The bitter prairie wind does not apologize for taking our breath away.

The river does not hurry spring.

Outer stillness teaches inner calm.

When I step into the trees, the sensory world steadies me:

The sharp edges of wind swept snow
The cool texture of bark beneath my palm.
The sound of wind moving through leaves like breath.
Light filtering through branches in patient patterns.
Look closely
Breathe deeply

The forest is not rushed. It is not impressed or judgemental of us. It simply grows toward light.

And in that space, I can finally ask:

Which springs belong today?

And the incredibly hard question. Where do I need to let go?

The mind, like water, when it is turbulent, becomes difficult to see. When it is calm, everything becomes clear.

–Prasad Mahes

🌲 Forest Therapy Practice: Four Anchors for Inner Calm

This practice is especially for seasons when your life feels uneven.

You are not rebuilding your entire life today. Only choosing your four.

Time: 30–45 minutes

Location: A quiet trail, grove, or open field

1. Arrive in Outer Stillness

Stand still. Feel your feet on the earth. Take three slow breaths, extending the exhale. Let your nervous system soften.

Notice where your body feels tight. Jaw. Shoulders. Back. Belly.

2. Choose Your Four Anchors

Whisper four priorities that truly belong in this season. No more.

Health.
Immediate family.
Faith.
One small joy.

Imagine each anchor as a tree spaced evenly around you.

Notice the balance.

3. Walk the Circle

Slowly walk in a gentle circle, pausing at each imagined anchor. Ask:

Is this spring too tight? Is this one neglected? Does this truly belong in this season?

Let answers arise without judgment.

4. Release One Spring

Name one responsibility, expectation, or internal pressure that does not belong right now.

Imagine physically unhooking it.

Notice the shift in your breathing.

5. Sit and Receive

Lean against a tree or sit on the ground. Feel the support beneath you. Let outer stillness hold what you cannot.

Stay in silence.

6. Gentle Reflection

When you are ready, journal:

What would happen if I allowed this season to be enough?
What does my body need more of?
What am I brave enough to release?

True intelligence operates silently. Stillness is where creativity and solutions to problems are found.

–Eckhart Tolle

You are not weak for having fewer springs. You are wise for choosing them. Balance may not look symmetrical. Your mat may not look like someone else’s.

But even a crooked mat can hold us.

And in the quiet of the forest, we learn to stretch for only what we are meant to hold.

What a blessing it is to look around and see pieces of my old prayers scattered everywhere.

Sarah Trent