To tell me I cannot run is to hold my body in contempt.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
This past weekend I was out boating with friends. The sun was shining, laughter was everywhere, and the water was perfect. My absolute favorite kind of day. Until it wasn’t.
The beach is so amazing. We all lay around in our undies with complete strangers eating sandy sandwiches and chips. What a world!
But this trip was too eventful for me. I slipped off the back of the boat. A simple misstep—my foot chose the slippy part before the ladder instead of the grippy part. My skin slid down the metal and scraped in a couple of places. For most people, it would be a painful annoyance. Maybe a couple of Band-Aids and an “ouch” when the rubbing alcohol stings.
But for me, with a connective tissue disorder, a “minor” injury isn’t minor. It’s my own prison sentence.
The moment my leg hit and the skin tore, my body responded like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Two points, swelling to the size of small eggs appeared instantly. My vision swam, nausea hit, and I nearly fainted. I had to be rushed off the beach. Reluctantly, I might add. I just wanted to stay and play. 🤷♀️
And yet, as I moved it around, the swelling went down. After a few ginger steps, walking proved feasible. So, I stayed on the beach. Carefully. Pretending things were fine. Until the next day, when I accidentally touched one of the angry spots and nearly fainted again from the pain. Cue swelling, round two.
Nothing feels broken. This isn’t a cast-and-crutches type of injury. This is a – my tissue is angry and having a meltdown kind of injury. The kind that will ripple through every layer of healing, slowly, stubbornly, piece by piece.
The Cascading Consequence
Here’s what happens with mobile joints and connective tissue disorders:
- Immediate tantrum. Tissue swells, pain spikes, body goes into shock.
- Muscle aftermath. Even if the muscle wasn’t directly injured, it’s recruited in the act of catching yourself, and now it’s tight, inflamed, and waiting its turn to protest.
- The balancing act. I need to keep running to maintain the strength that keeps my joints in place, but I also can’t overwork what’s injured.
- Scar tissue sneak attack. When scar tissue forms, it doesn’t just “heal.” It tugs on joints already prone to slipping, pulling them out of place.
This 👆is why what looks minor to you becomes a long-term balancing act ⚖️ for me.
There is no test, no monitor, no scan that can tell us exactly what’s happening.
It’s me, listening to my body.
And my physiotherapist J, patiently piecing me back together one session at a time.
👆🏼 Me as Humpty Dumpty right before needing to be put back together again. 👆🏼
What most people heal from in days, I will heal from in months. 🗓
K️oekentroost
Dutch. “the emotional support cookie you eat after a mildly inconvenient day. (in my case it will be pretzels dipped in nutella)
The Weight of Waiting
The hardest part isn’t the pain. It’s the waiting.
Waiting to run.
Waiting to trust my joints again.
Waiting to see what the scar tissue will do this time to wreak havoc.
It feels like all the work I’ve put in at the gym—months of biking, running, strengthening—could slip away in the span of a single misstep.
That’s the prison. The confinement. The pause button ⏸️ on a life I’ve fought so hard to keep moving ▶️ .
Forest as Healer
But here’s where I return to what always saves me: the forest.
When I step (or hobble) into the trees, I remember that healing doesn’t always look like forward motion. Sometimes it looks like stillness. A dense canopy could be covering spectacular growth. The river’s gentle flow might be a glimpse of the heavy current below. The trees stand, patient and unwavering, reminding me that growth and repair take the time they take.
Forest therapy gives me what no physiotherapy session can: the intuition to hear what my body is really saying.
My blessing in life is to have a physiotherapist that encourages me to spend time there. And to follow my body’s intuitive pace and direction. J pursues us and provides support along the way.
It’s in the quiet green spaces 🌲 where I learn when to push 😖 and when to rest 💤 . Where I can breathe out the frustration 😮💨 and breathe in the steadiness of the earth 🌍 beneath me.
It is in the forest where I believe that healing isn’t just possible—it’s already happening.
When you read the list of benefits, do you see the connection? Grounding will be one of my greatest therapies in each phase of mending.
Words to Carry Me
“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
“And let us not be weary in well doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not.” – Galatians 6:9
“The trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” – Moliere
“Even the strongest storms don’t last forever. The sun always returns to the forest.” – Unknown
And she will keep coming back to life, over and over again, because beneath the skin of this gentle human lives a warrior unstoppable.
-Annabelle M Ramos
Healing with mobile joints is a marathon made of tiny sprints and long pauses. It’s the art of balancing strength with surrender. And when the world feels like it’s closing in—when a scraped leg feels like a prison sentence—the forest opens its arms and says, you are safe here. Take your time. Heal.
My veins are filled with stories of survival.
– Mitali P.
SUNBEAM ACRES 