That, perhaps, is the difference between a crisis and a chrysalis. One keeps us frozen in fear. The other slowly reshapes us.
Technically, Iโm 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 donโt allow me in to the conversation because Iโm โfar too youngโ 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 IDโd 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. Iโve entered the โeverything squeaks, leaks, or spasms unexpectedlyโ chapter of ownership. My body has moved beyond โminor repairsโ and into โhave you considered replacing the whole unit?โ territory.
Which is why a phrase I recently heard on the podcast Hello Menopause! grabbed my attention.
โMidlife chrysalis.โ
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 โoff-gridโ and taking up emotional support hobbies. Sourdough starter anyone?
But chrysalis?
That sounds like transformation.
Messy. Strange. Hidden. Uncomfortable. Necessary.
A chrysalis says. You are not falling apart. You are simply changing form.
I think many of us who have experienced chronic illness, disability, grief, loss, burnout, etc. arrive at this transformation long before the culture expects us to.
Some of us are forced into reinvention before we even finish becoming who we thought we would be.
The Crisis
Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart.
Sometimes crayon. When I need a little more whimsy in my days.
There were years where survival became the main objective. Years where my nervous system felt like a shaken vending machine full of stress hormones. Years where I thought resilience meant pushing harder instead of listening deeper.
And then came the hysterectomy.
One of those dividing-line experiences where life becomes Before and After.
Before, I still secretly believed if I tried hard enough I might someday return to the old version of myself.
After, I slowly began realizing there may not be a way back. Emotional landslides and experiential cave-ins had blocked that passage way.
Forward and through became my only options. Through self-realizations. Humbling concessions. Constant negotiations between mind and body.
And maybe that is where the chrysalis begins.
The Chrysalis
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
A chrysalis does not look impressive from the outside.
It looks still. Inactive. Even broken down.
But inside? An extraordinary reorganization is happening.
And I think thatโs 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 โa great midlife edit.โ
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 itโs 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 itโs 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 elseโs 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 youโฆ 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 youโre 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 donโt 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.
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. ๐โโ๏ธ
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 โgrowing pains.โ
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 โdramaticโ child. Others become the โtoughโ 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 donโt 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: AKAMy 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 wasnโt 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: โPractice more.โ โYou just need to focus, Pam.โ โTry harder.โ โDonโt give up so easily all the time.โ
My P.E. teacher, who was also my coach, and I were not exactly compatible personalities. I suspect I ranked fairly high on his โlazy kidโ list. My feelings toward him and his teaching style donโt need to be discussed for the purpose of this post. Perhaps he was doing the best he knew how ๐คทโโ๏ธ.
What hurt most was that I wasnโt 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 couldnโt outwork.
No matter how hard I tried, my body never responded the way everyone elseโs 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 didnโt seem invested. The one teachers assumed didnโt care whether they passed.
Stemming from humiliation in trying my hardest while looking like a fool and as though I wasnโt trying at all.
Itโs 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. ๐ ๐ ๐
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 MuchMore 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 Iโve 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: โBorrowing Stabilityโ
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.
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 othersโ. The beauty of discovering that a meaningful life was never dependent on being free from pain.
I spent years believing my bodyโs 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.
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. โ 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.
If youโve ever noticed your body relax the moment you step into a quiet natural space, youโve already experienced the vagus nerve at work.
That shift, subtle but undeniable, is your nervous system moving out of protection mode and into restoration. Itโs not โall in your head.โ Itโs physiology.
SISNA: one who blooms in chaos; breaker of norms, lover of moonlight and quiet rebellions.
This shift is something we can intentionally support through forest therapy.
What Is the Vagus Nerve?
Have you ever noticed your body doing that thing where itโs technically relaxed but also ready to fight a bear or answer emails (same energy.)
I lived here for years.ย Me ๐๐ผ.
I needed to understand the following information to move out of it.
The vagus nerve is the longest cranial nerve in your body, running from your brainstem down through your face, throat, heart, lungs, and into your digestive system. Its name comes from the Latin word vagus, meaning โwandering.โ A fitting description for a nerve that touches so many systems.
But its true importance lies in what it does.
The vagus nerve is the main highway of your parasympathetic nervous system. The branch responsible for rest, repair, digestion, and healing.
If your nervous system had a group chat, the vagus nerve would be the one constantly saying, โHey guysโฆ maybe weโre okay?โ ๐คทโโ๏ธย
When your vagus nerve is activated, your body shifts out of survival mode and into a state of safety.
Heart rate slows. Muscles release. Inflammation decreases. Digestion improves. And perhaps most importantly, your brain receives a message. It is safe enough to stand down.
But living with chronic pain and receiving that signal clearly, is comparable to listening to my grandkidsโ secrets. 49% air, 50% spit and 1% information. (Toddler secrets are the best ๐)
I only hear about 1% of what they are saying. Similarly, only 1% of that parasympathetic signal was getting through my system.
So the question is, how does one fully activate that vagus nerve to allow the free flow of that signal? The equivalent of interrupting the air and blocking the spit? ๐ทย So the message can be clearly sent and secured.
Regulation is not forced. It is invited.
โธป
An Overactive Detector
Growing up, we had one smoke detector in our old farm house. It was conveniently located in one of the entrances to the kitchen. Beside the stairway leading to the upper level. Where all the hot air travelled.
You can probably guess what happened every time we burned toast. Or overcooked anything. Or opened the oven after something spilled in there.
That overly sensitive smoke deterctor was great in theory. But in practice it did more harm than good.ย
Before checking if there was an actual emergency, family members would rush to grab the tea towel and shoo the smoke away.
Focusing on the alarm. More than what the alarm was trying to say.
Chronic pain is not just about injured tissues or structural problems. It is deeply intertwined with the nervous system. Especially when that system has been stuck in a prolonged state of vigilance. Forever running for the tea towel. ๐โโ๏ธ
When the vagus nerve is underactive (or when sympathetic โfight or flightโ dominates), the body remains on high alert. Over time, this can:
Heighten pain sensitivity
Amplify inflammation
Disrupt sleep and recovery
Keep muscles in a semi-contracted, guarded state
Pain, in this context, becomes less about damage and more about protection.
Your nervous system is trying (often overzealously) to keep you safe.
The goal is not to force the pain away, but to gently teach the body that it is safe enough to soften its defenses.
A regulated body tells a different story than a protected one.
The forest offers consistent, non-threatening input. No pop ups. No deadlines.
No one asking if youโve โjust tried stretching.โ ๐คฆโโ๏ธ Saints preserve us! Bless them for trying.
Suggested cheeky replies:
โYou have such a unique way of understanding things.โ
โIโm surprised you feel comfortable enough to say that out loud.โ
And then come back to presence. Presence is the language of the vagus nerve.
โธป
A Forest Therapy Practice:
Sensory Immersion for Vagal Activation
This is a simple, gentle practice you can do in any natural setting. A forest, park, or even your backyard.
The Invitation: โLet the Forest Meet Your Sensesโ
Arrive Slowly– Stand or sit comfortably. Notice your feet on the ground. No need to change anything, just arrive.
Sight (Soft Eyes)– Let your gaze widen. Instead of focusing on one object, allow your eyes to take in the whole scene. Notice colors, light, and movement without labeling them. Let your eyes receive, rather than search.
Sound (Layered Listening)– Close your eyes if it feels safe. Notice the closest soundโฆ then the farthestโฆ then everything in between. Birds, wind, distant traffic, your own breath. You are not trying to identify, just to hear.
Touch (Contact Points)– Bring awareness to where your body meets the world. Feet on earth. Air on skin. Clothing against your body. If you feel drawn, touch something natural. A leaf, bark, stone. Let the contact be mutual. You are touching, and being touched.
Smell (Subtle Scent)– Inhale gently through your nose. Notice any scent, earthy, fresh, faint, or even absent. There is no need to โfindโ anything. Simply notice what is.
Breath (Unforced)– Finally, bring awareness to your breath. Let it be exactly as it is. Often, by now, it has already softened.
Stay here for 5โ15 minutes. No goal. No outcome to achieve. Just sensory conversation.
Stillness is not emptyโit is full of signals your body understands.
This practice engages multiple sensory pathways simultaneously in a non-threatening environment. This combination is particularly powerful for vagal activation because it:
Interrupts repetitive thought loops
Anchors attention in the present moment
Provides steady, predictable sensory input
Encourages a shift from โdoingโ to โreceivingโ
Over time, these experiences build what is called vagal tone. Your nervous systemโs ability to return to a state of calm after stress.
And with improved vagal tone, the body becomes less reactiveโฆ and more resilient.
โธป
The Paradox of Stillness
There are people who donโt experience stillness as calming.
For them, slowing down can actually make things feel worse. The moment the body stops, tension rises. Pain becomes louder. The nervous system, so used to staying a step ahead, interprets stillness as vulnerability rather than safety.
Iโve walked with someone like this before, someone whose body trusted movement far more than pause.
So we didnโt begin with stillness.
We began with gentle movement. Walking slowly, letting the rhythm of steps create a sense of predictability. Just enough awareness to stay connected, but not so much that it tipped into overwhelm.
Over time, the environment began to do what it does best. Quietly influencing the pace. The quality of light, the steadiness of the trees, the soothing sounds of water. Just inviting. Nothing rushed.
Eventually, there was a natural moment to pause.
Not imposed. Not held too long. Just a brief stop in a place that felt neutral enough.
What stood out wasnโt what happened, but what didnโt.
The expected spike in tension didnโt arrive right away.
And in that small gap between what the body anticipated and what it actually experienced, there was space for something new.
Not relief, exactly.
But possibility. Hope.
Later, what they recognized wasnโt just the moment itself, but the pattern behind it. The way their body had learned to brace in advance, not just in response. (The run for the tea towel!)
That awareness didnโt erase the pain.
But it introduced a different relationship to it.
This kind of experience doesnโt feel like much until you realize your body stopped arguing with itself. And when youโre used to those arguments lasting 2-3 business days, the silence is sweetly deafening.ย
And when the nervous system experiences even a brief interruption to its usual pattern, it begins to update its expectations.
And thatโs where change begins. Not in dramatic shifts, but in quiet moments where the body realizes:
this isnโt unfolding the way I thought it would.
Itโs better.
โธป
Thoughts to Take with You
The vagus nerve does not respond to force.
It responds to safety.
And safety is not something you can think your way intoโit is something you feel your way into.
The forest, in its quiet wisdom, offers exactly that. No effort required. (Which, depending on your personality, may be the hardest part.)
In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.
Many trails in Saskatchewan are shimmering. Beautifully. Treacherously.
I’m pretty sure they are trying to kill me.
Sparkling snow is magical. Sparkling frost is beautiful.
But sparkling ice on a forest trail?
Thatโs a different category entirely. โBe gone foul thing!โ
When you live with hypermobility, ice is less of a winter decoration and more of a full-contact sport.
For most people, a slip on an icy trail means a flail of the arms, a laugh, and maybe a comment. “Watch out for the icy patch!”.
For someone with hypermobility, that same moment can mean:
a rib that determines it would rather live somewhere other than its intended slot
a shoulder that doth protest too much (because the shoulder blade is sliding down your back)
muscles that grip like overprotective bodyguards
and a new entry in the ever-growing logbook titled โWellโฆ that escalated quickly.โ
A small jolt or an awkward catch. And suddenly a split second wobble becomes three months of physiotherapy, muscle protecting and pain with every movement.
Exhaustion from the constant battleFoot bones out Lower back muscle spasm keeping me mostly bed ridden, this was my short escapeA foot up as I pose with siblings to hold me balanced after a physio adjustment Rib out and going to watch a show, hoping Iโll make it. Right thigh stuck in spasm, nervous system in a flare. Depression, why bother trying? No matter how hard I try, I always have painful subluxations.
Winter walking becomes less like a casual stroll and more like a strategic mission.
Our hypermobile bodies clearly have a different set of rules.
Living with hypermobility also means developing a surprisingly intimate relationship with your physiotherapist.
Years ago I realized I owned an entire library of tiny resistance bands in colours that sounded deceptively cheerful.
Coral. Mint. Lavender. Suggesting relaxation and beach vacations.
In reality they represented fifteen very specific exercises. Each designed to convince my shoulder, hip, or rib that staying in place is actually an excellent idea.
In more recent years, overall strengthening through running has become my greatest hope against hope.
Thankfully those resistance bands are now packed away. They were the bane of my existence for years. Strengthen the shoulder, put out the elbow, wrist, and fingers. Strengthen the hip, put out the knee, ankle and toes.
If you live with chronic pain, you also know the strange pleasure of telling people:
โYes, I injured myself sneezing.โ
And then watching them try to politely hide their confusion. ๐
Enigmatic Equations Await
People with chronic pain develop a special kind of mental math.
Before leaving the house, the brain quietly runs a checklist:
How icy is it?
How far is the trail?
What muscles are already staging a coup today?
What are the odds Iโll slip, twist, or do the worldโs slowest accidental yoga pose?
Slipping into something a little more comfortable (psychosis)
These calculations happen constantly.
Because when joints are extra flexible, the body relies heavily on muscles to hold everything together.
If those muscles get surprised by a sudden slip on ice, they react like overcaffeinated security guards.
We donโt even have to experience a crash landing. A slight โwhoopโ. Everything tightens. Followed shortly by, everything hurts. Sometimes for a very long time.
And yetโฆ Staying inside is not the answer.
Inside Out: The Hidden Dangers of Staying Indoors
My soul was not designed for indefinite indoor storage.
After a few days of being cooped up, something starts to happen.
First a restlessness.
Then a longing.
Then a slightly dramatic moment standing at the window staring outside like a Victorian character under quarantine.
Because the body may be complicated. But the soul is surprisingly clear about what it needs.
Trees. Sky. Fresh air. The quiet company of chickadees who seem perpetually delighted with life.
I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.
And when chronic pain is part of your life, your nervous system spends a lot of time: out of order.
Pain keeps the brain alert. Guarded. Scanning.
But the forest gently invites something else.
A slower rhythm. A softer focus.
Donโt let perfect get in the way of good enough.
“Break!!”- Dancing Through the Meadow
Hypermobility changes the way you move through the world.
Especially in winter.
Walking on icy trails becomes a very particular style of locomotion that could best be described as:
โCautious woodland creature.โ
Short steps.
Careful weight shifts.
Occasional pauses to test the ground.
One wrong move and suddenly you find yourself soft launching a new form of dance.
Anyone watching from a distance might assume you were practicing some form of extreme slow-motion flamenco ๐ .
But really, youโre simply trying to avoid becoming an accidental case study in sidewalk face implants.
Oddly enough, this cautious way of walking mirrors a core forest therapy practice. Slow walking.
Forest therapy guides often invite people to slow down enough to truly notice the forest.
Hypermobility justโฆ adds extra motivation.
A Little Winter Guiding Advice
I have learned a few things from my winter days on the trail this year.
Boots with ICE FX technology soles are the way to go. I started using them this year. I had two slips in the first couple weeks of winter. I got the boots and I havenโt had a slip since. They are like winter tires. I still have to be careful but they have saved me.
Hiking poles are this girlโs best friend. I am learning when to use them and when to leave them in the car. Days I canโt see the trail under the snow or when the trail is glistening with ice, they are essential. Days the trail is packed with snow and my balance feels good they can stay back.
Some days you just have to stay home. The boots and poles open your world. There are still times when staying home is the safest and best option. It is not worth the risk of a fall. Or a tweak. Walking in a mall or other large indoor space can meet some of your physical movement needs. As the snow melts, you can extend outdoor Earthing sessions in a safe, seated position until the ice is gone.
Nervous Systems: A Unified Network
There is another layer to chronic pain that people donโt see.
The nervous system becomes watchful.
When pain appears often enough, the brain begins to scan constantly for the next signal. Muscles tighten sooner. Reflexes fire faster. The body becomes protective.
Itโs not weakness. Itโs survival.
But a nervous system that spends too much time in protection mode eventually forgets how to settle.
This is one of the quiet gifts of time in nature. Not just for enjoyment but for nervous system survival.
As Japanese physician Yoshifumi Miyazaki, one of the pioneers of forest bathing research, observed:
The forest environment allows the nervous system to shift from vigilance to restoration.
For someone managing chronic pain, that shift is not small. It is validating.
Research into forest environments has shown that simply being among trees can lower cortisol, calm heart rate, and shift the nervous system out of constant vigilance.
In other words, the forest gently persuades the body:
You are safe enough to soften.
And for someone living with chronic pain, that reminder can be profoundly healing.
Frosty Therapy: Nature’s Icy Embrace for the Soul
If winter trails feel risky but your spirit still needs the forest, try this gentle practice.
Practice: Borrowing Stability
Find a tree nearby and place one hand against the trunk.
Feel the firmness of the bark under your palm. Trees have been practicing stability for a very long time.
Take three slow breaths.
Notice your feet inside your boots.
Notice the ground supporting you.
Then take three very slow steps. With each step, quietly ask: What does stability feel like right now?
You might be surprised how much calmer the nervous system becomes when movement slows down.
Winter walking with hypermobility includes both beauty and risk. Moments of deep solace among the trees and occasional grievances to file with a body that requires extra grit.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Perhaps winter forest walks teach that same wisdom.
Conscientious step by conscientious step.
The Whispers of Accord
Living with chronic pain sometimes feels like a negotiation between the body and the soul.
The body says: Please be wary.
The soul says: Please go outside.
The forest, thankfully, doesnโt insist on perfect joints or pain-free muscles.
It simply offers a place to breathe.
Scottish nature writer Nan Shepherd wrote about being in the mountains:
The thing to be known grows with the knowing.
Perhaps the same is true of our bodies.
The more we learn their quirks and their quiet wisdom, the more gently we can move through the world. Even when the trail shimmers with ice and every step requires a little forethought.
Because sometimes healing isnโt about conquering the path. Sometimes itโs simply about finding a way to keep walking among the trees.
So yes, SK winter trails sometimes feel like obstacle courses designed specifically for people with hypermobile joints to fail.
And yes, the body occasionally protests the whole arrangement. Of having any movement at all. Yet consider another quote by Nan Shepherd that leads us back to what matters,
It is a grand thing to get leave to live.
Perhaps that is what these mindful winter walks really are.
A quiet permission to keep living fully, even if the steps are slow and deliberate.
Careful steps. Even slightly wobbly steps.
Keep walking when and where you can. Surrender when called for. We are so close Prairies friends! We have almost made it to Spring! We’ve got this.
Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.๐
-F Scott Fitzgerald
Elder Robert D. Hales once said:
When you cannot do what you have always done, then you only do what matters most.
Those words sink deep for me as someone who lives with chronic pain.
There are many things I cannot do anymoreโnot the way I used to, not with the energy or freedom I once had. And yet, in the midst of those limitations, Iโve discovered that my life is being reshaped around what truly matters most.
๐ Finding Clarity in Constraints
Elder Hales went on to say:
Physical restrictions can expand vision. Limited stamina can clarify priorities. Inability to do many things can direct focus to a few things of greatest importance.
That is the truth of my life. I donโt have the stamina to do everything I once could. But I do have the vision to see what is worth my energy. Pain has forced me to slow down, to let go of what doesnโt serve me, and to focus on what is most meaningfulโfaith, relationships, healing moments, and time in nature. ๐ฒ
๐ โCome What May and Love Itโ
Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin also offered a phrase I want to cling to:
Come what may, and love it.
His mother taught him those words, and he later reminded us that
adversity, if handled correctly, can be a blessing in our lives.
I admitโI donโt always love it. There are days when pain feels relentless, and my instinct is to resist, to grieve what Iโve lost, or to dwell in shame when I make mistakes. I make a lot of those. Mistakes. I find my brain just checks out while dealing with chronic pain. ๐ง
๐ค A Maritime Memoir Best Left Unsailed
Like this past weekend, for example. I may or may not have put my husband and myself in mortal danger on the lake (๐ฌ oops). I turned off the boat engine when the battery was lowโthinking Iโd heard Brent say to shut it off. Turns out, he had said the opposite. ๐ณ
This process set off so many megaddons-
We would have drifted helplessly across the lake. But Brent, my hero, jumped in and anchored us to shore ๐ฅถ . Now he was soaked through with no dry clothes.
Meanwhile, the navy was literally training around us, however, we were too embarrassed to ask for help. What would you have done?
My dad had to haul out his sailboat โต๏ธ that was already getting packed away for winter. The sight of them motoring across the harbor with no sailsโฆwell, letโs just say it was memorable.
There we were, covered in lifejackets and wrapped in blankets, being eaten alive by biting flies.
At the time, I didnโt want to โcome what may and love it.โ I wanted to wallow in shame for the mistake that stranded us. But shame didnโt help. It only made me feel worse.
Looking back, I see parts of it that were quite humorous.
Brent’s pants (they had to be fished out of the lake after the wind blew them from their safe perch where they would stay dry while he swam us to safety) soon had the appearance that we had been shipwrecked for months by the time rescue came.
Wet sweatpants are diabolical. Wet sweat shorts on the other hand- marginally better.
So out came the fishing knife (he did not have them on at this stage of the procedure) and off came his pride and a few inches of dripping fleece. Suggesting a shipwreck much longer than the hour or so that it actually turned into.
I couldn’t help but think in this scenario, I was the Gilligan.
On the contrary, the more loving responseโfor myselfโwould have been to let it go. To choose self compassion. To laugh. To accept my parents’ kindness.
And Brent’s! Even as he frantically thought through what he needed to do then jumped in the water. Even as he stood there shivering and dripping wet. Even as he swatted flies in nothing but my blanket, he told me not to worry. Not to feel bad.
He encouraged self compassion from the outset. To remember that we would survive the โfly apocalypse,โ catch a fish ๐ฃ , and make it home safely. He reminded me to stay focused on what matters.
And look at that, he DID catch one!
Meanwhile…
The devil whispered in my ear, “You’re not strong enough to withstand this storm.” I whispered in the devil’s ear, “I love your eggs.” ๐คฆ๐ผโโ๏ธ
๐ Woodland Wellness: Discovering Peace Among Trees ๐ฒ
Elder Hales reminded us that even the senior leaders of our church arenโt spared from affliction:
Rather, they are blessed and strengthened to press forward valiantly while suffering in and with affliction.
That idea gives me hope. If they can press forward valiantly, maybe so can I. Maybe so can we. Whatever our struggle may be.
Thatโs where forest therapy comes in for me. When my pain feels like too much, I turn to the forest.
Dendrolatry
a deep reverence for the trees, where every branch whispers ancient wisdom and every root holds the secrets of the earth– to honour a tree is to honour the quiet, sacred connection between life and nature.
The forest is where I remember how to breathe, how to soften, how to let go of shame and find a thread of joy. The forest teaches me that even in adversity, there can be beauty. Even when Iโm hurting, there can be laughter, resilience, and connection.
My adversity is chronic pain. It is woven into every corner of my life. It shapes my days and my choices, and so it will show up in my writing and conversations, too. It is part of who I am.
Some people wish Iโd talk about it less, but this is my reality. And itโs also where Iโve learned to discover meaning, humor, and even joy.
The woods invite me to notice beauty even when pain is loud. The trees ๐๐ผ donโt erase adversity, but they remind me that I am still alive, still loved, and still capable of joy. ๐
๐ Embracing Love, Bidding Farewell to Shame
So next time I find myself swarmed by biting flies (literally or figuratively in the form of invasive thoughts), or when I am caught in the grip of pain, I hope I can remember Elder Wirthlinโs (and his motherโs) invitation:
Come what may, and love it.
Not because itโs easy. But because itโs the better way forward. ๐
September was a thirty- days long goodbye to summer, to the season that left everybody both happy and weary of the warm, humid weather and the exhausting but thrilling adventures
-Lea Malot
As we bid farewell to shame we also bid farewell to summer. The following is an unorganized smattering of my summer adventures. Enjoy perusing (or skip it altogether). I encourage you to do the same. Enjoy your memories. Feel free to share stories or pictures in the comments!
Nisbet Forest hikeHidden gem forestHepburn Forest workshopLake LouiseSouth Saskatchewan RiverThe night the sky put on an electrifying showSailing ๐Standing in mountain waterWatching a sunset from a mountain peakA Berry Barn grounds meanderDiefenbaker Lake. My summer home. Cool kids on a cool motorbike rideOn my streetAlong a walkSpadina CrescentPoplar BluffsThe lake shortly after spring thawOn a roof!In the backyardHikes and waterfallsBlossomsGrounding in the best of placessurviving road tripsRunning around the trampolineOur very own beachMirror LakeCamping at Zig ZagCabin at Fishing LakeSetting upA 1st birthdayWatching Steven Page LiveA 3 yr old boyBoatingThe best of sailorsWalks along the riverA car tour east of Saskatoon when my leg would not allow for a hikeSuccessful fishing tripsTrans Canada TrailDroning by the riverThe ExhibitionA sit n chat with a friend on a rainy daySo many cute mushrooms!A beautiful weddingThe park with my little buddyBeaver Creek chickadees
Enjoy your life and the beauty that nature provides. If you’d like to schedule a forest therapy walk before the snow flies, let me know in the comments, or email me @ pam.munkholm@gmail.com I’d love to show you how healing it really is.
SUNBEAM ACRES 