Tag: invisible illness

The Art of Losing Your Train of Thought

pammunkholm

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

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

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

Thoughts. Words. Names. Entire conversations.

Sometimes I can actually feel the thought leaking out.

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

And then whoosh. Gone.

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

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

My brain has entered autumn

Autumn is a strange season.

Everything is changing, but nothing is necessarily wrong.

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

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

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

“The poor dear.”

We understand that it’s a transition.

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

I think menopause can be a little like that.

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

The disappearing conversation

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

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

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

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

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

What was I talking about? Two seconds ago!

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

That’s fair.

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

Then there was Nemo.

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

Except I had ALL of the facts mixed up.

I got basically every piece of information wrong.

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

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

Five corrections in three sentences?!?

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

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

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

I was one correction away from jumping in the lake.

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

I think it’s important to laugh.

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

I’m not broken.

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

We are not pathetic. Ridiculous. Deficient.

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

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

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

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

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

No. Our brains are changing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you start wondering:

Am I losing it?

There is an actual biological reason for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No wonder it occasionally says,

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

But it could work on its timing.

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

The invisible part

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

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

Because women are still expected to function.

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

We have spent decades proving that we’re capable.

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

And that can mess with your head.

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

That fear is hard. And so is the embarrassment.

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

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

You are not broken.

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

That’s very different.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s the slightly ridiculous thing about invisible conditions.

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

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

Until I overheat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet sometimes the inside is working through some stuff.

The forest doesn’t panic when the leaves fall

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

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

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

And then it changes how it spends its energy.

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

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

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

That doesn’t mean accepting every symptom without question.

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

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

Then there’s forest therapy.

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

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

Numinous

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

So what can the forest actually do?

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

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

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

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

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

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

The forest gives us an opportunity to slow down.

To pay attention without having to accomplish anything.

To move gently.

To breathe.

To notice.

To let the nervous system come down a notch.

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

Try a seasonal brain reset

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

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

Then try something I call Let the Leaves Fall.

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

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

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

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

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

Then ask yourself:

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

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

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

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

Not fixing. Not forcing. Not fighting.

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

Every season asks something different of us

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

A tree losing its leaves isn’t dying.

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

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

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

And laugh.

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

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

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

I’m not broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now…

What was I talking about?

Everything Hurts, Now What?

pammunkholm

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

Not the legitimate kind.

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

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

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

Some things are a genuine bummer.

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

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

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

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

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

Sneaky lies.

The kind that slip in wearing sensible shoes.

E.g.

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

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

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

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

🤭 Cute.

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

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

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

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

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

That doesn’t mean you failed.

It means you’re human.

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

This one is considerably more dangerous.

Because chronic pain can shrink our world.

First we stop doing something because it hurts.

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

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

Then we start thinking about everything we’ve lost.

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

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

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

I can’t live like I used to becomes:

I can’t do anything.

I’m having a terrible pain day becomes:

I’m always in unmanageable pain.

I can’t make plans reliably becomes:

My life is completely out of my control.

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

We’re no longer simply describing our circumstances.

We’re rehearsing them.

Over and over.

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

But here’s where I need to be careful.

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

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

No.

Absolutely not.

I have chronic pain.

This is not a part-time hobby.

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

Sometimes I need to say:

“Today really hurts.”

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

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

I don’t need a motivational quote.

I need a witness.

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

This is one of the hardest parts of chronic pain.

Because pain doesn’t take weekends or holidays off.

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

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

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

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

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

And sometimes that comes out as:

“That sucks.”

Then they go back to whatever they were doing.

Ouch 😣

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

Please stop talking about this 🙄 .

But there is another possibility.

Maybe they’re not saying:

Your pain doesn’t matter.

Maybe they’re saying:

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

Maybe they’re exhausted too.

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

And here’s an inconvenient truth:

Both people can be hurting.

The person with chronic pain can need to be heard.

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

Those two things can be true at the same time.

So how do we complain in a healthy way?

Maybe the answer isn’t don’t complain.

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

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

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

Sometimes I’m asking:

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

That’s a different request.

Instead of:

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

I might try:

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

Or:

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

Or even:

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

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

They don’t have to cure chronic pain.

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

They just have to be present.

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

This one is tricky.

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

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

But perhaps we can build a different language around it.

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

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

That is very different from:

“I’m sick of hearing you complain.”

One establishes a boundary.

The other makes the person feel like the problem.

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

So perhaps healthy communication lives somewhere in the middle.

Tell the truth.

Don’t catastrophize the truth.

Ask for what you actually need.

Give the other person permission to have limits.

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

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

Even if that human being is married to you.

Your brain is listening to you.

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

They’re constantly interpreting what is happening.

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

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

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

In very simple terms:

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

That does NOT mean chronic pain is imaginary.

It does NOT mean positive thinking cures illness.

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

Puh-lease. ✋

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

But it does mean there may be a difference between:

“This hurts.”

and

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

The first is information.

The second is a story.

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

Validation isn’t the same thing as agreement.

This is an important distinction.

If I say:

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

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

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

You can say:

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

That’s validation.

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

You’re acknowledging the experience.

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

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

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

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

🛟 “I believe you.”

🛟 “That sounds really hard.”

🛟 “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

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

Sometimes I need help.

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

And sometimes I need everyone to leave me alone.

Which brings me to the forest.

The forest is a third party in the conversation.

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

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

The forest doesn’t say:

“Again with the pain?”

It doesn’t say:

“You’ve already told me this.”

It doesn’t say:

“That sucks.”

It simply gives me something else to notice.

The sound of wind moving through branches.

The texture of bark.

Birdsong.

The smell of damp earth.

Bosky

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

Light moving through leaves.

My feet touching the ground.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes that is enough to interrupt the loop.

Try this the next time you catch yourself complaining.

Don’t shame yourself.

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

Instead, pause.

Ask:

What am I actually needing right now?

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

Am I simply needing someone to say:

“That really sucks.”

Because sometimes that is enough.

Then ask yourself:

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

Maybe it’s your spouse.

Maybe it’s a friend who understands.

Maybe it’s a support group.

Maybe it’s a therapist.

Maybe it’s a journal.

Maybe it’s the forest.

And maybe sometimes it’s you.

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

Frankly, that sounds exhausting.

I still complain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is still a world happening outside my symptoms.

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

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

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

Even if it hurts. Especially then.

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

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

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

You Are a Success Story

pammunkholm

My physiotherapist, “J,” has been with me through it all.

She has seen me on some of my best days over the past 15 years of working with her.

  • The day I told her I was finally pregnant with the baby I had tried nearly a decade to conceive.
  • The day I said, “I’m running again.” After years of pain making even the thought of it feel impossible. My body has approached physical activity like a suspicious cat approaches a cucumber in the past.
  • She heard me process the long, exhausting teenage years of push and pull with my oldest child. And then my second. Followed by my third. The painful years that felt like emotional whiplash and then she celebrated with me when they all graduated. She understood firmly the mentality of, We did it! On each occasion.
  • She walked alongside me through buying and selling homes.
  • When Kenzie got engaged. Jamie transitioned. Riley moved in with his girlfriend.
  • When all three times I found out I was going to be a grandma, she was one of the first people to know.
  • When I started a forest therapy business and dared to believe healing could become something I offered others.

She has witnessed joy. Growth. Milestones.

Baby #4
Grandbaby #1
I’m running outside!
Grandbaby #2
Riley and Grey
Graduation #1
Graduation #2
Engagement #1
Home sale #2

We have laughed together as I walked around in a body that behaved like it’s been assembled from spare parts with vague instructions and one missing screw.

Proof that life can still bloom in hard soil.

And she has also sat with me on some of my worst days.

  • The day I fell off a boat and we both knew recovery would not be quick.
  • The years I fought to be taken seriously by medical professionals before finally getting the MRI that revealed my bone spur. Disappointing specialist appointments. Medical gaslighting.
  • Family job losses.
  • Kids in car crashes.
  • The miscarriage of the baby I had fought so hard to conceive. She cried with me that day. And the day I told her I was going ahead with the hysterectomy that closed that door entirely. We were so hopeful that would help my overall health.
  • Surgeries that did not go well.
  • The passing of dear friends.
  • The painful decision to close my business and then Brent’s and eventually to stop working.
  • Leaving the farm and grieving all that move represented. She understood, she’s a farm girl.
  • And the appointment Christmas Eve where she examined me and realized something was deeply wrong. I had almost no muscle mass. I was so weak and felt so broken, useless, a waste of skin.
Car crash #1
Fell off the boat
An MRI changed everything
Following surgery
Car crash #3
Car crash #2
Farm life

I could write pages about what J and I have discussed over the years. At some point, she became more than someone treating my body. She became someone quietly witnessing my life story unfold.

The size of my kids when I started seeing J
The size of my kids today.

And then one ordinary appointment changed how I saw myself.

It started like any other. I explained where the pain was. What had shifted in my workouts. What stress was doing to my body. What daily life had looked like since we last met.

She examined me, worked through familiar areas of tension, and after a moment of silence she said something I think applies to all my chronic comrades:

“You’re a success story. Do you know that?”

My first instinct is always to deflect a compliment.

I think you have me confused with someone whose joints aren’t held together by determination and prayer alone.

But it felt true. It felt like the most true diagnosis I’d ever been given.

She continued, (and I want you to see yourself in this,)

When you look at where you’ve been on your lowest days and where you are now. This is a success story.

You could have closed the doors on life. Stayed in bed. Turned inward. Leaned into fear of the future. You could choose to live frustrated and depressed. White-knuckling your way through existence.

But instead, you keep rebuilding. You keep getting stronger. No matter what knocks you down, you come back.

Like one of those punching balloons from childhood. The ones you smack into the floor and somehow they pop right back up, mildly annoying and aggressively optimistic.

I have a core memory of my cousin’s party. They had one of those balloons in the backyard. As I played with it I wondered what was inside that made it keep popping up.

If resilience had a mascot, I might nominate a half-inflated punching balloon and a woman with heating pads.

J was right though. That’s me. That’s you.

What is it that’s inside us that keeps us popping up, time after time?

Not graceful. Not elegant. Occasionally leaking air. But still coming back up.

Again. And again. And again.

J encouraged me to start writing it down. My story. To let others read it. And that is where this blog began.

A success story, heavily disguised as a challenging life story.

Chronic Pain Does Not Stay in One Box

If you live with chronic pain, you understand this. Pain does not politely stay in your shoulder. Or your spine. Or your hips. Or your joints.

It leaks. It spreads.

It enters your sleep, your patience, your relationships, your finances, your confidence, your work, your parenting, and your identity.

It is never just physical.

The dis-ease spreads just like disease. Not because we are weak. But because pain is invasive.

Scars are not signs of weakness, they are signs of survival.

Yet many people living with chronic pain quietly continue. They raise children. Show up to work. Try to exercise. Cook supper. Pay bills. Care for aging parents. Smile through appointments (and cry after.) Fold laundry while wondering why their body feels like it was assembled by a distracted Ikea employee.

And still… they continue.

That is not failure. That is resilience. That is success.

Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

–JK Rowling

The Exhaustion of Not Being Believed

One of the hardest parts of chronic pain is not always the pain itself. Sometimes it is the disbelief. Unfortunately, this can include close family members. Friends. Employers.

And yes, medical professionals.

When symptoms are invisible, people often assume they are exaggerated. If scans are unclear, they question your tolerance. If you “look fine,” they assume you must be fine.

And so many of us become defenders. Explainers. Evidence gatherers.

Trying desperately to prove that our pain is real. Trying to earn validation. Trying to convince others that suffering exists even when they cannot see it.

But constant defense is exhausting.

As Dallin H. Oaks said:

When attacked by error, truth is better served by silence than by a bad argument.

That quote hit me.

We do not need to defend ourselves from every misunderstanding. Not every person deserves access to our explanations. Not every accusation needs a rebuttal. Not every skeptical glance deserves our emotional energy.

There is a time to inform. And there is a time to walk away.

Never wrestle with pigs. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.

–George Bernard Shaw

Silence is not surrender. Sometimes silence is strength. Sometimes it is peace. Sometimes it is refusing to spend precious energy proving your pain to people committed to misunderstanding it.

Do not explain. Your friends do not need it, and your enemies will not believe you.

–Elbert Hubbard

You Are a Success Story Too

If you live with chronic pain and still carry on…

You are a success story.

If you’ve had to explain your pain as a weird hip or angry neck. Here is your medal in interpretive medicine 🏅…

And you are a success story.

If, like my friend described it, you have been blindsided at a medical appointment and you keep seeking your answers…

You are a success story.

If you got out of bed today and every day, despite exhaustion…

You are a success story.

If you parent through pain…

You are a success story.

If you grieve what your body once was while still learning to care for the body you have now…

You are a success story.

If you feel misunderstood. Lesser. Frustrated. Invisible. You are still a success story.

Do not let anyone take that from you.

You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice.

–Bob Marley

A Forest Therapy Practice: Seeing Yourself in the Landscape

One of the most grounding practices I return to comes from forest therapy.

Take a small mirror with you into nature.

Stand among trees.

Or beneath open sky.

Hold the mirror so your reflection appears framed by branches, clouds, leaves, or light.

Look at yourself. Really look. See your face inside the larger landscape. Notice how you are not separate from nature. You belong here too.

Then ask yourself:

Where was I a year ago?

What have I survived?

How far have I come?

What strength still exists in me?

Appreciate where you are now. Not because healing is complete. But because progress deserves to be witnessed. And because you still have what it takes to continue.

Rivers don’t apologize for moving slowly at some points on their path.

Seasons do not shame themselves for resting.

Maybe we shouldn’t either.

My Success Story Is Still Being Written

I used to think success had to look polished. Strong. Linear. Easy to explain. Now I know better.

Sometimes success looks like rebuilding muscle. Sometimes it looks like surviving grief. Sometimes it looks like asking for help. Sometimes it looks like walking instead of running. Sometimes it looks like closing one chapter when life forces your hand. Sometimes it looks like bouncing back up like an emotionally exhausted inflatable clown with stubborn determination.

I have bounced back like a plastic bag caught in a prairie wind.

Messy. Crooked. Still rising. Still trying.

And maybe that is enough.

Actually

Maybe that is extraordinary.

You are a success story.

If pain has tried to rewrite your life and you still continue…

🫵 You are a success story.

And don’t you forget it. 😉

🤍The Hidden Struggles of Connective Tissue Disorders🤍

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

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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.

  1. Step outside. Your yard, a park, or even just one tree.
  2. Begin a slow, wandering walk. No destination.
  3. Let your attention be drawn to movement:
    • leaves shifting
    • branches swaying
    • light flickering
    • birds moving through space
  4. 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
  5. 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.

Finding Your Zen in the Wild Woods of Menopause

pammunkholm

‘It is no joke and yet it is often passed off as one.’ This sentiment echoes deeply within the experience of menopause. A profound physiological transition that, for too long, has been relegated to hushed whispers and dismissive humor.

But for millions of women, menopause is anything but a laughing matter. It’s a seismic shift, often bringing with it a cascade of less known symptoms that can profoundly impact daily life, exacerbate existing conditions, and leave women feeling utterly adrift in their own bodies.

At one point I felt like I should go live under a bridge and ask people riddles before they cross. I didn’t know where I fit into society any longer.

Then I found forest therapy.

Aut viam inveniam aut faciam;

I will either find a way or I will make one.

Now as a forest therapy guide, I’ve witnessed firsthand the transformative power of nature in navigating life’s most challenging passages, and menopause is no exception.

As Helen Mirren famously said,

Life doesn’t end with menopause; it’s the beginning of a new adventure. Strap in and enjoy the ride!

Silent Struggles: Menopause and Chronic Pain

When we talk about menopause, the conversation often begins and ends with hot flashes.

This is me standing in front of my tower fan at full speed. With the window open to the winter air. Fanning myself. While wearing my neck fan. Hair up and wet. And still the heat builds. My heart races. Light fades. Pay no mind, it’s “only” a hot flash. 🔥 🔥 🔥

Reality is far more complex. Beyond the publicized surges of heat, many women grapple with a host of crafty symptoms that can significantly diminish their quality of life. All without leaving a physical mark.

These include (but are not limited to):

  • widespread musculoskeletal pain, often described as aching all over, which can be a direct consequence of hormonal fluctuations
  • sleep disruption and mood disturbances like depression and irritability
  • even weight gain is a common companion of this transition
  • forMication (make sure you read that right), the feeling that bugs are crawling under the skin, it’s as delightful as it sounds
  • electric shock sensations
  • tinnitus
  • thinning skin and nails
  • oh, and the menopause brain

All things considered, it’s about as fun as getting glitter stuck in your eye while sandpapering a bobcat’s rear end in a phone booth. How someone would end up in such a situation, I can’t say. But the sentiment is spot on. I can assure you.

I experience all of these symptoms. Despite the ongoing issues, the blood work I just had done, says I am the spitting image of health. Bully for me. 

Mark from an ice pack. Pointing at the vertebrae that has shifted.
Not my hand. Sleeplessness is not improved when sleeping beside someone.
Just stretch it out. You’ll be fine.
Snuggles help

I can explain it to my doctors but I can’t understand it for them.

Perhaps one of the most challenging aspects is how menopause can act as an accelerant for chronic pain and illness. Research indicates that women experiencing menopausal symptoms are nearly twice as likely to be diagnosed with chronic pain conditions such as fibromyalgia, migraines, and back pain.

The intricate dance between estrogen and other hormones with pain sensitivity is still being fully understood, but it’s clear that these changing hormone levels can either trigger new pain conditions or worsen existing ones, making them more frequent, severe, and less responsive to previous treatments.

Temperature Trials: The Removal of My Thermostat

I understand this struggle intimately. After my hysterectomy, my body’s internal thermostat seemed to vanish for an entire year.

The first time I experienced a true hot flash I was sitting on our leather couch so the heat was trapped. I sat there wondering, what in the district one of hunger games is this?!?

Then came the realization this could go on for decades! Brilliant.

I’d like to put in a request to have the ‘weaker sex’ label removed.

Through that first year, I was in a constant state of flux, either too hot or too cold, perpetually covered in a thin, clammy layer of cold sweat. I walked around all day and night, haunting my 0wn home, looking like I’d been chewed up and spit out. And feeling much the same.

The simple act of adding or removing layers of clothing became an exhausting ordeal for my pain-riddled body. I only slept an hour at a time.

Even now, years later, the hot flashes persist, arriving every half hour like an unwelcome, fiery guest. Does anybody know what that’s about?!?

This constant battle with temperature regulation, coupled with the relentless physical demands, is a testament to the invisible toll menopause takes. It’s a stark reminder that while the humor shared among women in the trenches is a vital coping mechanism, the belittlement of these severe symptoms is a serious problem.

How many women, I wonder, mask their symptoms, inadvertently allowing them to escalate, simply because society has taught them to endure in silence?

And where, might I ask, is the comprehensive guide to this monumentally disruptive season of life? I’m a few years into this thing and I still have so many questions.

We are, by and large, prepared for puberty in school. The birds and the bees talk, the physical changes, the emotional rollercoaster. But when it comes to menopause, the ‘all inclusive meeting’ on what to expect, how it will look, and how to navigate it, is conspicuously absent. We’re left to piece together information from fragmented online sources, a veritable Wild West of anecdotes and conflicting advice, often encountering one-off stories that are not the norm.

Ask my doctor, you suggest? I don’t spend much time there. I don’t need that kind of negativity and lack of concern in my life.

Who are we left to learn from? It’s a knowledge void that leaves women vulnerable and unprepared.

And then there’s the unspoken rule: Am I supposed to be embarrassed talking about this? I certainly didn’t get that memo, and yet, when I pull out my trusty fan and announce I’m having a hot flash to a group of people, the reactions can be telling. It’s as if I’ve just, well, peed my pants in public, and then announced it when I should have quietly excused myself to deal with the indignity.

Instead of being a normal, open conversation, menopause often feels shrouded in a similar veil of shame that we’ve only recently begun to lift from menstruation.

It’s a deeply unsettling thought that we are, in essence, extending the problem of period shaming through the entirety of a woman’s life from when she gets her period. It’s time to dismantle this expectation of quiet suffering.

Menopause in the Wild: Embracing Forest Therapy

He says that woman speaks with nature. That she hears voices from under the earth. That wind blows in her ears and trees whisper to her.

-Susan Griffin

This is where the wisdom of the wild, and the practice of forest therapy, offers a profound sanctuary.

Nature doesn’t judge; it simply holds space. It reminds us that change is natural, that seasons shift, and that there is immense wisdom and beauty in every stage of life.

Time spent mindfully in nature has been shown to regulate the nervous system, reduce anxiety and depression, improve sleep quality, and lower stress hormones – all critical factors in managing menopausal symptoms and chronic pain.

For those grappling with the unpredictable thermostat and the pervasive aches, a simple yet powerful forest therapy practice can offer solace:

The “Root and Rise” Practice

1. Find Your Spot: Seek out a quiet place in nature. A park, a garden, or a forest. Find a tree that calls to you, one that feels ancient and wise. Stand or sit comfortably at its base.

2. Root Down: Close your eyes gently or soften your gaze. Imagine roots growing from the soles of your feet, deep into the earth. Feel them extending, anchoring you, drawing up stability and calm from the ground beneath you. Acknowledge any discomfort or pain in your body, and imagine those sensations flowing down your roots, being absorbed and transformed by the earth.

3. Rise Up: Now, imagine a gentle, cool breeze moving through the branches of the tree above you, and then through the crown of your head. Feel it cleansing, refreshing, and bringing a sense of spaciousness. Envision your spine lengthening, your shoulders relaxing, and your breath flowing freely. This is your internal thermostat finding its equilibrium, gently recalibrating with the rhythm of nature.

4. Observe and Breathe: Open your eyes and simply observe your surroundings. Notice the textures of the bark, the patterns of the leaves, the sounds of the birds, the scent of the earth, the fractal patterns in the branches of the trees. Breathe deeply, inhaling the fresh air, exhaling any lingering tension. Allow the forest to hold you, to soothe your nervous system, and to remind you of your inherent resilience.

5. Return with Gratitude: When you feel ready, gently bring your awareness back to your body. Thank the tree and the natural world for their support. Carry this sense of calm and connection with you as you re-engage with your day.

This practice, even for a few minutes, can be a powerful tool to regulate your internal state, ease chronic pain, and reconnect with your inner strength. It’s a gentle reminder that, like the forest, you too can adapt, shed, and flourish through every season of life.

The Way of Change: Crafting Wisdom Through Transformation

Menopause is not an ending, but a profound metamorphosis. It is a time for women to reclaim their power, to listen to the deep wisdom of their bodies, and to shed what no longer serves them. 

As Rachel Carson wisely said,

Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.

This journey, though challenging, can lead to a deeper connection with self and nature.

Let us, as women, embrace this transition not with resignation, but with reverence. Let us support each other, share our stories, and demand the understanding and care we deserve.

For in doing so, we not only heal ourselves but also pave the way for future generations to navigate this sacred passage with grace and strength.

My beautiful granddaughter

The Biggest Rocks, Near Enemies, and the Stillness That Tells the Truth

pammunkholm

As a forest therapy guide, I spend a lot of time listening. Not just to birds and wind, but to the quiet wisdom that surfaces when life slows down. Recently, while listening to the Follow Him podcast with guest Dr. John Hilton III, I was struck by how clearly their insights mirrored what I see every day in nature-based healing.

The Silent Saboteur of Greatness: Settling for “Good Enough”

Dr. Hilton shared a story Warren Buffett once told about his pilot, Mike Flint. Buffett asked Flint to list his 25 most important goals, then circle the top five. Flint assumed the remaining 20 would simply be addressed later, as time allowed.

But Buffett surprised him.

Those other 20 goals, he said, were not “later” goals. They were avoid-at-all-costs goals. Why? Because what most often pulls us away from our very best work isn’t something bad. It’s something good. Interesting. Worthy. Pretty good.

And that’s the danger. Pretty good competes quietly. It distracts us without alarming us. It drains time and energy while convincing us we’re still doing something valuable.

Choosing Wisely: Balancing Big and Small in a Limited Jar

You’ve probably heard the “big rocks” analogy: if you put the big rocks in the jar first, then the small rocks, then the sand, everything fits. It’s a powerful visual reminder to prioritize what matters most. In a day. In a year. In a life.

But Dr. Hilton pointed out something that often gets overlooked. In real life, no one measures out the rocks and dirt ahead of time so it all fits. Neat and tidy. Many of us simply have too many big rocks.

The daily work.

The self care.

The appointments.

The responsibilities we can’t opt out of.

At some point, the work becomes less about fitting everything in and more about asking a braver question:

Which rock is the biggest?

And then: Which one comes next?

For those of us living with chronic pain or limited energy, this question isn’t philosophical. It’s survival.

The real work is not to prioritize what’s on your schedule, but to schedule your priorities.

— Stephen Covey

Near Enemies: The Perils of Almost Right

Psychologist Kristin Neff teaches about near enemies. Qualities or choices that look helpful on the surface but quietly undermine what we actually need.

In compassion practice, for example, self‑compassion’s near enemy is self‑pity. In mindfulness, it might be zoning out instead of being present. Near enemies are dangerous not because they are wrong, but because they are convincing.

They imitate wisdom.

They borrow the language of care.

They feel responsible.

And yet, they subtly pull us away from what truly nourishes us.

Familiar Foes: Chronic Pain’s Close Encounters

When you live with chronic pain or chronic illness, near enemies show up everywhere:

  • Filling your day with “useful” tasks instead of the few essential ones that protect your health.
  • Trying every therapy instead of committing energy to the one or two that truly help.
  • Positive thinking that bypasses your body’s real signals.
  • Staying busy so you don’t have to feel how tired you actually are

Even healing practices can become near enemies when they cost more energy than they restore.

In these seasons, discernment matters more than discipline.

Unearthing Clarity: The Truth of Forest Therapy

Nature has a way of clarifying what belongs and what doesn’t.

In the stillness of the forest, the nervous system softens. The noise quiets. And without effort, priorities begin to rearrange themselves.

Here, the biggest rocks often reveal themselves as simple, foundational truths:

  • Enough sleep
  • Nourishing food
  • Gentle, appropriate movement
  • Nervous system regulation
  • Emotional safety

These are not optional extras. They are the largest rocks.

From there, we can begin to see the next biggest rocks. Helpful therapies, meaningful connection, creative expression, without confusing them for the foundation itself.

And finally, with compassion, we can begin to sift out what simply does not fit in this season of life. Not forever. Just for now.

Arabic proverb: Sunshine all the time creates a desert.

Perhaps, in the storms, roots deepen and rain helps us grow.

The Significance of Near Enemies

Near enemies are dangerous because they:

  • Masquerade as wisdom
  • Drain limited energy
  • Keep us busy instead of well
  • Pull focus from what truly supports healing

For those living with chronic pain, the cost of mistaking a near enemy for a true ally is high. Energy is precious. Attention is finite. Choosing the wrong “good thing” can mean losing access to the best thing.

You can do anything, but not everything.

— David Allen

Letting Go

There was a season when I was frantically searching for a diagnosis. Searching not just for answers, but for validation. I was living with constant, invisible pain that no one could see and few seemed to understand. And so I chased understanding wherever I thought it might live.

I pursued every avenue. Every referral. Every therapy that sounded even remotely promising. I read, researched, pushed, argued, advocated. Believing that if I just searched hard enough, fought clearly enough, or proved my case convincingly enough, I would arrive at the answer. A conclusion. A resolution. A moment where someone would finally say, “Yes. This is real.”

What I didn’t recognize at the time was my near enemy.

On the surface, what I was doing looked responsible. Even admirable. I was being proactive. Informed. Determined. But underneath it all, my hope had quietly become tangled up in outcomes, test results, and external validation. The search itself, though it looked like healing, was slowly exhausting me.

I needed to let go of the illusion that my life might have been different.

It’s in my eyes. I tried to hide it. But I see now I was not overly successful in that attempt. Through that time, I could best be explained. By these words someone wrote, “she’s got the hospitality of a Southern belle and the emotional stability of a raccoon in a Dollar General.” Or these accurate words, “I’m currently looking for a moisturizer that hides the fact I’ve been exhausted since 2019.”

Each clear test result landed not as relief, but as another erosion of trust. My pain was getting worse, not better. And I suspect my medical charts were, too. Notes growing heavier, more complicated, perhaps less in my favor as frustration mounted on both sides.

Still, I kept searching. Because stopping felt like giving up.

Eventually, I had to face the truth. This relentless pursuit wasn’t leading me toward healing. It was pulling me away from it.

I still don’t have clean answers or a tidy diagnosis. But something essential has shifted. I no longer outsource my validation. It doesn’t come from a test, a label, or a professional conclusion. It comes from listening to my own lived experience.

These aren’t the only people. But it’s a good chunk of them.

I’m deeply grateful for the people in my life who try to understand my pain, even when they can’t see it. They may not witness the pain itself, but they see me. And that has mattered more than I once believed possible.

Some answers have arrived gently, settling on me soft as a sunbeam. Others have been harder, more confronting. But I no longer search frantically.

That frantic searching. The good‑looking, well‑intentioned chase for certainty was my near enemy. And laying it down made space for something quieter, truer, and far more healing.

What you tend grows. What you ignore fades.

Forest Reflections

Near enemies are not mistakes. They are invitations to deepen our discernment.

When we learn to tell the difference between the important and the essential. Between the helpful and the healing. We begin to live with greater integrity toward our bodies and our limits.

And often, it is the forest. Quiet, patient, and uncompromising that helps us remember which rock truly belongs in our hands today.

Rest is not idleness. Sometimes lying on the grass under trees on a summer’s day… is hardly a waste of time.

— John Lubbock

“Just Tired” Isn’t Even Close: Living with ME–CFS and Finding Healing

pammunkholm

The body is not an obstacle to the soul, but its instrument and means of expression.

— Pope Saint John Paul II

When I tell someone I have chronic fatigue, they often laugh softly, like I’ve made a dramatic overstatement.

Don’t we all have chronic fatigue these days? I imagine them thinking.

And I get it. Life is exhausting. The world is loud. Everyone is stretched thin.

But when you add the ME part. That’s the myalgic encephalomyelitis. Suddenly the picture changes. Here is a quick breakdown of ME and some of its symptoms.

ME–CFS isn’t about being worn out from a long day of being human. It didn’t start from lack of conditioning. I did not cause this.

It’s about being tired all the time.

Pushing through all the time.

And paying dearly for it afterward.

I like to share this graphic 👇🏼 that shows a breakdown of the name of the condition. More than a bad night’s sleep or a long, hard day. This isn’t a mindset problem. It’s not laziness. It’s not weakness. It’s a body that can no longer produce or distribute energy the way it once did.

And that comes with grief.

Grief for the skills and abilities I no longer have.

Grief for the version of me that could say yes without calculating the cost.

Grief for the way I worry I’ll be perceived (unreliable, flaky, distant) when really I’m just surviving in a body that demands a different rhythm.

Unmasking the True Price of “Energy Takes Everything”

I’ve had to pattern my life after my condition instead of pushing through like the rest of the world celebrates doing.

And some days, that still feels like failure. Even though I know it isn’t.

I’ve found a rhythm that works for me.

And I want to be confident in it.

It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.

— Confucius

But here’s the part people don’t see:

Everything takes energy.

Take the feelings you have at the very end of a long day:

Hard to find something to eat because every step feels heavy. Hard to have patience for the people in your space. Hard to think creatively or problem-solve.

Normally, you’d say: I just need a good night’s sleep. Then I will be myself again.

But when that good night’s sleep never comes. Neither does the motivation, the emotional regulation, or the clarity to solve even the smallest dilemmas.

And those complications build… and build… and build.

Then there’s the big life stuff I feel like I will never be able to address when I am always dealing with constant minor emergencies. A migraine. A vertebrae stuck out. Spasms.

What’s my purpose? How do I set priorities? How do I live well in this body? How do I figure it all out when my brain just wants to sleep?

Sometimes I end up spinning in a washing machine of choices that made sense in the moment:

Made sense in the moment: “I have to eat well.” I go get groceries. Get home. Collapse. Can’t get back up. Order pizza (the dirty laundry I get stuck in a spin cycle with).

Made sense in the moment: “I have to practice self-care.” I gather everything. Run the bath. Lay down… and don’t have the energy to actually do the care. Back to bed (the dirty sheets I get tangled up in).

Made sense in the moment: “I have to take care of myself.” Someone needs help. I don’t respond. Then guilt rushes in and it steals what little peace I had left. (those laundry items that always pass on a grease stain, no matter how many times its been washed)

So I’ve learned to live differently.

My rhythm now is:

  • rest
  • spiritual study
  • learning
  • creating
  • easy self-care
  • easy and somewhat healthy meals
  • visiting like-minded souls
  • serving where I can
  • protecting my peace

Nothing is set in stone.

Nothing is required.

It’s simply what works for me

My story of ME

It seems easy. I’m tired. I should sleep. But sleep doesn’t help. I just go between varying types of tired.

Nerves are easily triggered with this condition. So bringing the vibrating down and the peace level up is critical.

I enjoy baths. They initiate a truce with my body. Where the pain subsides. I can lay suspended and liberated.

When I am in need of one of these sessions I lay in bed and think about how wonderful it would feel.

Often I don’t have the strength to begin. To gather myself and my stuff. To stand while the tub starts to fill. To change temperatures by changing rooms. To rise and remember all the places in my body that are not aligned.

It all becomes too much. And the fabulous results are lost in the desire to conserve what little energy I have.

Your pace is not a moral issue.

— Devon Price

What the Science Says and Why the Forest Helps

As a forest therapy guide, I’ve seen again and again how nature meets people where their bodies are not where culture thinks they should be.

ME–CFS involves:

  • dysregulation of the nervous system
  • chronic inflammation
  • impaired cellular energy production (mitochondrial dysfunction)
  • heightened sensitivity to sensory input
  • post-exertional malaise, where even small effort leads to disproportionate crashes

This means the body is stuck in a protective mode, constantly conserving resources.

And here’s where the forest becomes more than beautiful scenery. It becomes medicine.

Nature’s Recharge: Forest Therapy’s Cure for ME–CFS and Exhaustion

1. Calms the nervous system

Time in natural environments lowers cortisol and shifts the body from “fight-or-flight” into “rest-and-digest.” For someone whose system is always on high alert, this is profound relief.

2. Reduces inflammation

Phytoncides, which are natural compounds released by trees, have been shown to support immune balance and reduce markers of inflammation. The body doesn’t have to work as hard to regulate itself.

3. Restores attention without effort

Nature offers soft fascination. A gentle sensory input that allows the brain to rest while still being engaged. This is vital when cognitive fatigue makes any thinking feel heavy.

4. Reframes worth and productivity

In the forest, you don’t have to prove anything. Trees don’t rush. Streams don’t apologize for slowing down. The environment itself models a different definition of enough.

For those of us living with ME–CFS, the forest reminds us:

We are not broken machines. We are living beings adapting to different conditions.

Embracing Serenity: Forest Therapy for ME–CFS & Deep Fatigue

This practice is designed for very low energy days. No hiking. No goals. No fixing.

The “Enough as I Am” Practice

Time: 10–20 minutes (or less)

Place: A bench, porch, backyard, park, or even near an open window

  • Arrive without performing
  • Sit or lie in a comfortable position
  • Let your body choose
  • Let one sense lead. Instead of scanning everything, pick just one: listening to birds or wind feeling air on your skin noticing light through leaves
  • Breathe like the trees. Inhale slowly. Exhale even slower.
  • Imagine your breath moving at the pace of a growing branch (not a ticking clock)
  • Offer yourself one true sentence. Silently say: “In this moment, I am doing enough.”
  • Leave before you’re tired. Ending early is not failure. It is wisdom.

There is a difference between resting and quitting. One restores you. The other abandons you.

— Bansky

Strength in Unexpected Places

Living with ME–CFS has taught me that strength doesn’t always look like endurance.

Sometimes strength looks like:

  • stopping early
  • saying no gently
  • choosing peace over productivity
  • letting the forest hold what I can’t

I am not lazy.

I am not weak.

I am not failing.

I am adapting.

Your best is what you can do without harming your physical or mental health. Not what you can accomplish when you disregard it.

-Unknown

And in the quiet wisdom of trees, I’ve learned something the world forgot to teach.

A life lived slowly is not a life lived small. Sometimes, it is the bravest life of all.

Us on New Year’s Eve before getting too tired and heading home around 10:00. Usually we are the people that when asked if we want to get together at 8:00 we wonder am?!? or pm?!? Actually never mind, both are a hard pass.

Happy New Year! To all those suffering, you are not alone, your worth is not diminished by your ability, you are seen and welcomed here.