living with chronic pain – SUNBEAM ACRES

Living on the Edge of Pain-Free

October 6, 2026 pammunkholm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When your body is a little too enthusiastic about movement

I live with hypermobile joints.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example:

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

His little elbow. My adult rib. Click!

Three days after my physiotherapist put me back together.

She and I have a standing monthly appointment.

So now I wait. 27 days.

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

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

There are other examples.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The problem with explaining pain nobody can see

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

There is an injury.

There is pain.

There is a scan.

There is treatment.

There is recovery. Hooray!

But when this isn’t the progression.

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

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

The answer is essentially, Everything looks normal.

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

You begin to wonder if maybe you are the problem.

Maybe you’re exaggerating. 🤔

Maybe you’re weak. 😔

Maybe you’re just sensitive. 😢

Maybe you should exercise more. 🏃‍♀️

Maybe you should exercise less. 😣

Maybe you need to think positively. 😃

Maybe you need to stop thinking about it. 🧘‍♀️

Meanwhile, your body is sitting there like:

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

A diagnosis doesn’t magically make pain disappear.

But a name can change something.

There is power in having a name

There is something different about being able to say:

I have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.

Instead of:

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

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

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

A name gives your experience a place to stand.

It can feel like a credential for suffering. 🪪

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

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

And there is another thing a name gives you:

Other people.

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

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

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

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

There is comfort in that shorthand.

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

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

Even the measuring stick is changing

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

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

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

What about the hips?

The shoulders?

The feet?

The jaw?

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

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

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

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

So even the measuring stick is being re-examined.

I find that hopeful.

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

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

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

Sometimes the person doesn’t fit the measuring tool.

That doesn’t necessarily mean the person is wrong.

Sometimes the measuring tool needs work.

A diagnosis doesn’t make you more real

This is something I have to remind myself of.

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

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

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

A diagnosis can give language to an experience.

It can open doors.

It can help doctors understand.

It can connect you with other people.

It can change treatment.

It can stop some of the exhausting explaining.

But it doesn’t create the suffering.

The suffering was already there.

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

Living on the edge of pain-free

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

I don’t necessarily live in constant unbearable pain.

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

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

Maybe this is the week.

Maybe my body is settling down.

Maybe I can do a little more.

Maybe I can hike a little farther.

Maybe I can play a little longer.

Maybe I can just live normally.

And then something happens.

A foot.

A rib.

An ankle.

A muscle.

A joint.

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

I live on the edge of pain-free.

I can see it.

I can sometimes almost touch it.

But I can never quite get there.

Some days this feels draining.

Some days it is really frustrating.

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

I want to pick up my grandchildren without calculating angles.

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

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

I want to live. Not perfectly. Just freely.

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

Forest therapy doesn’t ask my body to perform.

There is no gold star for going farther. 🌟

No prize for walking fastest.

No requirement to conquer the trail.

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

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

Not hiking.

Walking.

There is a difference.

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

Not to judge them.

Or correct them.

Just notice.

Where is the ground?

What does the trail feel like beneath my shoes?

Am I gripping with my toes?

Am I locking my knees?

Am I holding my shoulders up around my ears?

Is there a place where I can soften?

Can I take one smaller step?

Can I pause?

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

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

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

Sometimes it means five minutes instead of an hour.

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

The forest doesn’t seem disappointed in me.

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

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

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

It just keeps being a forest.

Maybe the goal isn’t to reach pain-free

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

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

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

It is learning a different definition of living.

I can be frustrated and grateful at the same time.

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

I can be tired of pain without being hopeless.

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

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

Eventually. Not immediately. But eventually.

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

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

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

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

Maybe that’s the hope.

Not that one day my body will become uncomplicated.

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

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

And for today, that’s enough.

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

Everything Hurts, Now What?

September 8, 2026 pammunkholm

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

Not the legitimate kind.

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

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

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

Some things are a genuine bummer.

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

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

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

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

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

Sneaky lies.

The kind that slip in wearing sensible shoes.

E.g.

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

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

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

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

🤭 Cute.

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

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

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

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

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

That doesn’t mean you failed.

It means you’re human.

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

This one is considerably more dangerous.

Because chronic pain can shrink our world.

First we stop doing something because it hurts.

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

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

Then we start thinking about everything we’ve lost.

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

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

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

I can’t live like I used to becomes:

I can’t do anything.

I’m having a terrible pain day becomes:

I’m always in unmanageable pain.

I can’t make plans reliably becomes:

My life is completely out of my control.

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

We’re no longer simply describing our circumstances.

We’re rehearsing them.

Over and over.

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

But here’s where I need to be careful.

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

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

No.

Absolutely not.

I have chronic pain.

This is not a part-time hobby.

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

Sometimes I need to say:

“Today really hurts.”

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

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

I don’t need a motivational quote.

I need a witness.

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

This is one of the hardest parts of chronic pain.

Because pain doesn’t take weekends or holidays off.

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

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

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

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

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

And sometimes that comes out as:

“That sucks.”

Then they go back to whatever they were doing.

Ouch 😣

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

Please stop talking about this 🙄 .

But there is another possibility.

Maybe they’re not saying:

Your pain doesn’t matter.

Maybe they’re saying:

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

Maybe they’re exhausted too.

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

And here’s an inconvenient truth:

Both people can be hurting.

The person with chronic pain can need to be heard.

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

Those two things can be true at the same time.

So how do we complain in a healthy way?

Maybe the answer isn’t don’t complain.

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

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

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

Sometimes I’m asking:

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

That’s a different request.

Instead of:

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

I might try:

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

Or:

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

Or even:

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

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

They don’t have to cure chronic pain.

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

They just have to be present.

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

This one is tricky.

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

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

But perhaps we can build a different language around it.

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

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

That is very different from:

“I’m sick of hearing you complain.”

One establishes a boundary.

The other makes the person feel like the problem.

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

So perhaps healthy communication lives somewhere in the middle.

Tell the truth.

Don’t catastrophize the truth.

Ask for what you actually need.

Give the other person permission to have limits.

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

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

Even if that human being is married to you.

Your brain is listening to you.

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

They’re constantly interpreting what is happening.

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

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

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

In very simple terms:

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

That does NOT mean chronic pain is imaginary.

It does NOT mean positive thinking cures illness.

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

Puh-lease. ✋

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

But it does mean there may be a difference between:

“This hurts.”

and

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

The first is information.

The second is a story.

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

Validation isn’t the same thing as agreement.

This is an important distinction.

If I say:

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

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

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

You can say:

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

That’s validation.

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

You’re acknowledging the experience.

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

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

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

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

🛟 “I believe you.”

🛟 “That sounds really hard.”

🛟 “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

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

Sometimes I need help.

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

And sometimes I need everyone to leave me alone.

Which brings me to the forest.

The forest is a third party in the conversation.

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

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

The forest doesn’t say:

“Again with the pain?”

It doesn’t say:

“You’ve already told me this.”

It doesn’t say:

“That sucks.”

It simply gives me something else to notice.

The sound of wind moving through branches.

The texture of bark.

Birdsong.

The smell of damp earth.

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

Light moving through leaves.

My feet touching the ground.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes that is enough to interrupt the loop.

Try this the next time you catch yourself complaining.

Don’t shame yourself.

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

Instead, pause.

Ask:

What am I actually needing right now?

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

Am I simply needing someone to say:

“That really sucks.”

Because sometimes that is enough.

Then ask yourself:

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

Maybe it’s your spouse.

Maybe it’s a friend who understands.

Maybe it’s a support group.

Maybe it’s a therapist.

Maybe it’s a journal.

Maybe it’s the forest.

And maybe sometimes it’s you.

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

Frankly, that sounds exhausting.

I still complain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is still a world happening outside my symptoms.

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

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

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

Even if it hurts. Especially then.

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

June 9, 2026 pammunkholm

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

That is not an attack on medicine.

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

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

Conventional medicine is extraordinary in moments like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not instead of medicine.
Alongside it.

Because pain doesn’t stay politely inside one department.

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

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

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

Pain spills into everything.

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

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

Pain is real, even when the cause is unclear.

–Lorimer Moseley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snake oil.
Pseudoscience.
Non-compliance.

But then something shifts.

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

And suddenly certainty cracks open into curiosity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe the answer is integration.

An actual partnership.

Healing is bigger than symptom management.

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

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

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

This matters enormously to a patient just trying to survive.

The shoe that fits one person pinches another.

–Carl Jung

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

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

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

And many people simply cannot picture it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Healing and pain elimination are not always the same thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes the greatest medical harm is making patients feel invisible.

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

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

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

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

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

I hope Stacey Roberts never fully understands that distinction.

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

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

And honestly, I think she raised important questions.

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

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

I do think our healthcare system needs to evolve.

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

Oliver Sacks suggests,

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

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

Rachel Naomi Remen said,

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

And William Osler advised:

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

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

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

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

People in pain deserve both.

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

Why Winter Trails are Terrifying For the Hypermobile: Through Pain and Pines

March 10, 2026 pammunkholm

Many trails in Saskatchewan are shimmering. Beautifully. Treacherously.

I’m pretty sure they are trying to kill me.

Sparkling snow is magical. Sparkling frost is beautiful.

But sparkling ice on a forest trail?

That’s a different category entirely. “Be gone foul thing!”

When you live with hypermobility, ice is less of a winter decoration and more of a full-contact sport.

For most people, a slip on an icy trail means a flail of the arms, a laugh, and maybe a comment. “Watch out for the icy patch!”.

For someone with hypermobility, that same moment can mean:

a rib that determines it would rather live somewhere other than its intended slot
a shoulder that doth protest too much (because the shoulder blade is sliding down your back)
muscles that grip like overprotective bodyguards
and a new entry in the ever-growing logbook titled “Well… that escalated quickly.”

A small jolt or an awkward catch. And suddenly a split second wobble becomes three months of physiotherapy, muscle protecting and pain with every movement.

Winter walking becomes less like a casual stroll and more like a strategic mission.

Our hypermobile bodies clearly have a different set of rules.

Living with hypermobility also means developing a surprisingly intimate relationship with your physiotherapist.

Years ago I realized I owned an entire library of tiny resistance bands in colours that sounded deceptively cheerful.

Coral. Mint. Lavender. Suggesting relaxation and beach vacations.

In reality they represented fifteen very specific exercises. Each designed to convince my shoulder, hip, or rib that staying in place is actually an excellent idea.

In more recent years, overall strengthening through running has become my greatest hope against hope.

Thankfully those resistance bands are now packed away. They were the bane of my existence for years. Strengthen the shoulder, put out the elbow, wrist, and fingers. Strengthen the hip, put out the knee, ankle and toes.

If you live with chronic pain, you also know the strange pleasure of telling people:

“Yes, I injured myself sneezing.”

And then watching them try to politely hide their confusion. 😕

Enigmatic Equations Await

People with chronic pain develop a special kind of mental math.

Before leaving the house, the brain quietly runs a checklist:

How icy is it?
How far is the trail?
What muscles are already staging a coup today?
What are the odds I’ll slip, twist, or do the world’s slowest accidental yoga pose?

Slipping into something a little more comfortable (psychosis)

These calculations happen constantly.

Because when joints are extra flexible, the body relies heavily on muscles to hold everything together.

If those muscles get surprised by a sudden slip on ice, they react like overcaffeinated security guards.

We don’t even have to experience a crash landing. A slight “whoop”. Everything tightens. Followed shortly by, everything hurts. Sometimes for a very long time.

And yet… Staying inside is not the answer.

Inside Out: The Hidden Dangers of Staying Indoors

My soul was not designed for indefinite indoor storage.

After a few days of being cooped up, something starts to happen.

First a restlessness.

Then a longing.

Then a slightly dramatic moment standing at the window staring outside like a Victorian character under quarantine.

Because the body may be complicated. But the soul is surprisingly clear about what it needs.

Trees. Sky. Fresh air. The quiet company of chickadees who seem perpetually delighted with life.

Naturalist John Burroughs once wrote:

I go to nature to be soothed and healed, and to have my senses put in order.

And when chronic pain is part of your life, your nervous system spends a lot of time: out of order.

Pain keeps the brain alert. Guarded. Scanning.

But the forest gently invites something else.

A slower rhythm. A softer focus.

Don’t let perfect get in the way of good enough.

“Break!!”- Dancing Through the Meadow

Hypermobility changes the way you move through the world.

Especially in winter.

Walking on icy trails becomes a very particular style of locomotion that could best be described as:

“Cautious woodland creature.”

Short steps.

Careful weight shifts.

Occasional pauses to test the ground.

One wrong move and suddenly you find yourself soft launching a new form of dance.

Anyone watching from a distance might assume you were practicing some form of extreme slow-motion flamenco 💃 .

But really, you’re simply trying to avoid becoming an accidental case study in sidewalk face implants.

Oddly enough, this cautious way of walking mirrors a core forest therapy practice. Slow walking.

Forest therapy guides often invite people to slow down enough to truly notice the forest.

Hypermobility just… adds extra motivation.

A Little Winter Guiding Advice

I have learned a few things from my winter days on the trail this year.

Boots with ICE FX technology soles are the way to go. I started using them this year. I had two slips in the first couple weeks of winter. I got the boots and I haven’t had a slip since. They are like winter tires. I still have to be careful but they have saved me.
Hiking poles are this girl’s best friend. I am learning when to use them and when to leave them in the car. Days I can’t see the trail under the snow or when the trail is glistening with ice, they are essential. Days the trail is packed with snow and my balance feels good they can stay back.
Some days you just have to stay home. The boots and poles open your world. There are still times when staying home is the safest and best option. It is not worth the risk of a fall. Or a tweak. Walking in a mall or other large indoor space can meet some of your physical movement needs. As the snow melts, you can extend outdoor Earthing sessions in a safe, seated position until the ice is gone.

Nervous Systems: A Unified Network

There is another layer to chronic pain that people don’t see.

The nervous system becomes watchful.

When pain appears often enough, the brain begins to scan constantly for the next signal. Muscles tighten sooner. Reflexes fire faster. The body becomes protective.

It’s not weakness. It’s survival.

But a nervous system that spends too much time in protection mode eventually forgets how to settle.

This is one of the quiet gifts of time in nature. Not just for enjoyment but for nervous system survival.

As Japanese physician Yoshifumi Miyazaki, one of the pioneers of forest bathing research, observed:

The forest environment allows the nervous system to shift from vigilance to restoration.

For someone managing chronic pain, that shift is not small. It is validating.

Research into forest environments has shown that simply being among trees can lower cortisol, calm heart rate, and shift the nervous system out of constant vigilance.

In other words, the forest gently persuades the body:

You are safe enough to soften.

And for someone living with chronic pain, that reminder can be profoundly healing.

Frosty Therapy: Nature’s Icy Embrace for the Soul

If winter trails feel risky but your spirit still needs the forest, try this gentle practice.

Practice: Borrowing Stability

Find a tree nearby and place one hand against the trunk.
Feel the firmness of the bark under your palm. Trees have been practicing stability for a very long time.
Take three slow breaths.
Notice your feet inside your boots.
Notice the ground supporting you.
Then take three very slow steps. With each step, quietly ask: What does stability feel like right now?

You might be surprised how much calmer the nervous system becomes when movement slows down.

Winter walking with hypermobility includes both beauty and risk. Moments of deep solace among the trees and occasional grievances to file with a body that requires extra grit.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote,

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Perhaps winter forest walks teach that same wisdom.

Conscientious step by conscientious step.

The Whispers of Accord

Living with chronic pain sometimes feels like a negotiation between the body and the soul.

The body says: Please be wary.

The soul says: Please go outside.

The forest, thankfully, doesn’t insist on perfect joints or pain-free muscles.

It simply offers a place to breathe.

Scottish nature writer Nan Shepherd wrote about being in the mountains:

The thing to be known grows with the knowing.

Perhaps the same is true of our bodies.

The more we learn their quirks and their quiet wisdom, the more gently we can move through the world. Even when the trail shimmers with ice and every step requires a little forethought.

Because sometimes healing isn’t about conquering the path. Sometimes it’s simply about finding a way to keep walking among the trees.

So yes, SK winter trails sometimes feel like obstacle courses designed specifically for people with hypermobile joints to fail.

And yes, the body occasionally protests the whole arrangement. Of having any movement at all. Yet consider another quote by Nan Shepherd that leads us back to what matters,

It is a grand thing to get leave to live.

Perhaps that is what these mindful winter walks really are.

A quiet permission to keep living fully, even if the steps are slow and deliberate.

Careful steps. Even slightly wobbly steps.

Keep walking when and where you can. Surrender when called for. We are so close Prairies friends! We have almost made it to Spring! We’ve got this.

Finding Self Compassion Through the Mirror of the Forest

December 30, 2025 pammunkholm

Resilience is based on compassion for ourselves.

–Sharon Salzberg

In the beginning of my chronic pain, before I had language for it, I fought it.

I tried to outrun the agony.

I tried to out- power the fatigue.

I believed if I just pushed harder, rested less, proved myself more. I would get ahead of it.

Instead, the harder I tried, the further behind I seemed to fall.

What I didn’t yet understand was that I wasn’t battling weakness or lack of willpower. I was battling a body riddled with inflammation. A body asking to be soothed, not ignored. Not overridden. But met with compassion.

There likely will never be a cure for my condition.

But there can be healing. For myself and so many others.

For me, that healing began when I stopped fighting my body and started listening to it.

Healing in the Woods: A Transformative Quest

When I found forest therapy, I was still angry. Still confused by my disability. Still grieving the body I thought I should have. Trying to figure out exactly what steps to take to “get better.” Whatever that means.

Forest therapy didn’t fix me. But it slowed me down enough to meet myself honestly.

Walking slowly among trees, I began to notice how nature never rushes itself into wellness. Trees scarred by lightning still reach for the sun. Fallen logs don’t apologize for dormancy. Fallen leaves aren’t failures. Moss thrives not despite dampness but because of it. They are part of the cycle that nourishes what comes next.

In the forest, I learned to take time and space:

For my body.

For my care.

For myself.

I learned to soften.

*The photo on the left was taken this Christmas. On the right is a shot from one of my highest pain and least support years. Do you see the softening that has taken place?*

Nature became a mirror for self-compassion. Showing me that acceptance is not giving up, and rest is not weakness. That change is and always will be constant, and beauty is often found because of it.

Where do your forest reflections take you?

Tender and Fierce Self-Compassion: A Pathway to Healing Mastery

If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.

– Jack Cornfield

Psychologist Dr. Kristin Neff, a leading researcher on self-compassion, describes two essential forms. Tender self-compassion and fierce self-compassion. Healing (especially in chronic pain) requires both.

In the forest, tender self- compassion is offered effortlessly. Shade, stillness, permission to slow down. Tender self-compassion is the gentle response we offer ourselves when suffering arises. It sounds like,

“This hurts.”

“I’m allowed to rest.”

“I don’t need to earn care.”

Self-compassion is simply giving the same kindness to ourselves that we would give to others.

–Christopher Germer

Self compassion also says,

In forest therapy, tender self-compassion shows up as slowing down. Sitting instead of pushing. Letting the forest hold us when our nervous system is overwhelmed.

But compassion is not only soft.

Fierce self-compassion is protective. In the forest, fierce compassion looks like a tree growing around an obstacle instead of breaking itself against it. It looks like roots lifting pavement. Life insisting on what it needs. It draws boundaries. It advocates. It says no to harm. Even when that harm comes from expectations we’ve internalized.

Fierce self-compassion involves taking action in the world to protect, provide, and motivate ourselves to alleviate suffering.

— Kristin Neff

For someone living with chronic pain, fierce compassion might look like canceling plans without guilt, choosing gentler paths, or refusing to prove pain through being productive. (Holy moly, have I ever been guilty of that last one!)

The forest teaches this balance effortlessly. Life adapts rather than destroys itself.

True healing lives in the balance.

Softness without surrender.

Strength without violent self talk.

I highly recommend looking at Dr. Neff’s research.

Beyond the Power of Positivity in Chronic Pain

One of the most harmful ideas placed on people with chronic pain is the demand to “stay positive.” It is a reality many of us are quietly living inside. Through good intentioned humans or when we place this expectation on ourselves. Either way.

This is not healing.

This is toxic positivity.

The forest is not positive all the time. It holds decay and beauty simultaneously. Rot feeds growth. Death makes room for life. Nothing is bypassed.

Embodied compassion, unlike forced optimism, allows pain and beauty to coexist. Forest therapy has taught me that I don’t need to pretend things are fine in order to find meaning, or hope.

Acceptance is not resignation.

It is honesty.

You don’t know this new me; I put back my pieces, differently.

Embracing the Wild: A Practice of Compassionate Forest Therapy

If you are able, try this practice in a forest, park, or any type of natural space.

Find a tree that shows signs of damage Look for scars, broken branches, or weathering. Notice how the tree continues to live.
Stand or sit nearby Place one hand on your body. Where you feel pain or tension most.
Name tenderness. Quietly acknowledge what hurts. No fixing. No reframing. Just noticing.
Name fierceness Ask yourself. What does my body need protection from right now? Fatigue? Expectations? Self-criticism?
Receive the lesson. Let the tree reflect back to you. Adaptation, not defeat. Presence, not perfection.

Take your time. Healing doesn’t rush.

Nature’s Note: A Message from the Forest to Your Body

Dear Body,

You are not broken.

You are responding to what you have endured. And we know you have endured much.

I have seen storms too. I have lost branches. I have rested longer than expected.

Still, I grow.

You do not need to push to belong here.

You do not need to prove your worth through endurance.

I hold decay and beauty at the same time.

You are allowed to do the same.

Rest when you need to.

Stand tall when you can.

Trust that healing is not the absence of pain, but the presence of care.

You are part of this rhythm.

You always have been.

— The Forest

That’s the thing about December: it goes by in a flash. If you just close your eyes, it’s gone . And it’s like you were never there.

–Donal Ryan, The Thing About December

Look into the mirror of forest therapy. Reflect where you need more self- compassion. Take time to recognize and lean into both tender and fierce. It will aid in all types of healing.