fibromyalgia- noun, the feeling of being run over by a bus, dipped into a bucket of acid, and repeatedly thrown off a cliff without any physical evidence
So fibromyalgia,
This tale began long before the word fibromyalgia ever entered the room.
Before the angry bees. Before the heat waves. Before the exhaustion that made my bones hum.
Back then, my body was already waving a white flag.
Endometriosis had long been the ringleader of chaos, and hypermobility joined the act with its own flair for the dramatic. My hormones seemed to operate on a “scorched-earth” policy, every cycle left me depleted in every possible way: physically, mentally, spiritually, energetically.
So, after years of living in that internal thunderstorm, I made the decision to have a hysterectomy. It felt like clearing the undergrowth and removing what was fueling the fires, hoping sunlight could finally reach the forest floor. The surgery did bring relief. No more monthly hormonal hurricanes, no more monthly pain to the degree it pulled joints out of place. In this body that closely resembles a badly fastened tent in a windstorm.
But when the dust settled, I was left with a forest that had already burned.
Attending to the Aftermath: When Your Body Refuses to Cooperate
Recovery was supposed to be a time of healing, but my body apparently missed that memo. Surgery, anesthesia, medications, they left their residue. And to top it off, I woke up to find I’d been dropped unceremoniously into menopause.
My body and I have had a complicated relationship, but menopause turned it into a full-on standoff. Hormone therapy was off the table after one tiny patch sent my muscles on an extended vacation. No postcard, no warning, just gone 👋🏼.
So I turned to holistic treatments. Some soothed the edges, helped me sleep, softened the emotional rage that had been living rent-free in my chest. But nothing touched the furnace within. Every thirty minutes, like clockwork, my body would light up with that internal combustion that seems to come from the bowels of Hell itself. Heart racing. Skin buzzing. Brain short-circuiting.
Then came the chills. The kind that made you question every life choice that led to this point.
This cycle of heat, sweat, freeze, repeat, went on for a year. Every. Half. Hour.
But also this 👇🏼
It’s hard to heal when your body never stops sounding the alarm.
Tuirse
(Irish/gaelic) a deep sense of tiredness, weariness or fatigue that can refer to both physical and emotional or spiritual exhaustion. Soul- level weariness, melancholy, or the emotional heaviness of enduring life’s struggles. (gaeilgeoir.ai)
Buzzed and Bothered Bees
Fibromyalgia had been sitting quietly on my medical chart for years. Alongside its equally mysterious companion, Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. I used to think they were just polite placeholders for the doctors to say 🤷🏼♀️🤷🏼♂️ “we don’t actually think you have anything.”
But after the hysterectomy, I learned what they really meant.
It started in my forearms, this sharp tingling that grew into what I now call the angry bees. I picked that up from somewhere. That’s not my analogy.
A swarm of bees that lives under my skin, buzzing, burning, twitching. Eventually, the bees migrated up my arms, into my neck, sometimes triggering migraines that feel like the entire hive moved into my skull.
I’ve come to learn the bees are mood-driven. They thrive on stress and pain but mellow out in sunshine and rest. On a good day, when my toes are buried in natural elements, the bees hum instead of sting.
Fibromyalgia is like that. Unpredictable, wild, and buzzing with sensations that don’t make sense but demand attention.
Contemplating my Clearing
Somewhere in all of that chaos, I found forest therapy.
It didn’t happen with a grand epiphany. It started with a slow walk. A quiet pause. A breath that finally reached the bottom of my lungs.
I began to notice how the forest holds its own balance. Even when trees are damaged as storms tear through, life finds a way to reorganize itself. The underbrush grows back differently. Sometimes softer, sometimes stronger, always intentional.
So I began to clear my own underbrush. The overgrown “shoulds.” The tangles of perfectionism. The toxic patterns that had wrapped themselves around my worth.
As the poet John O’Donohue wrote,
When the mind is festering with trouble or the heart torn, we can find healing among the silence of mountains or fields, or listen to the simple, steadying rhythm or waves.
In the woods, I let myself unravel a little. My body could buzz, twitch, and ache but surrounded by green, the bees didn’t seem so angry. The forest became a mirror, showing me that healing isn’t about erasing pain, it’s about learning to live among it, gently.
The Healing Continues…
“The forest is not merely an expression or representation of sacredness, nor a place to invoke the sacred; the forest is sacredness itself.” – Richard Nelson
The bees still visit. The heat still flares. The fatigue still sneaks up like fog rolling in uninvited.
But now, I have a clearing to return to. A place both within and around me, where my nervous system can remember what calm feels like.
Fibromyalgia taught me that healing isn’t a straight path. It’s more like a winding forest trail that keeps surprising you. Some days you stumble. Some days you sit on a log and cry. And some days—miraculously—you dance with the bees instead of fighting them.
So I keep walking. Slowly. Barefoot when I can. Listening for birdsong between the buzzing.
And when I feel the swarm rising, I head for the trees asap.
Because out there, among the whispering leaves and mossy ground, my body remembers what peace feels like. Even if just for a breath.
I pray this winter be gentle and kind- a season of rest from the wheel of the mind.
-John Geddes
SUNBEAM ACRES 