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.
Sometimes crayon. When I need a little more whimsy in my days.
There were years where survival became the main objective. Years where my nervous system felt like a shaken vending machine full of stress hormones. Years where I thought resilience meant pushing harder instead of listening deeper.
And then came the hysterectomy.
One of those dividing-line experiences where life becomes Before and After.
Before, I still secretly believed if I tried hard enough I might someday return to the old version of myself.
After, I slowly began realizing there may not be a way back. Emotional landslides and experiential cave-ins had blocked that passage way.
Forward and through became my only options. Through self-realizations. Humbling concessions. Constant negotiations between mind and body.
And maybe that is where the chrysalis begins.
The Chrysalis
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
A chrysalis does not look impressive from the outside.
It looks still. Inactive. Even broken down.
But inside? An extraordinary reorganization is happening.
And I think 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.
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 #4Grandbaby #1I’m running outside!Grandbaby #2Riley and GreyGraduation #1Graduation #2Engagement #1Home 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 #1Fell off the boat An MRI changed everything Following surgeryCar crash #3Car crash #2Farm 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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
There’s a moment. It’s often quiet, sometimes overwhelming. When emotion first arrives in the body.
It might feel like a tightening in the chest. A wave of heat. A heaviness behind the eyes. A sudden drop in the stomach.
Something I’m learning? When this happens, nothing has gone wrong. My body is simply giving me information.
Experiencing big emotions is not a failure of regulation, character, or strength. It is part of being human.
Especially for those living with chronic pain, where the body is already speaking loudly, emotions often arrive amplified and harder to ignore, harder to name, harder to hold.
But after that first signal comes something powerful.
Choice.
Not whether you feel the emotion. But how you respond to it.
As Daniel Chidiac teaches, Not every emotion needs a reaction—but every emotion deserves acknowledgment.
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The Story We Tell After the Feeling
On the Better Than Happy podcast, Jody Moore offers a perspective that can feel both freeing and confronting.
Anger is optional.
Disappointment is optional.
Embarrassment is optional.
Humiliation is optional.
Not because we can simply turn emotions off. But because these emotions are often shaped by the meaning we assign to our experiences. Have you experienced any of the following?
You have been dismissed by a medical professional, again.
You didn’t reach the goal.
Someone saw you struggle.
Something didn’t go as planned.
Those are just events. Although they feel huge in the moment.
Disappointment enters when the mind adds the story.
“This means something is wrong with me.”
Embarrassment grows when the thoughts spiral into shame.
“They must be judging me.”
“I look foolish.”
“I am foolish.”
And here’s the important nuance.
These emotions are optional. But not wrong.
You’re allowed to feel them. You’re also allowed to question them.
Nothing ambitious. Just a smidgen at a time. Slow and steady. The way I’ve learned my body needs things to be. Experience has taught me that enthusiasm and capacity are not the same thing.
But then life showed up.
The everyday mess. The dishes. The door in my room that was in desperate need of a good wipe down. The quiet realization that I couldn’t do both.
I had to choose. My body, which had just clocked in was now requesting a lunch break.
And then the grandkids came to “help.” Which, as you can imagine, added more chaos than progress. At this point the mess was winning. And multiplying.
The vacuum stopped working. My arms started to burn.
And just like that, the thoughts came rushing in.
I’ll never catch up.
My house will always feel like this.
Why can’t I just keep up like everyone else?
Because, obviously, one unfinished chore means a lifetime of failure. 😣
I could see it happening, the spiral. I wasn’t unaware.
But stopping it? That took effort. A surprising amount of effort.
Excuse me while I parent my dramatic inner narrator.
Because even as part of me recognized what was happening, another part was pushing me harder.
Just keep going.
Finish what you started.
If you don’t do it now, it will never get done.
False. What was actually true was much simpler and much harder to accept in the moment.
I was tired. I was in pain. I needed to stop.
My body wasn’t failing me. It was asking me to listen.
And the real choice in that moment wasn’t about dishes or doors.
But this.
Do I keep pushing to meet an expectation I set for myself… or do I take care of myself?
Eventually, I chose to stop.
Not because everything was done. But because I was.
And that shift didn’t magically clean my house. But it did something more important. It brought me back to myself and my priorities.
Because your nervous system is already working overtime. Because your body has taught you that signals matter and often signal threat. ( If you want to learn how forest therapy supports the nervous system, check this out -> Mending Your Nervous System With Forest Therapy)
Pain doesn’t just exist in isolation. It interacts with emotion, memory, and meaning.
A flare-up can quickly become:
“I’ll never get better.”
“My body is failing me.”
“I can’t live the life I want.”
This is where emotional dysregulation can take hold, much like how Brené Brown describes it:
Being overwhelmed by feelings that are hard to name and contain, driving behaviors and thinking that don’t align with who we want to be.
And suddenly, we’re not just in pain.
We’re in a story about what that pain means.
Your body speaks in sensation. Your mind speaks in meaning. Learn to tell the difference.
Brené Brown shares a powerful story about recovering from injury and trying to engage muscles that simply wouldn’t respond. Her therapist kept reminding her to “find your ground.”
But she couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t even find her lats.
She was using her body while being disconnected from it.
That disembodiment, that moving without understanding, existing without connection, is deeply familiar for those with chronic pain.
You expect your body to respond one way. It betrays your expectations. Every time.
And over time, many people stop listening to their bodies with curiosity and start bracing against them with resistance.
Until one simple but profound instruction emerges.
Find your ground.
Not just physically. Energetically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
If you’re trying to find your way back to yourself, back into your body, the answer isn’t usually one big solution.
It’s small, grounding practices.
Journalling. Meditation. Art. Spiritual connection. Time in nature.
Each one opens a door.
Forest therapy is where those doors meet, creating a space that supports not just awareness, but true reconnection.
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The Tree as Teacher
In The Secret Therapy of Trees, Marco Mencagli and Marco Nieri describe the trunk of a tree as something remarkably similar to the human core.
It is a channel of connection. A stabilizing structure. A vital center.
If damaged, the whole system struggles.
Like the human torso, home to breath, circulation, and strength, the tree’s trunk is both anchor and conduit.
And yet, trees do something we often forget to do. They remain rooted while experiencing everything.
Wind. Storm. Drought. Seasonal loss.
They do not avoid conditions. They adapt within them.
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What Actually Matters (Hint: It’s Not the Dishes)
Another truth worth holding onto.
You cannot overestimate the unimportance of practically everything.
So much of what consumes our emotional energy, what people think, whether we looked polished, whether everything went perfectly, is, in the grand arc of a life, remarkably small.
This Spring is literally that friend who always says they’re, ‘on their way’ but hasn’t even left the house yet.
As a forest therapy guide, I spend my days watching the silent, slow-motion choreography of the woods. I see trees that have been bent by storms, scarred by fire, or crowded by neighbors. Yet, in the quiet of the understory, there is a profound truth that the forest whispers to those who listen.
A tree does not blame the wind for its lean; it simply grows where the light is.
In our human lives, we often find ourselves stuck in a thicket of blame. When we face chronic pain, illness, or the heavy consequences of past decisions, it is easy to retreat into a victim narrative.
We point to our circumstances, our upbringing, or our luck as the sole architects of our current reality.
But staying in that space is like a sapling trying to grow in the permanent shadow of a fallen log. It is exhausting, and eventually, it leads to stagnation.
The Forest of Our Making
Even when we are navigating the complex terrain of chronic conditions, we must recognize that our current reality is, in part, a map of the choices we have made. This is not about shame or self-flagellation. In fact, it is the opposite. To own our choices is to reclaim our agency.
To be clear. This is not to say that our choices have caused our chronic condition. (Despite what medical professionals tell us.) There is a level of listening to our bodies that leads to health and healing. But the way you have lived life is not always the answer to why your body has chosen this course of action. Often this is out of our hands.
Or as the 17th-century Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza noted:
The more you struggle to live, the less you live. Give up the notion that you must be sure of what you are doing. Instead, surrender to what is real within you.
This “saving of circumstance” begins with the radical act of ownership. When we look back and see the moments where we acted to the best of our ability, even if those actions led to mistakes, we begin to see our humanity not as a flaw, but as a shared condition. We have all stumbled. We have all misread the trail. But there is no medicine in shame, and there is no repair in blame.
Rooted Connections: The Nervous System as Fertile Ground
For those living with chronic pain, this shift from victimhood to ownership is more than a psychological pivot; it is a physiological necessity. Our nervous systems are like the forest floor. A complex, sensitive network that requires the right conditions to repair and thrive.
When we are stuck in blame or victim mode, our system remains in a state of high alert (the sympathetic “fight or flight” response). This internal friction creates a “noisy” environment where the body cannot easily access its natural repair mechanisms. By owning our choices, we create a clearing. We allow the “rest and digest” (parasympathetic) system to take the lead.
Just as the forest brings our nervous systems to a natural state of regulation through phytoncides and fractal patterns, the act of self-forgiveness and ownership brings our internal landscape to rest. It provides the space required for the nervous system to settle and begin the slow work of repair.
A Forest Therapy Practice
The “Stone and Stream” Invitation
To help move through these human emotions with strength and confidence, I invite you to try this practice, whether you are in a literal forest or simply sitting by a window.
1. Find Your Anchor: Find a place where you can sit or stand comfortably. Notice the weight of your body.
2. The Stone of Choice: Pick up a small stone (or imagine one). Hold it in your hand. Let this stone represent a choice you have made that you currently carry with weight. Perhaps one you have blamed yourself or others for. Feel its texture, its coldness, its reality.
3. The Stream of Time: Look at a moving part of nature. A stream, the wind in the leaves, or even the movement of clouds. Recognize that like the water, time has moved on. The choice happened, but you are here now.
4. The Offering: Place the stone down. Not with a sense of getting rid of it, but with a sense of placing it in the landscape. Say to yourself: “This was my choice. I acted with the knowledge I had. I am human, and I am here.”
5. The New Growth: Notice a small sign of life. This is your next action. Trust in your experience. Trust that you can act again, informed by the past but not imprisoned by it.
Embracing the Quest
As Baruch Spinoza noted in his correspondence:
All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.
Owning our lives is an excellent thing. It is difficult because it requires us to look at our mistakes without blinking. But it is rare because it is the only path to true strength. And not everybody finds it.
When we own our choices, we stop fighting the terrain and start walking it. We move from a place of “why is this happening to me?” to “this is where I am, and this is how I choose to grow.” In that shift, the nervous system finally finds the quiet it has been searching for. Just like the forest, we are always in a state of becoming.
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.
Exhaustion from the constant battleFoot bones out Lower back muscle spasm keeping me mostly bed ridden, this was my short escapeA foot up as I pose with siblings to hold me balanced after a physio adjustment Rib out and going to watch a show, hoping I’ll make it. Right thigh stuck in spasm, nervous system in a flare. Depression, why bother trying? No matter how hard I try, I always have painful subluxations.
Winter walking becomes less like a casual stroll and more like a strategic mission.
Our hypermobile bodies clearly have a different set of rules.
Living with hypermobility also means developing a surprisingly intimate relationship with your physiotherapist.
Years ago I realized I owned an entire library of tiny resistance bands in colours that sounded deceptively cheerful.
Coral. Mint. Lavender. Suggesting relaxation and beach vacations.
In reality they represented fifteen very specific exercises. Each designed to convince my shoulder, hip, or rib that staying in place is actually an excellent idea.
In more recent years, overall strengthening through running has become my greatest hope against hope.
Thankfully those resistance bands are now packed away. They were the bane of my existence for years. Strengthen the shoulder, put out the elbow, wrist, and fingers. Strengthen the hip, put out the knee, ankle and toes.
If you live with chronic pain, you also know the strange pleasure of telling people:
“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.
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.
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.
SUNBEAM ACRES 