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.

The Things I Keep in My Pockets: What Music, Mistakes and the Forest are Teaching Me

August 18, 2026 pammunkholm

A wrong note doesn’t ruin the music. A painful day doesn’t ruin a life.

Steven Sharp Nelson from The Piano Guys was a guest on my usual podcast. He talked about a time, when he was young, that he was asked to play at a grand, important event. And he played quite poorly.

When he asked his dad how he had done, his father didn’t criticize him. He said he felt every mistake Steve made. Every bit of despair was written across his face, and his dad was pulled into it with him.

I know that feeling.

On a high-pain day, sometimes the people around me are pulled into it too. They see my face, hear my voice catch, watch me move carefully, and somehow begin carrying a little piece of what I’m carrying. I sense what it’s costing them and feel guilt begin to weigh me down.

Other people don’t know what to do with my pain. So they carry on as though it doesn’t exist. As though it and I along with it, are invisible.

Neither reaction is necessarily wrong. But both can leave their mark.

One makes me feel like my pain is consuming everyone around me. The other can make me feel like I’m invisible.

Steve said that now, when he plays a wrong note, he smiles.

Not because the mistake doesn’t matter. Not because he’s pretending everything is fine. But because he knows what he wants to do with that moment.

I don’t think I need to smile through every painful moment of my life either. I’m not interested in pretending chronic pain isn’t real. Some days hurt.

On those days I get an “error 404 💻: human not found 🚫” message every time I try to move.

But maybe there are moments when I can smile anyway.

Not at the pain.

At what I’m accomplishing and creating in spite of it.

Steve said something else about creativity.

He talked about how music and art have helped people through depression and burnout. But creativity isn’t reserved for musicians, painters, writers, or people who happen to be good at something other people can admire.

We are all creative.

And creativity, he said, works differently when we’re doing it simply for the joy of creating. Not to sell it. Not to post it. Not to have someone judge it.

Just to make something. To play. To imagine. To wander somewhere new.

Steve suggests that when we find ourselves making up storylines and placing blame on others, that we need to add more creativity to our life.

Creativity will make its way out of us one way or another. Either by creating what brings joy or creating storylines where we are the victim. Our brains are excellent screenwriters.

Have you ever been in the act of a menial job that requires no thinking? Cleaning the bathroom? Dishes? Driving on a highway? Do you start to picture these stories playing out in your mind?

This is your brain trying to be creative. Give it a joyful outlet to do so or it will create drama in your life.

I think this is one of the reasons forest therapy has become so important to me.

When I’m walking in the forest, I’m creating. I’m noticing. I’m visualizing. I’m meditating. I’m softening.

I photograph a flower because the colour catches my eye.
I make up a story about a crooked tree.
I visualize warmth when the wind cuts through me.
I listen to the creek and let my attention follow it instead of following the argument happening inside my head.

I’m making little moments of beauty and wonder out of whatever happens to be in front of me.

A patch of purple flowers.

The shape of a tree.

The sound of wind moving through the branches.

A silly thought that makes me laugh.

A place my mind can go when my body is screaming for my attention.

I collect these moments.

I tuck them away like little treasures in my pockets.

A purple flower.
A funny moment.
A beautiful view.
A ridiculous thought.
A quiet breath.

Murmuration
The flowing movement of birds flying together across the sky in ever changing patterns. A sight that can feel almost dreamlike, drawing the mind into the present moment as hundreds of wings move with a rhythm that seems guided by something beyond words.

I put them in my pockets. 🐿️ 🌲

Because I know there will be days when I need them. When winter comes (or when pain gets loud 📢) I will have somewhere to go.

Maybe that’s one of the things I’m learning about living with chronic pain. I don’t have to pretend the pain isn’t there. But I also don’t have to give it the entire stage.

I can create something alongside it. I can notice something beautiful. I can wander. I can imagine.

And sometimes, when the wrong note happens, I can even smile.

Not because everything is okay.

But because there is still something inside me creating joy.

And that might be one of the most healing things I can carry home with me in my pockets.

The pain is real. So is the beauty.

Understanding Fibromyalgia: 10 Surprising Symptoms

July 21, 2026 pammunkholm

Out of difficulties grow miracles.

–Jean de La Bruyère

If you’ve ever searched fibromyalgia symptoms, you’ve probably found the usual suspects.

Pain.

Fatigue.

Brain fog.

Poor sleep.

Accurate? 🫡 Absolutely.

Complete? 🤣 Laughable.

Fibromyalgia has a way of inventing symptoms that make you wonder if your body has subscribed to the premium panic package. One day your skin burns. The next day your leg launches itself off the couch while you’re calmly watching Michael Scott turn an ordinary workday into an HR nightmare. Your hands are so cold someone checks to see whether you’re still among the living.

(For the record, I am.)

Before we begin, one important disclaimer.

I also live with hypermobility, ME/CFS, and surgical menopause. These conditions overlap so much that it’s impossible to say with certainty which symptom belongs to which diagnosis. They tend to flare together after poor sleep, stress, overexertion, heat, illness, or simply asking my body to do more than it has available that day.

But every symptom on this list is also commonly reported by people living with fibromyalgia.

Why Fibromyalgia Feels So Strange

Researchers now believe many fibromyalgia symptoms are driven by central sensitization. Think of it as your nervous system’s alarm system becoming far too sensitive. Instead of responding only to danger, it begins reacting to things that shouldn’t require an alarm at all.

A warm shower.
Bright lights.
A busy grocery store.
A long conversation.
Even clothing touching your skin.

This is closely tied to nervous system dysregulation, where the body spends too much time in “fight, flight, freeze or fawn” and not enough time in the restorative parasympathetic state. When your nervous system never truly feels safe, it can amplify pain, fatigue, sensory overload, temperature changes, digestive issues, and many of the symptoms below.

Maybe you’ll recognize yourself in a few of them.

Maybe all ten.

1. Burning or Tingling Skin

Sometimes my skin feels sunburned without the sunshine.

Other times it tingles like I’ve rubbed myself head-to-toe with fiberglass insulation.

For me, it’s one of the earliest warning signs.

High pain day.

Busy day.

Poor sleep.

Missed medication.

Too many commitments.

My nervous system begins clearing its throat. And waving tiny red flags. 🚩 🚩

I’ve learned not to argue with it anymore.

2. Random Itchiness

This one is maddening.

I’ll suddenly become fiercely itchy.

No mosquito.

No rash.

No dry skin.

It’s like the itch exists underneath my skin where no amount of scratching can reach it.

If you’ve experienced this, you know exactly what I mean.

If you haven’t, I sincerely hope you never do.

3. Light, Noise and Touch Become Too Much

When my nervous system is already overloaded, everything gets louder.

Bright lights feel brighter.

Background conversations become impossible to filter out.

The tag inside my shirt transforms into a tiny medieval torture device and demands 100% of my attention.

Even a loving hug can sometimes feel overwhelming.

Fibromyalgia isn’t simply pain.

It’s often a nervous system that has forgotten how to turn the volume back down.

4. Balance Problems

I used to do cartwheels.

Now I turn around too quickly in the kitchen and have to wait for the earth to stop rotating.

Heat and fatigue make it worse.

Overdoing things makes it worse.

After spending a day on a boat, getting back onto solid ground requires far more concentration than it should.

My feet and my brain occasionally disagree about where “up” is.

5. Pins and Needles

Hot showers.

Long walks.

Overexertion.

Sometimes they all trigger pins and needles that creep across my body for no obvious reason.

Once they arrive, they rarely leave quickly.

6. Muscle Twitches and Spasms

My leg has launched itself off the bed while watching television.

My neck twitches throughout the day.

Occasionally a finger joins the party.

Apparently my muscles enjoy interpretive dance.

I did not approve the choreography.

7. Surprise Food Sensitivities

Foods I tolerated for years suddenly decide they’re no longer interested in cooperating.

They arrive uninvited.

They unpack.

They stay far longer than anyone asked them to.

It’s one more reminder that chronic illness loves unpredictability.

8. Hands and Feet That Never Warm Up

My hands are frequently freezing.

Years ago, someone grabbed my hand and asked,

“Are you okay?”

Apparently, based on my hand temperature, I should have been dead for several hours.

Comforting.

9. The Fake Flu

Out of nowhere…

Nausea.

Aching muscles.

Complete exhaustion.

Like I’m about to come down with something terrible.

Except…

Nothing ever happens.

It simply ruins an hour.

Or the rest of the day.

10. Heavy, Lead-Like Limbs

Some days lifting my arm feels like lifting concrete. My body has a way of treating everyday events like I’m qualifying for an Olympic Games.

Opening a jar feels ridiculous.

My muscles are technically attached.

Operation has become optional.

Having fibro is like having a phone stuck on 12% battery. And everyone keeps asking me to download another app.

The Ten Things That Actually Help Me Soothe Fibromyalgia

Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.

–Brené Brown

Living well with fibromyalgia isn’t about eliminating every symptom.

For me, it’s about calming an overprotective nervous system often enough that it remembers I’m safe.

Respect my limits instead of arguing with them.
Budget my energy so the moments that matter most are worth the flare.
Keep gently moving. A walk instead of a run. The bike instead of the elliptical. Motion is medicine. Punishment isn’t.
Choose warmth—or cooling—depending on what my body is asking for.
Stay hydrated. Water is my most reliable teammate.
Focus on what matters most.

I used to do everything.

The house stayed clean.

I worked.

The kids were fed.

The yard was mowed.

Meals were planned.

Now…

The house is messy.

The yard grows faster than I can keep up.

The microwave has become surprisingly talented at storing forgotten meals.

If one truly important thing needs to happen today…

That’s the thing.

Everything else can wait.

Take breaks before I need them.

Fibromyalgia has taught me that resting isn’t the reward for finishing.

Sometimes resting is the reason I’ll be able to finish tomorrow.

Accept support.

This remains one of my weakest skills.

I am surrounded by extraordinary people.

Help is offered constantly.

Sometimes strength looks like saying,

“Yes… thank you.”

Believe my own body.

Fibromyalgia is invisible.

Sometimes even to me.

I minimize.

I explain it away.

I push through.

But my body keeps telling the truth.

Listening with compassion changes everything. Instead of wondering why my body is betraying me I try to speak the language it is trying to communicate.

Calm my mind.

Sometimes that’s meditation.

Sometimes it’s prayer.

Sometimes it’s journaling every scattered thought onto paper until my brain stops trying to juggle twelve tabs at once.

A calmer mind often becomes a calmer body.

Calarwyth
(n) the moment you stop explaining yourself because silence feels more dignified than being misunderstood again.

A Forest Therapy Practice for Fibromyalgia

One of the greatest gifts the forest has given me is permission to stop performing.

Find a quiet place beneath a tree.

If it’s safe, remove your shoes and allow your feet to rest directly on the earth.

Notice the temperature beneath you.

Feel the texture of the soil, grass, moss, or sand.

Imagine that, for a few minutes, you aren’t simply visiting the forest.

You’re becoming part of it.

The forest simply exists. Allow yourself to do the same.

Allow your breathing to slow.

Notice the sounds above you.

The breeze on your skin.

The scent of pine or damp earth.

If it feels natural, rest one hand on a tree trunk and imagine your busy nervous system borrowing a little of its steadiness.

This practice also includes earthing, sometimes called grounding.

Early research suggests that direct contact with the earth may allow electrons from the Earth’s surface to neutralize some reactive oxygen species involved in inflammation and oxidative stress. Other studies have found improvements in sleep, cortisol rhythms, pain, and wellbeing.

Whether those effects come from electron transfer, nervous system regulation, time outdoors, or all of the above, we do know something with much stronger evidence: spending time in nature lowers stress hormones, supports parasympathetic activity, improves mood, reduces blood pressure, and helps regulate an overstimulated nervous system.

For a body living with central sensitization, those moments of safety matter.

Fibromyalgia Flare Warning Signs

I’ve learned these are usually my first clues that I need to slow down.

☐ Burning or tingling skin

☐ Random deep itchiness

☐ Light, sound or touch suddenly feel overwhelming

☐ Increased dizziness or balance problems

☐ Pins and needles appearing more often

☐ Muscle twitches becoming frequent

☐ New food suddenly doesn’t agree with me

☐ Hands and feet feel like ice

☐ Fake flu symptoms appear

☐ Heavy, lead-like limbs

When two or three of these show up together, I know it’s time to change course before my body makes the decision for me.

Printable Energy Budget Checklist

Before I commit to something, I ask myself:

☐ Have I slept well enough?

☐ Am I already in more pain than usual?

☐ Have I eaten nourishing food today?

☐ Have I been drinking enough water?

☐ Is this worth spending today’s energy on?

☐ Have I scheduled recovery time afterward?

☐ Can someone help me with part of this?

☐ What can I postpone?

☐ Have I taken a break yet today?

☐ What does my body actually need right now?

Sometimes the healthiest decision isn’t doing more.

It’s protecting tomorrow.

Final Thoughts

I used to spend all my energy trying to convince my body to behave like it used to.

Now I spend that energy listening instead.

Oddly enough…

It fights me less.

For those of us living with fibromyalgia, healing often begins in the space between what our body is asking for and what our mind thinks we should be able to do.

I’d love to hear from you.

What is the strangest fibromyalgia symptom you’ve experienced?

Was it something you never expected? Something your doctor never mentioned? Share it in the comments. Chances are someone else has been wondering if they’re the only one.

If you’d like to experience what nervous system regulation feels like instead of simply reading about it, I’d love to have you join me for a guided forest therapy walk. Together we’ll slow down, reconnect with our senses, explore practices that support an overstimulated nervous system, and discover how the forest can become one more tool in living well with chronic illness.

You don’t have to keep pushing through alone.

Rest is not idle, not wasteful. Sometimes rest is the most productive thing you can do for your body and soul.

–Erica Layne

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

The Influence of Non-Judgmental Awareness: Mending the Nervous System

February 10, 2026 pammunkholm

There is always in February some one day, at least, when one smells the distant, but surely coming, summer.

-Gertrude Jekyll

If you’ve ever tried to “think positive” while your body is screaming, you already know who wins.

Pain wins. Exhaustion wins. A nervous system on red alert wins. Any pep talk given to said nervous system is bringing a Post-it note to a tornado.

And then we blame ourselves! Because obviously the problem is a personal moral failure, not a human being a human.

In forest therapy, we take a different approach. We don’t try to out-think the body. We learn to listen to it without judgment. In doing so, the body finally gets what it has been asking for all along. Safety.

Biology’s Rebellion: The Dangers of Overriding Nature

Many people living with chronic pain think they should be able to cope better.

They should be stronger.

They should push through.

They should be more grateful it’s not worse.

But here’s a humdinger of a thought. When your body is sending powerful distress signals, your conscious mind has very little leverage.

The attempt to escape from pain is what creates more pain.

–Gabor Maté

Neill Williams, on the Success Genius Podcast, explains it beautifully. When you are hungry, exhausted, or in pain, your biology overrides your attempts to think or feel differently.

The vagus nerve, your internal communication highway, links brain, heart, lungs, digestion, and the stress response. If that system is dysregulated, focus, creativity, decision-making, and connection all suffer.

Your body is a boundary of your soul. Treat it with care.

–Jean Shinoda Bolen

As I’ve said before. This isn’t a motivation problem. It’s a nervous system problem.

And until the body feels safer, it will keep turning up the heat.

Rushing: The Trap That Keeps Us in Survival Mode

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

–Ghandi

I dare say, we hurry through the day, override our limits, stay stimulated late into the night, fall into bed, wake up feeling four days past our bedtime, and repeat.

Then we wonder why our system is constantly braced for danger. We keep hitting refresh on the same nervous system and expecting a software update.

From a survival perspective, it makes perfect sense. Nothing in that cycle signals “You can stand down now.”

So the body continues to send messages. And they are rarely gentle. Whispers don’t usually create change. Pain often does.

To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

–Mary Oliver

“I Would, But I Simply Can’t.”

I often hear how wonderful forest therapy sounds.

I wish I could. Maybe someday. When life calms down.

But healing asks for time. Attention. Slowing down. Repetition.

Until then, forest therapy remains a lovely idea instead of lived remedy.

Word to the wise. Your body will keep requesting the appointment. It has an unlimited follow-up policy and will keep calling until someone answers.

If you don’t schedule a break, your body will take one for you, and it probably won’t be at a convenient time.

-Unknown

The Remarkable Power of Non-Judgmental Awareness

Here is where the shift happens.

When we practice noticing sensations without evaluating them, we step out of the inner fight.

Instead of:

This is bad.
Why am I like this?
I should be better.

(There are no gold stars for hating life correctly)

We try:

Warmth
Tightness.
Pulsing.
Cool air on my cheek.

No argument. No story.

Judgment activates defense. Awareness invites regulation.

The nervous system reads neutrality as safety.

The organism knows.

–Eugene Gendlin

Nature: The Ultimate Stage for Inspiration

The forest is a masterclass in non-urgency.

Nothing is asking you to be different.

Everything belongs. You. Belong.

Research into nature exposure consistently shows reductions in cortisol, blood pressure, muscle tension, and rumination.

But experientially, I’ve seen something even more important. People soften. Attention and breathing widens.

The body begins to renegotiate its alarm state.

Nature provides gentle sensory anchors. Light, texture, birdsong, air movement. These allow awareness without overwhelm. For someone with chronic pain, this is crucial. We are not adding more intensity; we are expanding capacity.

Astravore: (n) A soul that keeps feeding on hope even after disappointment- light-hungry, resilient, unbreakable. -ViviJan

You are larger than what is happening to you.

–Michael Singer

Silencing the Alarm: A Lesson in Balance

Imagine a car alarm that has been blaring for years.

You wouldn’t yell affirmations at it and tell it to be quiet.

You would look for the threat it thinks it perceives.

Non-judgmental awareness in nature is how we open the hood.

Each calm moment says, “No one is breaking in right now.”

Over time, the alarm system recalibrates.

My Story

I’ve experienced moments in my forest therapy practice when I wanted to do it all perfectly. To follow all the “right steps.”

When I go in with this focus I notice the pain is still there. The frustration is still there. I start thinking about all the years of pain I have ahead of me. Of financial strain. And the weight it adds to every relationship.

Then I remember to just breathe. Focus on today. Right. Now.

I start to feel the breeze on my face and hear it making its way through the trees around me. I sense the solid earth beneath me.

The pain does not vanish. But it’s not the only voice anymore. It has just been hogging the microphone in my head. 🎤 🤫

There is support available here whenever I need it. In the birds and the trees and the solid ground. This may sound odd. But this shift in thinking moves the pain inside a larger field of safety.

This is regulation. I just keep coming back to it.

The best way out is always through.

– Robert Frost

A Gentle Invitation to Explore

Find something in nature that feels steady. A tree, a rock, the shoreline.
Let your eyes rest there.
Now widen your awareness to include three additional sensations that are neutral or pleasant.
Move back and forth between the discomfort and the wider field

You are teaching your nervous system that pain can exist without emergency.

Do this regularly and the vagal pathways that support calm begin to strengthen.

Don’t just do something, sit there.

–Sylvia Boorstein

The Real Result: Persistence in Life

When regulation improves, people often notice clearer thinking, better sleep, and easier connection. Not because they forced positivity, but because their biology finally cooperated.

You are no longer fighting upstream. You are being carried. Like these little bitty icebergs I watch on the river. Floating by. 👇

The Closing “Peace”

If we keep living in a way that ensures the alarm stays active, nothing changes.

But when we make space, even small, consistent space for non-judgmental sensory awareness in the forest, the body hears something new.

I’m safe. I can soften. I don’t have to shout today.

And maybe, that is where my healing lingers. I just have to take time away, to meet it there.

The body always leads us home… if we can simply learn to trust sensation and stay with it long enough for it to reveal appropriate action.

-Pat Ogden

Take care, my friends. I leave you with these February thoughts that gave me a little chuckle:

My February workout plan is mostly just shivering until my muscles get tired.

Love is in the air this February, but so is the flu, so please stay back.

Forest Bathing: Breaking the Pain Cycle

January 13, 2026 pammunkholm

What if the goal isn’t to eliminate pain? But to change your relationship with it.

Not by forcing positivity. Not by chasing the next miracle cure. But by learning how to stand in a forest, breathe, and gently step outside the storm long enough to see it clearly.

That’s where mindfulness in the forest becomes powerful. Not as an escape from pain, but as a way to interrupt the pain cycle itself.

Benefits don’t emerge from merely experiencing mindfulness as a state. Instead they happen when we cultivate mindfulness as a personal trait.

–@brilliantlegalmind

Breaking the Chains of the Pain Cycle

Chronic pain is never only physical. It is neurological, emotional, and deeply shaped by our stress response.

This is not to say that you don’t experience actual, real, physical, deep pain. Only that our pain experience can be altered according to how we choose to interpret it. Which is especially important in chronic pain when so often there are no answers or treatments.

Pain feeds on:

Fear of what’s coming next
Hyper-vigilance in the body
Frustration over what we’ve lost
The endless search for a fix

This creates a familiar loop.

Pain → tension → fear → more pain.

Mindfulness, especially when practiced in nature, doesn’t deny this cycle.

It teaches us how to step out of it.

Don’t stress the ‘could haves’, if it should have, it would have.

MINDFULNESS (n):

“The practice of being aware of your body, mind and feelings in your present moment, thought to create a feeling of calm.”

Finding Harmony: In Nature’s Whispering Wisdom

Mindfulness anywhere can help.

Mindfulness in a forest does something more.

Natural environments gently regulate the nervous system without any concentrated effort on our part:

Heart rate slows
Breathing deepens
Muscles soften
The brain shifts from threat mode to restoration mode

Research on shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) shows that time in forests lowers cortisol, reduces blood pressure, and increases parasympathetic nervous system activity (the part of us responsible for rest, repair, and emotional balance.)

In other words, the forest doesn’t erase pain.

It loosens pain’s grip.

Captaining the Currents of Our Existence

Mindfulness helps us understand the waters in which we are swimming.

If you live with chronic pain, the pain is not you.

It is the water around you.

Some days you can float on your back.

Some days you need the survival position.

Some days you just enjoy swimming. (But those days are few and far between.)

Some days you simply tread water and keep breathing.

Mindfulness helps us step just far enough back to see,

This is the water. This is not my identity.

That small shift changes everything.

Untangling Hope: Innovative Lessons for a Brighter Tomorrow

In the podcast Untangle: What Does it Mean to Live a Good, Meaningful Life? Despite the (really) Hard Stuff, philosopher Kieran Setiya reflects on living with chronic pain and the trap many of us fall into. Hoping only for a cure. His story resonates with me. Because it is also my story. Is it yours too?

For years, he moved from doctor to doctor thinking, maybe this one will fix it. When he stopped, something unexpected happened. He felt freedom. Less frustrated. More grounded in how he would actually live his life.

At first, he thought he had rejected hope.

Later, he realized he had simply changed what he hoped for.

Not hope for a magic solution.

Hope for a life that would still feel meaningful. Even if pain remained in the background.

He describes the exhausting seesaw many of us live on:

hope → despair → hope → despair.

And suggests something radical. Getting off the seesaw altogether! That doesn’t mean stop seeing doctors or looking for answers. What it does mean is this.

The real question isn’t:

Should I hope or despair?

It’s,

What is realistic to hope for right now?

Mindfulness in the forest supports exactly this shift. Grounding hope in lived possibility instead of fantasy cures.

Choosing Joy in a Body That Hurts

It’s been said that one person’s joy ride is another person’s panic.

I love riding on the back of my husband’s motorcycle. Joy.

I love sitting at the front of a sailboat as it bounces across the water. Joy.

Someone else might question my sanity.

I don’t like roller coasters that go upside down. Panic.

I have no desire to drive an F1 car. Panic.

I question the sanity of people who enjoy those things. Which made me wonder.

What influences our desires? Our thoughts? Our emotions?

Are we just born joyful or grouchy? And that is how we have to live out our days?

Or do we choose? Can we choose our thoughts, our desires and thereby influence our emotions?

What if, even in a tangled mess of pain, emotions, relationships, and loss, we are allowed to choose joy?

Not reckless joy.

Not denial.

But brave joy.

The kind that says:

I will still step into wonder.

I will still feel exhilaration.

I will still live.

That is what mindfulness in the forest has given me.

I get to decide.

And honestly?

There’s no need for recreational anxiety around here. There’s enough regular anxiety to go around.

Inward Insights: The Wisdom Within

Look within. Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig.

-Marcus Aurelius

The forest helps us dig. Quietly, gently, without force.

Mindfulness reduces activity in brain networks that amplify pain through rumination and emotional reactivity, lowering perceived suffering even when pain remains.

Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.

-Simone Weil

When we give attention to our own experience. Without judgment. We change how pain lives in us.

Nature’s Cradle: A Forest Therapy Practice

Interrupting the Pain Cycle (7 minutes)

You can do this in a forest, park, or anywhere you can sense the natural world.

1. Arrive (1 minute)

Stand or sit comfortably. Let your eyes soften. Notice three natural textures. Bark, stone, leaf, snow, or water.

2. External Anchor Practice (2 minutes)

Choose one steady element in the landscape. A tree trunk, rock, horizon line, or patch of ground.

Let your attention rest there. Softly.

When your mind drifts toward pain or worry, gently return your awareness to that anchor.

This shifts the nervous system from internal threat scanning to external safety awareness. Especially helpful if breath-focused practices feel uncomfortable.

3. Name the Water (2 minutes)

Silently say:

This is pain. This is not me.

Notice sensation as experience, not identity.

4. Choose Your Stroke (2 minutes)

Ask yourself:

Do I need to float, swim, or rest today?

Let your body answer.

Mindfully Brave

For a long time, I thought mindfulness meant becoming calmer.

What I didn’t expect was that it would make me braver. Braver about feeling, braver about choosing joy, braver about living fully even when my body hurts.

The forest didn’t take away my pain.

It gave me back my choice.

Key Takeaways

Mindfulness in the forest teaches us:

Pain is real. Suffering is optional. Hope doesn’t have to live on a seesaw.

We can step out of the waters long enough to see them clearly. And then choose how to move within them.

Or as one forest therapy guide once said quietly on a trail,

We don’t come to the woods to escape life. We come to remember how to live it.

Trek Into the Frosty Adventure

If this spoke to you, you may also enjoy my post on finding connection through group forest therapy walks, where I explore how shared presence in nature reduces isolation and builds resilience for people living with pain and fatigue.

Faeloria (n):

The beauty that comes from the wounds you thought would destroy you.

Research at a Glance: Why This Works

Bottom line.

Mindfulness in the forest doesn’t cure pain. But it interrupts the feedback loop that keeps pain amplified by fear, stress, and resistance.

For those interested in the research, check out the following links. Let me know what you think in the comments.

1️⃣ Forest environments reduce stress hormones and activate relaxation responses

The 2010 Shinrin-yoku studies show forests lower cortisol, pulse rate, blood pressure, and increase parasympathetic nervous system activity (relaxation response).

👉 “The Physiological Effects of Shinrin-yoku…” — Environmental Health and Preventive Medicine (Park et al.)

Also see:

👉 Forest bathing reduces cortisol and stress — systematic review on cortisol as a stress biomarker

2️⃣ Forest bathing supports psychological well-being, mood, and anxiety reduction

Systematic reviews and meta-analyses show forest exposure reduces anxiety, depression, and improves emotional well-being.

👉 The effects of forest bathing on psychological well-being

Additional evidence on emotional and stress benefits of forest settings:

👉 Forest bathing: effects on mood and stress recovery

3️⃣ Forest immersion reduces negative affect and enhances mindfulness & introspection

A recent systematic review shows forest bathing decreases negative effects and enhances mindfulness and introspection. Key components of emotional regulation and pain resilience.

👉 Effects on self-criticism, self-compassion & mindfulness

4️⃣ Mindfulness and Pain Research : Neuroscience & Catastrophizing

✔ Mindfulness meditation alters how the brain processes pain

Studies show mindfulness meditation changes pain-related brain activity. Indicating real nervous system engagement, not just placebo.

👉 Mindfulness meditation helps reduce pain through distinct neural mechanisms

✔ Mindfulness is associated with lower pain catastrophizing

Research suggests higher mindfulness traits correlate with lower pain catastrophizing and greater ability to cope with pain.

👉 Trait mindfulness linked to higher pain thresholds & reduced catastrophizing

5️⃣ Mindfulness meditation itself has measurable effects on pain perception

Comprehensive reviews of mindfulness meditation include clinical and experimental insights into how it reduces pain intensity and unpleasantness across conditions:

👉 Mindfulness meditation–based pain relief review

January for the 5 senses:

Sight: late morning and early evening light on bright, blue clear days
Sound: shushing of steps in the snow
Taste: hot teas with honey
Smell: evergreen trees
Feel: the touch of cold noses and toes