There’s a quiet crossroads that people with chronic pain arrive at again and again.
In the small, ordinary moments of a day.
When your body says no again.
When plans have to be cancelled.
When energy runs out before the day even begins.
And at that crossroads, there’s a choice. Not one I have always recognized. It begins with this question.
What will I do with this pain?
Not why do I have it?
Not how do I fix it?
But… what can I make out of it? Today.
In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.
— Albert Einstein
Pain, especially chronic pain, has a way of shrinking life if we let it.
It narrows what feels possible.
It redraws the edges of our days.
And to be clear. This is not about pretending pain is a gift.
It isn’t.
If it were, most of us would politely decline and slide it right back across the table. Thanks but no thanks.
It’s hard. It’s exhausting. It’s unfair.
You are not here to be the perfect, inspiring example of someone who is chronically ill and somehow always positive.
But there is a difference between:
- pain that isolates
and - pain that becomes a bridge
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.
— Kahlil Gibran
Anyone that knows me knows how much I adore my grandkids.
We live in the same house, which means I get to be part of their everyday world. If it were up to my heart, I’d spend all my time with them.
But my energy doesn’t always agree with my heart.
Today, my grandson wants to go “hwimming.”
And I want to go with him.
But I already have one “big thing” on my list today. And my body has made it abundantly clear, there’s room for one big thing… or a few small ones.
Not both. Never both! My body is many things, but it is not a reasonable negotiator.
The frustrating part?
This is actually an improvement from recent years.
And still… it stings.
ELPIS– Greek (n) A quiet, persistent hope, even in dark times. It is the last light that refuses to go out, the promise that tomorrow still holds room for healing.
This is the crossroads.
I can let that moment turn into frustration, guilt, or the quiet grief of what I wish I could do.
Or…
I can choose something else.
Maybe I sit with him while he plays.
Maybe I listen to him sing from downstairs 🫠 ❤️ .
Maybe I ask him to snuggle.
Maybe I let myself feel both things at once:
I wish I could go.
And I’m still here.
Still loving him.
Still part of his world.
Still showing up. Just in a different way than I would choose, but a real one.
This probably seems trivial. It is. But a lifetime of lost trivial things somehow adds up over time. A succession of lost opportunities. Striking the same chord vibrating that heart string that is still inflamed from the previous strike.
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
— Kahlil Gibran
Pain doesn’t just take.
Sometimes, quietly, over time, it teaches.
It teaches you how to notice what others miss.
How to sit with someone without trying to fix them.
How to love in ways that aren’t loud or impressive but steady and real.
How to recognize pain in others.
And some days, it teaches you how to lower your expectations to what is possible instead of what is perfect. The real over the ideal.
A forest therapy practice: “Follow What Still Moves”
On days when your body feels limited, this is an invitation to gently reconnect with possibility.
- Step outside. Your yard, a park, or even just one tree.
- Begin a slow, wandering walk. No destination.
- Let your attention be drawn to movement:
- leaves shifting
- branches swaying
- light flickering
- birds moving through space
- When something catches your eye, pause and gently mirror it:
- shift your weight like the tree in the wind
- slowly move your hand like a branch
- turn your head to follow light or shadow
- Rest whenever your body asks.
This isn’t about pushing through pain.
It’s about remembering,
Even when parts of you feel stuck…
life is still moving.
And you are still part of it.
We don’t heal in isolation, but in community.
Using your pain for good doesn’t mean turning it into something impressive.
It means allowing it to shape you into someone who:
- notices more
- loves deeply
- connects honestly
- and finds meaning in moments that might otherwise be overlooked
A life that is still full.
Even here.
Especially here.
SUNBEAM ACRES 