self-compassion – SUNBEAM ACRES

Living on the Edge of Pain-Free

October 6, 2026 pammunkholm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When your body is a little too enthusiastic about movement

I live with hypermobile joints.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example:

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

His little elbow. My adult rib. Click!

Three days after my physiotherapist put me back together.

She and I have a standing monthly appointment.

So now I wait. 27 days.

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

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

There are other examples.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The problem with explaining pain nobody can see

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

There is an injury.

There is pain.

There is a scan.

There is treatment.

There is recovery. Hooray!

But when this isn’t the progression.

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

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

The answer is essentially, Everything looks normal.

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

You begin to wonder if maybe you are the problem.

Maybe you’re exaggerating. 🤔

Maybe you’re weak. 😔

Maybe you’re just sensitive. 😢

Maybe you should exercise more. 🏃‍♀️

Maybe you should exercise less. 😣

Maybe you need to think positively. 😃

Maybe you need to stop thinking about it. 🧘‍♀️

Meanwhile, your body is sitting there like:

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

A diagnosis doesn’t magically make pain disappear.

But a name can change something.

There is power in having a name

There is something different about being able to say:

I have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.

Instead of:

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

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

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

A name gives your experience a place to stand.

It can feel like a credential for suffering. 🪪

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

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

And there is another thing a name gives you:

Other people.

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

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

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

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

There is comfort in that shorthand.

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

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

Even the measuring stick is changing

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

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

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

What about the hips?

The shoulders?

The feet?

The jaw?

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

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

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

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

So even the measuring stick is being re-examined.

I find that hopeful.

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

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

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

Sometimes the person doesn’t fit the measuring tool.

That doesn’t necessarily mean the person is wrong.

Sometimes the measuring tool needs work.

A diagnosis doesn’t make you more real

This is something I have to remind myself of.

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

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

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

A diagnosis can give language to an experience.

It can open doors.

It can help doctors understand.

It can connect you with other people.

It can change treatment.

It can stop some of the exhausting explaining.

But it doesn’t create the suffering.

The suffering was already there.

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

Living on the edge of pain-free

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

I don’t necessarily live in constant unbearable pain.

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

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

Maybe this is the week.

Maybe my body is settling down.

Maybe I can do a little more.

Maybe I can hike a little farther.

Maybe I can play a little longer.

Maybe I can just live normally.

And then something happens.

A foot.

A rib.

An ankle.

A muscle.

A joint.

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

I live on the edge of pain-free.

I can see it.

I can sometimes almost touch it.

But I can never quite get there.

Some days this feels draining.

Some days it is really frustrating.

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

I want to pick up my grandchildren without calculating angles.

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

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

I want to live. Not perfectly. Just freely.

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

Forest therapy doesn’t ask my body to perform.

There is no gold star for going farther. 🌟

No prize for walking fastest.

No requirement to conquer the trail.

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

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

Not hiking.

Walking.

There is a difference.

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

Not to judge them.

Or correct them.

Just notice.

Where is the ground?

What does the trail feel like beneath my shoes?

Am I gripping with my toes?

Am I locking my knees?

Am I holding my shoulders up around my ears?

Is there a place where I can soften?

Can I take one smaller step?

Can I pause?

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

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

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

Sometimes it means five minutes instead of an hour.

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

The forest doesn’t seem disappointed in me.

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

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

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

It just keeps being a forest.

Maybe the goal isn’t to reach pain-free

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

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

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

It is learning a different definition of living.

I can be frustrated and grateful at the same time.

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

I can be tired of pain without being hopeless.

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

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

Eventually. Not immediately. But eventually.

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

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

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

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

Maybe that’s the hope.

Not that one day my body will become uncomplicated.

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

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

And for today, that’s enough.

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

Everything Hurts, Now What?

September 8, 2026 pammunkholm

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

Not the legitimate kind.

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

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

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

Some things are a genuine bummer.

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

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

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

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

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

Sneaky lies.

The kind that slip in wearing sensible shoes.

E.g.

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

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

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

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

🤭 Cute.

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

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

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

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

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

That doesn’t mean you failed.

It means you’re human.

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

This one is considerably more dangerous.

Because chronic pain can shrink our world.

First we stop doing something because it hurts.

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

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

Then we start thinking about everything we’ve lost.

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

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

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

I can’t live like I used to becomes:

I can’t do anything.

I’m having a terrible pain day becomes:

I’m always in unmanageable pain.

I can’t make plans reliably becomes:

My life is completely out of my control.

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

We’re no longer simply describing our circumstances.

We’re rehearsing them.

Over and over.

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

But here’s where I need to be careful.

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

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

No.

Absolutely not.

I have chronic pain.

This is not a part-time hobby.

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

Sometimes I need to say:

“Today really hurts.”

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

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

I don’t need a motivational quote.

I need a witness.

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

This is one of the hardest parts of chronic pain.

Because pain doesn’t take weekends or holidays off.

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

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

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

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

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

And sometimes that comes out as:

“That sucks.”

Then they go back to whatever they were doing.

Ouch 😣

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

Please stop talking about this 🙄 .

But there is another possibility.

Maybe they’re not saying:

Your pain doesn’t matter.

Maybe they’re saying:

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

Maybe they’re exhausted too.

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

And here’s an inconvenient truth:

Both people can be hurting.

The person with chronic pain can need to be heard.

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

Those two things can be true at the same time.

So how do we complain in a healthy way?

Maybe the answer isn’t don’t complain.

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

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

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

Sometimes I’m asking:

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

That’s a different request.

Instead of:

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

I might try:

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

Or:

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

Or even:

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

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

They don’t have to cure chronic pain.

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

They just have to be present.

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

This one is tricky.

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

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

But perhaps we can build a different language around it.

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

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

That is very different from:

“I’m sick of hearing you complain.”

One establishes a boundary.

The other makes the person feel like the problem.

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

So perhaps healthy communication lives somewhere in the middle.

Tell the truth.

Don’t catastrophize the truth.

Ask for what you actually need.

Give the other person permission to have limits.

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

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

Even if that human being is married to you.

Your brain is listening to you.

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

They’re constantly interpreting what is happening.

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

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

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

In very simple terms:

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

That does NOT mean chronic pain is imaginary.

It does NOT mean positive thinking cures illness.

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

Puh-lease. ✋

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

But it does mean there may be a difference between:

“This hurts.”

and

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

The first is information.

The second is a story.

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

Validation isn’t the same thing as agreement.

This is an important distinction.

If I say:

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

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

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

You can say:

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

That’s validation.

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

You’re acknowledging the experience.

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

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

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

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

🛟 “I believe you.”

🛟 “That sounds really hard.”

🛟 “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”

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

Sometimes I need help.

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

And sometimes I need everyone to leave me alone.

Which brings me to the forest.

The forest is a third party in the conversation.

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

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

The forest doesn’t say:

“Again with the pain?”

It doesn’t say:

“You’ve already told me this.”

It doesn’t say:

“That sucks.”

It simply gives me something else to notice.

The sound of wind moving through branches.

The texture of bark.

Birdsong.

The smell of damp earth.

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

Light moving through leaves.

My feet touching the ground.

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

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

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

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

Sometimes that is enough to interrupt the loop.

Try this the next time you catch yourself complaining.

Don’t shame yourself.

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

Instead, pause.

Ask:

What am I actually needing right now?

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

Am I simply needing someone to say:

“That really sucks.”

Because sometimes that is enough.

Then ask yourself:

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

Maybe it’s your spouse.

Maybe it’s a friend who understands.

Maybe it’s a support group.

Maybe it’s a therapist.

Maybe it’s a journal.

Maybe it’s the forest.

And maybe sometimes it’s you.

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

Frankly, that sounds exhausting.

I still complain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is still a world happening outside my symptoms.

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

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

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

Even if it hurts. Especially then.

What Does My Soul Need Today?

September 1, 2026 pammunkholm

I have a confession.

I hear the word retreat and my brain starts packing a bag.

Preferably for somewhere with trees, a mountain, a few trails and nobody asking me what’s for dinner.

A retreat sounds lovely.

It also sounds like something that requires time, money, planning, a reservation, and quite possibly a whole new wardrobe.

But what if retreat doesn’t have to be a big event?

What if it can be ten minutes? A half hour? Or an afternoon?

What if you don’t have to go anywhere?

I’ve been reading Caroline Sylge’s How to Retreat, and I love the idea that retreat can be much more accessible than we tend to make it. A retreat can be a deliberate step away from the noise of ordinary life, and it can look very different depending on what you need.

Which got me thinking about a question I probably need to ask myself more often:

What does my soul need today?

Not what does my calendar say? Not what am I behind on? Not what would make me feel impressively productive?

What does my soul need today?

And sometimes the answer is surprisingly simple.

Āloka
Sanskrit and Pali. Meaning light, brightness, vision or enlightenment. When something inside you finally becomes clear.

Yesterday, apparently, my soul needed to get rained on.

I woke up thinking I should go to the gym.

That meant walking there, working out, and walking home again.

Then I looked outside. It was cloudy and raining.

My immediate response was something along the lines of, Excellent. Perhaps I shall simply allow these blankets to absorb me.

But eventually I got myself moving. Rain gear on. Out the door.

Only a few minutes from home, I noticed something. I was enjoying the rain. I could feel it on my hands. I could hear it hitting my hood. The air smelled different. The whole world seemed quieter.

By the time I reached the gym, I was more than ready to move.

I hadn’t needed to convince myself. I just needed to get outside long enough for my nervous system to catch up with the plan.

Sometimes we don’t need a retreat just a walk in the rain on the way to the gym. And sometimes we need the gym.

That’s the tricky thing about asking what your soul needs.

The answer isn’t always rest.

Sometimes it is movement. Adventure. Solitude. People. A nap. Fresh air.

The micro-retreat

I think this is where the idea of a micro-retreat joins well with the idea of forest therapy.

We have somehow managed to turn rest into another achievement.

Apparently we need the perfect location, the perfect playlist, the perfect journal, the perfect candle and three uninterrupted hours to properly relax.

I would like to formally announce this is unnecessary protocol.

Your retreat can be tiny. You could put a plant on your desk. Turn on a little water feature. Put your phone somewhere you can’t see it.

Sit there for ten minutes. Listen. Look. Breathe.

That’s it!

You have not travelled anywhere. Your bank balance remains unchanged. No achieved enlightenment. But you stepped outside the usual stream of demands.

That counts.

And tomorrow, your retreat might look completely different.

Maybe you need to sit in a cozy chair and read. Or wander for thirty minutes through a park while the leaves are turning. Perhaps you have enough energy for a three-hour mindful walk through the forest. Or just enough energy to sit on a bench and watch water move.

All valid needs.

Forest therapy makes room for all of this

One of the things I love about forest therapy is that there isn’t a mileage requirement.

Nobody hands you a medal at the end because you managed to walk seven kilometres while being mindful.

You don’t have to conquer the forest. You don’t even have to walk very far.

The forest isn’t a treadmill with better scenery. It’s an invitation to slow down and notice.

And the beautiful thing is that you can scale that invitation to whatever your life (and your body) can manage.

Nature can be a forest. It can also be a tree outside your door. A houseplant. A garden. Rain on your hood. The sound of a creek. Ten minutes watching birds. A patch of grass.

There is some pretty fascinating neuroscience behind this.

We don’t have to make nature complicated. Sometimes we just need to stop long enough to realize it is there.

Your brain might thank you

Our brains spend a tremendous amount of time directing attention, filtering distractions, making decisions and responding to demands.

Nature seems to give that hard-working attention system a bit of a vacation.

Researchers call one part of this soft fascination.

Instead of forcing yourself to concentrate on something, your attention gets gently captured by things like moving leaves, clouds, birds, water or sunlight.

You aren’t doing nothing. Your brain just isn’t working quite so hard at doing everything.

A 2025 systematic review and meta-analysis found that nature exposure was, on average, more cognitively restorative than non-nature exposure, particularly for working memory and attentional control. Interestingly, around 30 minutes appeared to be a particularly useful window in the studies they examined.

And a 2026 review looking across 108 neuroimaging studies found evidence of changes in brain networks involved in stress, attention and self-referential processing following exposure to natural environments.

Now, before we all start dumping our meds out the window, putting a houseplant beside our bed and declaring ourselves neurologically healed, a little caution is appropriate.

This is promising research, though not a magic prescription.

Studies differ in their methods, environments and participants, and researchers are still figuring out exactly what kinds of nature experiences work best, for whom, and for how long.

But the evidence is increasingly pointing in an interesting direction:

Getting away from the constant demands on our attention may actually give our brains some room to recover.

And I will happily take more reasons to go sit in the sun.

What if creativity is the point?

Unused creativity is not benign. It metastasizes. It turns into grief, rage, judgment, sorrow, shame.

-Brene Brown

This is another part of Sylge’s thinking that really caught my attention.

Creativity can be part of the retreat.

But it can also be what comes out of the retreat.

Sometimes you retreat because you need to write.

Other times you finally get quiet enough for the idea you’ve been carrying around in your head to come knocking.

Maybe you take photographs or write or sketch or paint.

Maybe you start noticing colours, shapes, textures and tiny details you normally walk straight past.

You don’t have to be an artist. You don’t have to produce anything profound.

Take a picture of a leaf because you like the way it looks. Write three sentences. Draw a tree that looks like a potato. It’s okay! The potato tree has value.

The point isn’t necessarily to create something impressive.

The creative act may simply be another way of paying attention.

And sometimes, when we stop trying so hard, something unexpectedly creative finds its way through.

My Micro-Retreat Menu

So, if you are wondering what retreat might look like today, here are a few possibilities.

🌱 5 minutes: Find one living thing. Look at it properly. Notice something you’ve never noticed before.

💧 10 minutes: Sit beside water. Real water is excellent. Tiny tabletop water feature? Also acceptable.

📖 20 minutes: Make yourself a cozy space and read. No multitasking. No “I’ll just check one thing.”

🍂 30 minutes: Take a slow seasonal wander. Notice what has changed.

📷 45 minutes: Take your camera and photograph whatever catches your attention. No theme required.

🎨 60 minutes: Write, draw, photograph, paint, collage, doodle. Follow your curiosity.

🌲 2–3 hours: Go into the forest. Walk slowly. Sit down. Listen. Notice. Journal. Rest. Let the experience unfold instead of trying to accomplish it.

And then there is:

🛋️ The “my body has voted” retreat: Stay home. Make tea. Read. Listen to rain. Look out the window. Rest without turning it into a failure.

Because sometimes the most mindful thing you can do is listen when your body says no.

Aging is when your brain says, “We ride at dawn.” And your body says, “We absolutely do not.

Retreat so you have something to give

There is another aspect of this that I think gets overlooked.

We don’t retreat only so we can feel better. Sometimes we retreat so we can return. Because when we’re depleted, we don’t have much left to offer anyone.

Our patience gets shorter. Our creativity dries up. Everything feels like one more demand.

And sometimes we need to step away. Not because we don’t love people, but because we do.

I’ve written about this before in A Grid of Love and Light, because I believe our light is meant to reach beyond ourselves.

But we can’t shine indefinitely on an empty tank. Sometimes we need to step back and replenish. Not so we can become more productive. So that we can return with a little more presence.

A little more patience. Creativity. Light.

So ask the question

Before you automatically do what you always do, stop for a moment.

Put down the phone. Look out the window. Take a breath. And ask yourself:

What does my soul need today?

Maybe it needs a forest. Or rain. Perhaps a workout. Or a book. Maybe it needs creativity. Or a friend. Maybe solitude. Or ten quiet minutes beside a plant.

Maybe it needs to crawl back under the covers and put out a Do Not Disturb sign for the world.

The answer doesn’t have to be the same tomorrow.

That’s the beauty of it.

A retreat doesn’t have to be a place. It can be a response.

A response to what your body needs. What your mind needs. What your soul needs.

And perhaps the goal isn’t to retreat far enough away that we become someone else. Perhaps it is simply to step out of the noise long enough to remember who we already are.

You don’t have to escape your entire life. You can simply step out of it for a little while.

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

Navigating Emotional Struggles Gracefully: Staying Grounded in the Woods

July 7, 2026 pammunkholm

This line 👇🏼 from a song deserves to stand alone.

The world is hard on beautiful things.

-“Beautiful Things” by Megan Moroney

When I hear this line, I think about the people I know who have been hurt by the world. It takes not only our emotions for a nosedive.

But also our peace.

Our patience.

Our nervous systems.

Our hope.

Our ability to assume the best instead of the worst.

You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.

–Jon Kabat-Zinn

It feels like we’re all moving through life with our shoulders somewhere around our ears. Chronic illness, fear of aging, financial stress, uncertainty, bad news on an endless loop. Some people are simply trying to get through Tuesday with enough energy to make supper 🙋‍♀️ .

It doesn’t take much to tip us over.🐄

A few days ago, mine came in the form of a boat launch.

Anyone who’s spent time around a busy boat launch knows it’s a fascinating social experiment.

An overabundance of strong opinions and egos exists.

There are no rules. Written or unwritten.

Just enough ambiguity transpires, that everyone believes they’re right.

I’ve been launching boats for about fifteen years. I know the rhythm. I stay out of people’s way, wait until my truck is actually in the water before moving, and do my best to keep things safe and efficient.

Apparently one gentleman decided I’d “cut the line.”

Boat launches really do produce fascinating specimens of humanity.

I’ve learned that confidence can be surprisingly unsettling to some people. Especially when it arrives in the form of a woman who knows how to load the boat on the trailer without making a production of it.

It’s funny how a little perceived competition can bring out our inner third-grader.

The equipment may have six-figure price tags, but occasionally the conflict resolution skills still come from recess days gone by.

When I calmly explained why I was waiting where I was. And how the process normally works. He didn’t want an explanation.

He began clapping sarcastically.

The world doesn’t just wear us down through tragedy. Sometimes it does it one sarcastic clap at a time.

–Claire played by Molly Gordon in “The Bear“

As he mocked me it became clear he just wanted an audience.

He got one when a couple of other boaters joined in the jeering.

I wish I could tell you I laughed it off.

Instead, my nervous system hit the panic button.

My cortisol rose faster than I can launch my boat. (I’m a pro at both.)

My heart raced. My hands shook.

My cortisol packed a lunch and settled in for two to three business days.

Several days later, I could still feel my body replaying the scene.

I think what bothers me most, at this point, is somewhere out there is a misguided soul telling the story of the woman who “cut the line” at the dock.

How people treat you is their karma, how you react is yours.

–Wayne Dyer

Maybe you’ve had moments like that.

Perhaps someone says something. Misunderstands you. Treats you unfairly.

And your body reacts long after the event is over.

For those of us living with chronic illness or chronic stress, these moments don’t simply sting.

They cost us.

That’s why a line from a recent episode of the Untangle podcast kept coming back to me.

In “Quiet Strength and Equanimity: Finding Calm in a Chaotic World,” Margaret Cullen explores how we stay peaceful in a world that often seems determined to take our peace away.

One story she shares has stayed with me.

A man is rowing through thick fog when he notices another boat heading directly toward him.

The other boat is bigger. He should have the right of way.

He shouts. No response.

He waves. Nothing.

The other boat keeps coming.

His frustration turns to anger.

“Move!”

Just before the collision, he swerves.

As the fog clears, he realizes…

The boat is empty. No one was steering.

Instantly, his anger disappears.

Who was he angry with?

No one.

Since first hearing that story, I’ve asked myself this question.

Is the boat empty?

Not literally.

But is this personal?

Or am I assigning intention where there may be none?

Maybe they’re exhausted. Grieving. Terrified.

Maybe they simply don’t know any better.

Or maybe they’re carrying hurts I can’t see.

None of those possibilities excuse poor behaviour.

But they completely change where I direct my emotional energy.

Sometimes, seeing clearly dissolves the anger.

Pronoia
The opposite of paranoia. it is the belief that people or the world are secretly working in your favour. That events, people and circumstaces are somehow conspiring to help you.

That’s different from stuffing feelings down or pretending they don’t exist.

You can’t bypass emotions.

You can’t slap a positive quote over a nervous system that’s sounding the alarm.

But sometimes the alarm quiets on its own because you suddenly realize…

There isn’t actually an enemy here.

Just another imperfect human.

When the boat is empty, compassion often becomes easier than combat.

Margaret Cullen also offers another perspective I love.

Ask yourself:

How will this feel next week? Next month? Next year?

It’s amazing how many mountains quietly shrink into molehills when viewed from a little distance.

Then she takes it even further.

She talks about astronauts experiencing the Overview Effect. Seeing Earth from space and returning with an entirely different understanding of what matters.

Imagine grandmother’s wisdom. Now multiply it by the view from orbit.

Our arguments. Our bruised egos. Our need to be right.

They suddenly become very small compared with this astonishing little blue planet we’re all sharing.

That doesn’t make our feelings unimportant.

It simply gives them context.

Another surprisingly effective tool?

Humour. Humour interrupts the story we’re telling ourselves.

We’ve all done it.

We become convinced we’ve been wronged in the most spectacular fashion imaginable.

Our spouse is over there admiring a duck while we have mentally drafted the closing argument for a trial that nobody else even knows is happening.

Sometimes all it takes is one ridiculous observation from them to break the spell.

I wish I could say I found “the funny” at the boat launch.

I wasn’t there yet.

Maybe next time.

One tool that has helped me far more consistently is asking:

Am I living this moment according to my values?

Not theirs. Mine.

I can’t control sarcasm.

I can’t control mockery.

I can’t control who decides to clap sarcastically at a stranger.

But I can decide whether I respond with kindness.

Integrity. Respect. Compassion.

Those are mine to keep.

The more our daily lives align with our values, the steadier we become.

Peace stops being something we chase and starts becoming somewhere we live.

The idea of felt safety is something we’ll explore more in the next post.

Felt safety isn’t the absence of fear.

It isn’t the absence of challenge.

It’s your nervous system recognizing that you have enough capacity to face what’s in front of you.

That you are enough.

That you can survive this moment.

Forest therapy has become one of the places where I practice exactly that.

The forest rarely requires me to react in the moment.

It stretches time. It expands perspective.

It reminds me that not everything deserves my nervous system’s full emergency response.

When someone steals my peace…

I take it to the woods.

There, I remember that I’m part of something much older than a rude exchange at a boat launch.

Much bigger than today’s frustration.

And much more beautiful than the story my anxious brain was writing five minutes earlier.

Eventually I remember that peace is a terrible thing to hand over to someone you’ve never met.

A Forest Therapy Invitation

If you’re new here and want to learn more about forest therapy and how it works, check out this page. The Gist

The next time something rattles you, resist the urge to replay it over and over.

Instead, head outside.

Find one tree that catches your attention.

Stand with it for five slow breaths.

Now ask yourself:

Is the boat empty?
Will this matter next year?
What would this look like from space?
What response best reflects my values?
How can I become the tenderness this moment needs?

Don’t force an answer.

Just notice what changes.

Sometimes the forest doesn’t solve the problem.

It simply reminds us that we are far bigger than it.

Forest therapy doesn’t help me escape the world. It helps me return to it without becoming like it.

Margaret Cullen ends her book Quiet Strength with words I borrow:

May each of us find a way to bring balance and tenderness to this floating world, moment by moment, drop by drop.

I can’t think of a better response to a world that is hard on beautiful things.

Let’s become one of the beautiful things that refuses to grow hard.

The world may be hard on beautiful things. That doesn’t mean beautiful things have to become hard.

Instead…

Let’s become the tenderness.

In a gentle way you can shake the world.

–Mahatma Gandhi

You Are a Success Story

May 26, 2026May 26, 2026 pammunkholm

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.

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.

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

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.

–JK Rowling

The Exhaustion of Not Being Believed

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.

But constant defense is exhausting.

As Dallin H. Oaks said:

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.

–George Bernard Shaw

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.

–Elbert Hubbard

You Are a Success Story Too

If you live with chronic pain and still carry on…

You are a success story.

If you’ve had to explain your pain as a weird hip or angry neck. Here is your medal in interpretive medicine 🏅…

And you are a success story.

If, like my friend described it, you have been blindsided at a medical appointment and you keep seeking your answers…

You are a success story.

If you got out of bed today and every day, despite exhaustion…

You are a success story.

If you parent through pain…

You are a success story.

If you grieve what your body once was while still learning to care for the body you have now…

You are a success story.

If you feel misunderstood. Lesser. Frustrated. Invisible. You are still a success story.

Do not let anyone take that from you.

You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice.

–Bob Marley

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…

🫵 You are a success story.

And don’t you forget it. 😉

The Impact of Self Compassion and Forest Therapy on Chronic Illness

April 15, 2025 pammunkholm

Blooms break forth from the startled earth. The sky laughs. The trees, abashed, dress themselves in verdant green.

-Rick Yancey

Embracing Your Inner Warrior and Cuddle Bug

Have you heard of fierce self compassion? I have been reading Dr. Kristin Neff’s books. I have learned enough that I think I can convey some of what she teaches. In her research on self compassion, Dr. Neff has become the expert in her field. She has an innate ability to speak to the individual. In a way that is both calming and empowering. I highly recommend her as an author. Her work can be found at self-compassion.org. Stick around to learn about self compassion. And to answer these questions: Why is self compassion significant in healing chronic pain? And how is forest therapy a good support for this type of practice?

Do you know anyone that would gain from a lesson in self compassion? Share this post with them. Hook them up with my social media. And then plan to attend a forest therapy walk together with them in the next week or two. We are so close 😄! Click below to see what forest therapy walks are available so you are ready to book.

forest therapy walks

Nurturing Self-Compassion Through Sensory Awareness

Self compassion comes in many forms. Tactile- running your fingers along the back on your arms, getting the right temperature, pressure from a weighted blanket. Something fuzzy or squishy. Visual- lower the lights in the evening and in a bath, candle light. playing with colors. Auditory- listen to the music or nature sounds that lift your soul. Olfactory- what EO scent helps you feel balanced. Gustatory- a multitude of options from water to ice cream to tea, find what fills this sense for you. In filling these needs for myself, I have noticed a growing sense of self compassion. And it has been a support to me in healing all things chronic.

Note: to me, healing and cure are not the same. healing gets me to a place of functioning. i do not expect a cure in this life. but i would take one if offered. healing takes time. and doing the right stuff. that’s what i’m talking about here.

Another sense that I didn’t realize existed until recently. And I really didn’t pay any attention to it at all. Is interoception. That is my ability to understand the signals my body is giving me internally. For example, hunger, thirst, feeling full, relaxing tense muscles and calming a racing heart. I ignored my interoception signals as a mom of young boys. I prided myself on being able to hold a full bladder all day. Getting to the end of a day and realizing I hadn’t eaten anything. Or had anything to drink. I had to train this sense to be felt again. I had tucked it away but it is important to the overall health and function of my body.

Bursting at the Seams: The Threat of Overcapacity

Another internal neighborhood watch, if you will, is paying attention to my capacity. Knowing it is less at this stage of my life. At home. I only need to take care of myself, I still have a capacity to take on more. I add my family and my home. I am getting up there but all is still well. I add service and church responsibilities. Almost at capacity. Once I hit capacity, I experience emotions like overwhelm. Irritability. Exhaustion. Anxiety.

To decrease the overflowing emotions I can stop taking on anything else until things normalize. I can take a close look at what I have taken on and get rid of non-essentials. I can find the people that have a capacity to support me. Hand them some of what is making me overflow. I can look at specific issues that are in the overflow and problem solve how to manage them. What is in my control and what should I do to have a positive influence on those things? Through it all I speak kindly to myself which also keeps the capacity from boiling over.

Achieving Balance: Three Wins for Success

Dr. Neff’s research has proven that to thrive and find a sense of wholeness in our lives. We need to find a balance between tender and fierce self compassion. In our tender compassion. We recognize that in accepting ourselves, we alleviate our own suffering. This type of compassion leads to inner healing. Our fierce self compassion alternatively, provides a springboard for taking action. We draw boundaries by learning when to say no. We recognize our needs and learn where to say yes. We are motivated in our growth to reach out and have an impact on our world and those around us. This type of change leads to outer healing. It all starts with that balance between tender and fierce self compassion.

Self compassion includes finding ways to meet our own individual needs. To provide for our needs we should set up our day to experience at least three wins. A physical, a mental and a spiritual win.

A physical win can look like a forest therapy walk! Drinking enough water. Eating nourishing meals and getting enough sleep. Deep breathing.

Mental wins can look like reading a book that inspires or educates you. Writing in your journal. Organize an uplifting playlist and enjoy. Or catch up on a podcast or TED talk that can get you to your next level. And here again we can list forest therapy as a mental win. Declutter a space or meditate to clear up some head space.

Spiritual wins are my favorite. Praying or setting intentions for the day. Hey, wouldn’t ya know, a forest therapy walk and spending time enjoying and appreciating nature also hits a spiritual win! Reflect at the end of your days.

The Power of Self-Compassion in the Chronic Illness World: A Gentle Uprising

Not Okay

I am not okay today. 
So, in the absence of okay, 
what can I be?
I can be gentle.
I can be unashamed.
I can turn my pain into connection.
I can be a student of stillness.
I can be awake to nature.
I can sharpen my empathy
against the stone of my discomfort.

I am not okay.
but I am many worthy things. 

-Jarod K Anderson (the CryptoNaturalist)

Some nights, the soul weeps louder than the eyes ever could.

-Edgar Allan Poe

There is a weird phenomenon in the world of the chronically ill. It is the place of the in between. A place between too sick to function and not sick enough to get support. You almost puke but you don’t. Your muscles cramp so bad you almost can’t stand. But you can. You always have pain but it’s not always awful. There is no surgery that will fix it. There is no research being done on it. Because there is a lack of belief that this exists. You forget EVERYTHING, but everyone is forgetful. Your BP is low but not low enough to treat it. Your anxiety is high but they say just manage it. You want answers but doctors don’t think there is one. Have you ever wished you were more sick so you at least have the benefit of a desire for understanding?

Self compassion here says I am just the right amount. For today. I am sick and I can rest even if others don’t understand. I won’t puke but my nausea is enough to be gentle with myself. When my muscles cramp I will take care of them. When there is pain, no matter the level, I will not be upset. I can be tender and inquisitive.

☝🏼 A close look at how symptoms can come out of nowhere and knock you off the couch. ☝🏼

I DON'T LOOK SICK

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but my legs will often feel like wet spaghetti and will go numb and give out on me without warning.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but I live with an intense deep exhaustion that makes every movement feel like I'm trying to move at the bottom of the ocean.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but I suffer from an extremely sensitive heat intolerance that makes me feel light headed, ill and faint even in what feels like a normal room temperature to you.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but my nerves often give me "phantom itches" that make me scratch myself raw at an itch that doesn't actually exist.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but inside, my bones often feel like someone is using a jackhammer on them, especially during a change in weather.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but if anything, even something little, stresses or worries me, my body rebels and symptoms flare up just for the fun of it.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but it's extremely difficult for me to concentrate on anything, and as a result my memory suffers drastically.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but the simplest tasks can take me 5 times longer and takes 5 times as much energy to finish that a "normal" person.

I DON'T LOOK SICK, but you'll never know the struggle beneath the surface.

I have been dealing with chronic pain for a while now. There have been weeks where all I could do was lay down. That leaves a lot of time for thinking. I know my thoughts can create my reality. So I want to be careful with them. Since learning this painful lesson I have seen my life blossom as a result.

Over the last few years I have seen my tears turn to blossoms of understanding. Self compassion and holding a space for myself at all of the stages of healing has been critical. At times I can look back and see tender self compassion. When the tears would flow. And I would be okay with it. I would not hold back. Other times I can see evident in my behavior the fierce self compassion that Dr. Neff talks about. Where I learned to set boundaries and how to recognize my own needs. To act for my own best outcome.

In motu, veritas: blooms after the storm. When have you experienced this type of growth?

When all I can see ahead are endless days of pain, I need to take a step back. I know in those times I am getting lost in the weeds of my thoughts. I find a better look out spot and get a sense of what is important. What is true. What is helpful. And the rest is weeded out. This is most likely to happen when I have not set myself as the priority and I need to recalibrate. Self compassion is the key to start the process.

I hope you find time to be happy. Not just strong.

-Louise Kaufman

Life with chronic pain is demanding. But with a combination of fierce and tender self compassion, balance is restored and hope is renewed.

So many days can feel like a struggle. Remember to find something to laugh about and someone to laugh with.

Maybe you could give me a hug and slowly loosen your hold and then you could tell me what my blood pressure is.

I just had a discussion with a friend the other day. We both excelled in school. Yet we struggle in life. Due to chronic illness. We had such high hopes being that we read significantly higher than our grade level. Surely that’s the number one marker for success in later life. This is regrettably not the case. Well that’s a fine how do you do!

The Wonder of Forest Therapy: A New Edge on Chronic Illness Relief

I love the idea of collecting sunsets. In a jar! What can you collect in your forest therapy this season? Campfire collection. Rainbow collection. Starlight collection. Wildlife collection. You can take a mental picture. Sketch it in a journal. Take an actual photograph or video. It does not need to be posted on social media to make it valid. This is your collection. Find what works for you.

When we go for a forest walk together I can offer invitations such as the following.

Forest bathe at sunrise or sunset. Find a good perch and invite the sun into the day. Or tuck it into bed at night.
Bring your journal and sketch any signs of spring that you see.
Dedicate a part of your walk to gratitude, what do you see on your walk that gives you a sense of gratitude

SUSURROUS (adj)- full of whispering sounds

Can you find a susurrous space that enhances your forest experience?

Personal Benefits of Forest Therapy and Self Compassion

I can not put into words the how or the why of forest therapy for pain relief and chronic illness. I can direct you to the work of Kristin Neff for the how and why of self compassion. And I can speak by experience that I am getting my life back as I practice both. As I learn and practice forest therapy. Is it worth the effort for you to try it? Perhaps you will get your life back too.

As we practice compassion for ourselves remember to be kind to one another. We never know what the other is going through. As women, our bodies and our brains go through a lot. Chronic illness, pain and fatigue are a lot. And we all have that one chin hair that we are locked in a lifelong skirmish with. Give each other grace. Enjoy the tale of this Grace 👇🏼 and her way to self compassion. And remember to laugh! Have a great week my chronic comrades!