trauma recovery – SUNBEAM ACRES

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. 😉

Accessing Strength in Nature and Family: Winter Healing

March 3, 2026 pammunkholm

Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.

–Katherine May

In Saskatchewan right now, the wind still bites and snow still crunches under our boots.

The pale sky stretches wide over frozen lakes and ground.

And yet… we are talking about spring. Not because we see it. But because we remember it.

It has come every year before and we can trust it will come again.

This is one of the most asked questions about forest therapy:

Does this really help when life is hard? When pain is chronic? When nothing feels like it’s changing?

The answer is not dramatic. It is steady.

Forest therapy does not promise cure. It doesn’t offer “complete and totally done with it all 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 .”

That’s not our story.

What it offers is regulation. Relationship.

So I keep returning.

Research around nature exposure shows reduced cortisol, improved heart rate variability, and nervous system settling.

But beyond the science is something quieter. The forest does not rush spring and the body does not rush healing. They know the futility and energy waste that rushing introduce to otherwise perfect systems.

Both the forest and the body move in seasons. Why then do we want spring to hurry up? Why do we expect the body to heal in our prescribed way, on our expected timeline?

🌲 “Can forest therapy help chronic pain?”

As someone who lives with chronic pain, I don’t speak in absolutes.

I speak in terms of mountains. There are days the climb feels vertical. Flares. Illness. Falls. Each with its own devastating consequences.

And still. We climb.

There are years that ask questions and years that answer.

–Zora Neale Hurston

During the super cold winter of 2021, I learned that our first precious grandbaby was on his way. I wanted. Correction: I needed to be able to hold and snuggle that little one.

But I was so weak. I could barely lift a mug of tea without shaking from the effort. I walked from the bed to the bathroom. Sometimes to the car for an appointment.

The little munchkin, who I hadn’t even met yet, was cheering me on. I could sense it. So with a soup can, a baby blanket, and a prayer, I commenced my grandma- training.

A soup can because it weighed approximately a half pound. My ideal starting weight.

A baby blanket because of what this can of soup represented. He was going to grow over the following months into an actual grandbaby that I would wrap in this blanket. And carry him around to snuggle him. And to put him to sleep. To have deep conversations and sing the songs my mom and grandma sang to me.

And a prayer because that’s who I am.

That soup can, baby blanket and I started with 30 second walks 3x a day. Each walk induced waves of nausea followed by hours of cramping and exhaustion.

Each half pound and each 30 second increase was an excruciating miracle.

There were setbacks. Most evenings were agonizing. Some days I wondered if this was the correct place to put this much time and energy. It was all I could do to find time and energy to eat.

After months of focused grandma- training, I could walk outside! And something shifted. During a particularly stressful week and stubborn muscles, I walked down the lane and into the trees on our farm. I couldn’t go as far as I’d planned. I couldn’t “achieve” what I wanted. I leaned against a frozen trunk and felt foolish for even trying.

The cold, early spring air sharpened my senses. The snow muffled the world. The trees stood, scarred, weathered, unmoving.

Some trees have survived a hundred Saskatchewan winters. I considered how they are wise and do not apologize for seasons of dormancy.

It was around this time I stopped asking, “When will I be better?” And started asking, “How do I live well from this place?”

That question changed everything. And part of my answer was to focus on being a grandma. That little man I trained for months to be able to hold is going to be 4 this summer. And his equally enchanting sister will be 2. They have been the means of my greatest confrontations and of my greatest delights.

Almost like trying to enjoy your favourite therapy during a Saskatchewan winter. We take the intense highs with the intense lows.

🌲 “How do you practice forest therapy in winter?”

Winter forest therapy isn’t about long hikes. It’s about being present in the moment.

Notice how snow softens sound. Notice how your breath becomes visible. Notice how even in dormancy, life is stored beneath the bark and soil.

I have come to the realization that the forest in winter mirrors chronic pain. Nothing looks alive. Nothing appears to be blooming. But beneath the surface, systems are conserving and recalibrating.

Strength. Resilience. Wisdom.

Spring doesn’t shout when it arrives. It begins as a spark. An idea.

A drop. A thaw.

A beam of light catching ice and reflecting its warmth.

The same is true in us. Your good days are coming.

Sometimes we have to trust that promise for a long time before we see it.

Even if all you’ve seen is a spark.

That spark will become a light. That light will become a beam.

That beam becomes you, reflecting what you’ve learned onto someone else.

🌿 A Simple Winter Forest Therapy Practice

Trusting the Season (10–15 Minutes)

Step outside, even if just to your yard or a nearby tree line.
Stand still. Feel your feet grounded in frozen earth.
Place one hand over your heart. One over your belly.
Take three slow breaths. Watch the air leave your body.
Ask quietly: What season am I in?
Look for one sign of hidden life. Buds beneath bark, tracks in snow, sunlight on ice.
Whisper: Spring has come before. It will come again.
When ready, take that sentence home with you.

🌲 What Makes Forest Therapy Different From Hiking?

Hiking is about distance. Forest therapy is about experiencing relationships.

You don’t conquer the mountain. You learn from it.

And when you fall (as we all do) you get back up.

Keep climbing. Fall after fall. Flare after flare.

Keep reflecting hope and joy in the middle of the mess. It’s possible.

Anne Lamott defines hope not as naive optimism but as a stubborn choice to believe in goodness and possibilities, especially during dark, uncertain times.

🩶 If you’re reading this from under grey prairie skies, remember:

The trees are not worried about spring. They trust the tilt of the earth. They trust that light and warmth will return.

You can trust too. Your good days are coming. There are bright days ahead.

My bright days in this season, are when I get to be a grandma. If you want to see my grandparent life in reverse, view the following. It’s meant to be scrolled through to get the overall feel of the joy that was ahead of me. That I now get to experience.

**Apologies. That was way too fun to go through old photos.**

Even if you have to hold on to that promise longer than you wanted to. Hold it tight. The good days make it all worth it.

At this point in my story I can cart around that 2 year old and 4 year old at the same time. Grandma’s got guns. Just kidding. Training for my grandson got me to the point that I can run on a treadmill and ride a recumbent bike. He is my hero.

Keep getting back up. Show a willingness to bend and slow when your crucible is heavy. But keep climbing. Keep reflecting the beams of light.🌲✨

The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived.

–Robert Jordan

Revamping Pain: From Suffering to Serenity

October 14, 2025October 14, 2025 pammunkholm

Acceptance doesn’t mean resignation; it means understanding that something is what it is and that there’s got to be a way through it.

–Michael J Fox

We all experience pain. For some, it’s a passing ache. For others, it becomes a constant companion — a reminder that life is not always as we hoped it would be. When pain becomes chronic, it’s easy to slip into resistance: wishing it away, fighting it, or resenting what it’s taken. But there’s another path — one that doesn’t demand perfection or control. It’s the path of acceptance, and nature is a powerful guide.

The Lens of Pain: Understanding Trauma’s Impact

Do not underestimate the power of gentleness, because gentleness is strength wrapped in peace…

–LR Knost

In her podcast, Better Than Happy, Jody Moore talks about how we’ve all experienced trauma — some of us with a capital “T” and others with a lowercase “t.” The difference isn’t always about what happened, but how our minds and bodies interpret and hold it.

The same can be true for chronic pain. You get to decide whether your pain feels like Trauma — a life-altering event that defines you — or trauma — something you carry and work with, but not something that owns you. That choice matters deeply, because how we name our pain shapes how we heal from it.

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

–Haruki Murakami

When Nature Whispers Acceptance

The forest is not a place to escape from life, but a place to remember how to live.

–Forest Witcraft

In forest therapy, we slow down. We listen. We notice. The rustle of leaves, the way sunlight filters through branches, the steady rhythm of our breath — these moments invite us to be with what is, rather than against it.

Acceptance doesn’t mean giving up. It means softening our resistance. It means saying, “This is what my body feels right now, and I can still experience peace.” In the forest, we learn from the trees — rooted, resilient, unhurried. We begin to see that pain and peace can coexist.

Oleilu
Finnish. To relax and simply be. without any agenda. The quiet act of existing in the moment.

Don’t Let Pain Become Your Puppet Master

Pain already takes enough from us. When we let it dictate our thoughts, our plans, or our sense of self, our world begins to shrink. We start saying no to life before life even asks the question.

But you have a choice. You can decide not to give pain more power. You can choose expansion — moments of joy, awe, and connection — even in the midst of discomfort. The forest has a way of reminding us that there is always more life available than the pain wants us to believe.

Every time you choose hope, you widen the space inside you where light can live.

-Unknown

Feel Awesome by Taking Action

Scholar Melissa Wei-Tsing Inouye once said,

It is helpful to feel awesome when preparing for war.

For many of us living with chronic pain, that war happens quietly inside our own bodies. So ask yourself: what helps you feel awesome?

Maybe it’s standing barefoot in the grass.

Breathing in the scent of pine after rain.

Watching a chickadee tilt its head in curiosity.

These moments don’t erase pain — they remind you that you are more than it.

Nature’s Remedy: Healing in the Woods

Acceptance is not a single choice; it’s a practice. And nature gives us endless opportunities to begin again — with every breath, every sunrise, every step beneath the trees.

When you allow the forest to hold your pain alongside your hope, something shifts. You stop fighting your body and start listening to it. Healing begins in that stillness.

So go. Step outside. Let the forest teach you how to make peace with what hurts — and how to feel a little more awesome along the way.

Broken crayons still colour.

-Unknown