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Ko-fi helps me keep going
Stories, reflections, and gentle truths from life with chronic illness
Welcome to The Healing Chronicles—a soft space where I share life, creativity, and healing with chronic illness. From flare day reflections to gentle living tips, I post when energy allows—so check back often or explore what’s already here.
Welcome to The Healing Chronicles—a soft space where I share life, creativity, and healing with chronic illness. From flare day reflections to gentle living tips, I post when energy allows—so check back often or explore what’s already here.
There’s something about travel that makes you feel like maybe you’re stepping into a new version of yourself. That’s what Dallas, TX felt like. My husband and I were heading there to celebrate our wedding anniversary—a weekend getaway in a city we’d never really explored, just the two of us. I was feeling good. Stronger than I had in months. I wasn’t using my wheelchair at home anymore. I’d started weaning off my walker indoors. I genuinely thought I was ready.
We had planned to bring the walker—just in case—but halfway into our drive, we realized it was still in our other vehicle. By then it was too late to turn around. I didn’t feel like I had many options. So I decided I’d make it work by using my husband as a walking aid, leaning on him when needed and sitting down at every opportunity.
I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was trying to be realistic.
Some people think rest means luxury. Like I’m lighting candles and sipping tea while I “relax.”
But rest, when you’re chronically ill, is not a vacation.
It’s survival. It’s maintenance. It’s the bare minimum to keep going.
And it doesn’t always look the way people imagine.
I used to think rest meant doing absolutely nothing—but I’ve learned it’s not that simple. Some rest days look like cozying up with a show I love while working on a low-energy activity, like coloring or journaling. Other days, I’m too tired for even that. I nap. I lay still. I read a few pages of a book, then let it fall to my side.
But the most important part of resting—more than what I’m doing—is giving my brain permission to slow down.
Talking about health—especially when it’s complicated, chronic, or invisible—isn’t always as easy as just “opening up.” Sometimes the words feel stuck. Other times you want to share but don’t know how it will be received. And when you’re the one listening? It’s not always clear how to support someone without accidentally saying the wrong thing.
This post is for both sides of the conversation—because meaningful support isn’t about fixing, pitying, or offering magical advice. It’s about connection. Mutual care. And knowing how to hold space, even when things are messy.
Let’s talk about how to talk about it—without making it weird.
There’s a version of medical trauma people tend to expect. They think of full-blown panic in a waiting room. Shaking hands. Rapid breathing. Someone crying as they try to explain their symptoms for the fifth time. But that’s not what it looks like for me. My version is quieter. Slower. Deeper. It doesn’t spike and vanish—it settles in, like exhaustion that reaches all the way to the bone.
Sometimes I go months in a dark place. A place where my body and mind barely hold together, where everything is survival and nothing feels like it’ll change. Then I find something that helps—like a new med. And suddenly the fog starts to lift. I start functioning again. I’m grateful, I really am. But somewhere along the line, that old hope creeps back in:
“Maybe I’m better now. Maybe I could ease off the meds. Maybe I don’t need as much as I thought.”
There are days when everything feels heavy. When your body or mind won’t cooperate. When the to-do list sits untouched and your energy is nowhere to be found. On those days, joy can feel like a faraway place—something reserved for a version of you who isn’t burned out, sick, anxious, or simply overwhelmed by life.
But what if joy didn’t have to be a destination?
What if it was already here, tucked into the smallest, softest corners of your day?
Romanticizing the little things isn’t about pretending everything’s perfect. It’s about learning to see magic in the mundane. It’s about reclaiming wonder in a world that often rushes past it. And it’s something I started doing—not because life got easier—but because I needed a reason to keep showing up when things felt hard.
Some days, my body hurts. But what wears me down the most isn’t always the pain—it’s everything I have to think about.
The medications I need to refill.
The appointment I forgot to schedule.
The symptoms I’m tracking that no doctor ever seems to take seriously.
The food I have to plan around.
The energy I have to ration.
The guilt I feel for saying “I can’t” again.
And I carry all of that in silence. Living with chronic illness means more than just managing physical symptoms. It means carrying a constant, invisible weight—a mental load—that never really goes away. It’s the part no one sees. And it can be just as exhausting as the illness itself.
Living with chronic illness can feel like a constant balancing act—physically, emotionally, and mentally. There’s the pain, the appointments, the symptoms you can’t explain, and the grief you don’t always know how to talk about.
For me, journaling became one of the only ways I could sort through the fog, frustration, and quiet heartbreak of it all. It was a space where I didn’t have to pretend. A space where I could feel seen, even when no one else was watching. Some days I wrote paragraphs. Other days, just a word or two. But every time, it helped.
Whether you’re new to journaling or looking to deepen your self-reflection, I’ve created this list of gentle prompts just for you. No pressure. No expectations. Just a soft place to land.
When someone you love is chronically ill, it can feel overwhelming to know how to help. You might worry about saying the wrong thing, doing too much, or not doing enough. And truthfully? Your person probably doesn’t have a neat little instruction manual for how to be supported—because this life is hard to explain, even from the inside.
Whether you’re a caregiver, partner, friend, or family member, your support matters more than you may realize. And no, you don’t have to fully understand what your loved one is going through to be there for them. You just need to show up in a thoughtful, compassionate way—and this post is here to help you do exactly that.
There’s a reason I didn’t call this book a guide or a workbook. It’s not a quick fix. It’s not a “you’ll be fine” kind of project. The Healing Book: What I Never Said Out Loud is something deeper, messier, and more honest than that.
This book came from the parts of me I kept tucked away — the things I was afraid to say out loud because I didn’t want to be too much, too angry, too sad, too broken. For a long time, I told myself that if I could just push through, be the strong one, keep performing "okayness," I could outrun the grief. The trauma. The loneliness. The quiet damage of being overlooked for too long.
When you’re chronically ill, you become a bit of a specialist in survival. You figure out what helps, what doesn’t, what’s worth the energy, and what makes your pain or brain fog just a little bit more bearable.
These 10 Amazon finds aren’t gimmicks — they’re things I personally use and rely on. Some make me feel more organized. Some help with pain. Some are just straight-up practical for a life that’s unpredictable, exhausting, and often misunderstood.
I hope something here helps you too.
There are days when even self-care feels like too much. Days when your body hurts, your brain feels foggy, and you can’t find the words for what you’re feeling.
If you’ve ever had those days — I’ve made something for you.
Over the years, I’ve created a small collection of low-energy emotional healing tools for people like me: the chronically ill, the over-stretched, the deep feelers, and the quietly burned out. These tools are soft. Gentle. Created with care for the moments when everything feels like a lot.
Doctor’s appointments can be overwhelming — even more so when you’re juggling multiple chronic illnesses and trying to advocate for yourself while remembering everything.
For me, it’s not just about showing up — it’s about getting through it without forgetting something important or burning out afterward.
Here’s how I prep for my appointments in a way that feels realistic, Spoonie-friendly, and tailored for a body that’s doing the most behind the scenes.
I used to think mobility aids were only for the elderly — walkers, canes, scooters. Things you only needed when you were really struggling. But then chronic illness entered the chat, and I realized:
Mobility aids are tools — not signs of weakness.
I have conditions that don’t always show up on the outside.
Some days, I can walk just fine. Other days, my joints feel like they're made of rubber bands and my blood pressure acts like it’s on a rollercoaster. I don’t “look sick,” but my body disagrees.
If you live with chronic illness, you’ve probably had that moment — the one where you try to explain what your life is really like… and it lands with confusion, silence, or a quick subject change.
People want to help. They want to “understand.”
But they don’t always get it.
And honestly? That can feel isolating.
So how do you explain something invisible, unpredictable, and exhausting — especially when your own energy is limited?
If you've spent any time in the chronic illness community online, you’ve probably seen the word Spoonie floating around — in bios, hashtags, support groups, or even printed on cute merch. But what does it actually mean? And why do so many people with invisible illnesses identify with it?
As someone who lives with multiple chronic illnesses and has been a part of the Spoonie community for years, I want to break it down for you — simply, gently, and truthfully.
“I haven't cried in two months — not because I didn’t want to… but because there’s a tube in my nose.”
Living with chronic illness comes with a million hidden griefs, but this one has surprised even me: I haven’t cried in two months. Not because I’m fine. Not because I haven’t needed to. But because I have a feeding tube in my nose, and crying just… isn’t an option right now.
Living with chronic illness means carrying an invisible weight — one that shifts daily, hourly, sometimes by the minute. Pain comes in physical, emotional, and even spiritual forms. And some days, words just don’t cut it. That’s where art comes in.
I’ve always been drawn to drawing, but it wasn’t until my body began to unravel under the weight of conditions like EDS, POTS, gastroparesis, and endometriosis that art became something more than a hobby. It became a form of survival. It gave my pain a voice — and gave me back a piece of myself.
There’s a unique kind of pain that comes with being chronically ill — the kind that no one can see.
Invisible illnesses don’t show up on your skin. They don’t come with casts or crutches. There are no warning labels. No visual proof. Which means people often don’t get it. They see you smiling and think you're fine. They see you standing and assume you're strong. But what they don’t see is what it costs you.
So here are some things I wish more people understood about living in a body that looks “normal” — but fights every single day to function.
What happens when your life doesn’t go the way you thought it would? Not in the “I took a different career path” way—but in the “my body changed everything” way. In the “my days revolve around symptoms, side effects, appointments, and survival” kind of way.
That’s the version of life I found myself in. This blog post is for anyone who's grieving the life they imagined—and trying to find meaning in the life they're living now.
When you live with chronic illness, self-care doesn’t always look like bubble baths and green smoothies. Sometimes, it looks like brushing your teeth while sitting down. Or texting a friend, even if you don’t have the energy to talk.
If you’ve ever felt like you’re not doing enough to take care of yourself—this post is here to remind you: the little things count.
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