I used to think healing would be simple.

I thought I’d finally get the right diagnosis, start treatment, and feel like myself again.

I thought I’d go back to school and finish my master’s in physical therapy.

I thought I’d have the energy to keep up with my daughter the way I wanted to.

I thought I’d feel better.

I thought I’d work full-time again and build the future I’d planned for us.

But that’s not what healing looked like for me.

Turns out, healing is way messier than illness.

It’s learning to live in a body that won’t do what it used to, and somehow figuring out how not to hate it for that.

It’s grieving the dreams I had and then building new ones out of whatever energy I have left.

It’s specialist appointments, med refills, and trying to remember which lab I’m supposed to visit for the third blood draw this month.
It’s injections, side effects, and carrying a bag of meds that weighs more than my toddler.

It’s learning how to rest, even though it makes me feel like I’m missing out.

It’s realizing that saying no doesn’t mean I’m weak. Instead, it means I’m setting boundaries so I don’t completely fall apart next week.

It’s fighting the guilt that creeps in because I can’t do everything, and then choosing, sometimes stubbornly,to give myself grace and let it go.

When you live with a chronic, invisible illness, healing isn’t some magical finish line you get to cross while someone hands you a medal and cheers you on.

It’s a rhythm.

Some days I feel strong and ready for an adventure. Other days, I’m stuck in bed recovering from what looked like a perfectly “normal” weekend to everyone else.

The world moves fast. Healing… doesn’t.

First of all, let me just say: I love swimming.

Water is kind of an equalizer for me. My joints don’t hurt as much, movement feels easier, and I can actually play with my kids instead of just watching from the sidelines.

But when I took the kids swimming twice in one week recently, my body sent me a strongly worded letter of complaint.

I crashed hard.

I fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow that night. Showering and eating dinner afterward took every last shred of energy I had. The next day, I stayed in bed, managing only the lowest-intensity tasks: texting the kids directions like a frazzled dispatcher, ordering groceries online, listening to an audiobook, and poking around online researching for my blog.

This is what my healing rhythm looks like. This is what my chronically ill body demands.

I’ve had to stop measuring progress by milestones and start measuring it by softness.

• By how kind I am to myself and to the people I love.
• By how present I can be with my family.
• By how willing I am to listen to my body (and my senses) when they say it’s time to slow down.

I’m not who I was before I got sick.

And healing hasn’t been some neat, linear process I could simply conquer and move on from.

Instead, it’s a rhythm—
• The ebb and flow of energy.
• A delicate balancing act between activity and rest.
• Learning my limits and respecting them, while still gently nudging at the edges.

Sometimes, healing looks like me sitting in my chair at the edge of the lake with my feet in the water while my kids laugh and splash. The breeze ruffles my hair, and I swear it carries some of the heaviness away with it.

Other times, it’s me right there in the lake beside them, splashing and laughing like a kid myself, until my joints remind me I’m absolutely not a teenager anymore.

There’s no map for this.

There’s just the body I wake up in.
The people I love.
The nature that grounds me.
And the voice I’ve found along the way.

I’m learning that healing doesn’t have to look perfect to be enough. And that even in this messy middle, there’s room for joy, grace, and plenty of moments worth smiling about.

Rooted in nature. Grown through struggle.

❤️🌿 Mimi