Flare & Flourish

  How My Husband Shines Like a Taylor Swift Song! There’s a song by Taylor Swift called Opalite—a sparkling tribute to delicate strength and transformation. Every time I hear it, I think of two things: the healing energy I’ve found in the gemstone Opalite, and the quiet, unwavering light of my husband’s love as I navigate the shadows of chronic illness. Opalite is often called the “Stone of Eternity.” It symbolizes transitions, resilience, and emotional clarity. It helps soothe the soul, balance emotions, and bring inner peace when the outside world becomes too heavy. Much like the lyrics in Taylor’s song, Opalite reminds us that beauty doesn’t always scream—it glows. Softly. Constantly. Without asking for attention. That’s how my husband is. He’s not loud with his love. He doesn’t make grand gestures or dramatic speeches. Instead, he listens. He learns. He waits patiently on days when my body won’t cooperate, when my spirit feels heavy, and when even hope seems like a distant star...

  Blueberry Loaves & Lemon: Some things rise slowly. Some things hurt before they heal. Some things are both soft and strong— like sourdough. Like me. There’s something strangely comforting about sourdough bread. It takes time. It needs rest. It requires patience, nurturing, and trust in something you can’t quite see— kind of like healing. Kind of like living with fibromyalgia. Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about Taylor Swift—not just her songs, but the way she gives pain a voice without making it loud. She writes about heartbreak like it’s a poem and healing like it’s a process. And honestly, I think she’d understand what it’s like to live in a body that doesn’t always keep up with your spirit. Two sourdough loaves. It’s an image that came to mind one day when I was too tired to do anything but sit in silence. Two loaves, side by side. Maybe one’s a little cracked, the other a little underdone. But both are rising—slowly, stubbornly, beautifully. Maybe they’re people. May...

  (And I Might Be One of Them) Living with a chronic illness is a lot like playing a video game… except it’s one you didn’t sign up for, the tutorial was skipped, and every level comes with a new bug (some shiny, some chaotic) that the developers never quite fixed. And guess what? I’m still somehow the main character. Welcome to the Glitchiest Game Ever: My Body My body is basically running on a patchy software update from 2009. Some days it functions like a decent secondhand laptop—slow, but at least it turns on. Other days, it’s like, “Let’s spice things up by randomly deleting all your energy and adding joint pain just because it’s Tuesday.” Fatigue?  Brain fog?  That one elbow that randomly decides to scream in Morse code?  Honestly, if I were a computer program, my developers would’ve rage-quit.  The Shiny Bugs Yes, you heard me: shiny bugs. Not all glitches are ugly. Some are weirdly fun (or at least entertaining). For example: That moment I forget what I ...

Even When I’m Falling Apart I hold myself like a trembling child in a house that never quiets. Pain knocks — sometimes soft, sometimes screaming — but it never leaves. I tuck myself in with hands that shake and prayers I don’t say out loud anymore. Fibromyalgia is a ghost that lives in my nerves, haunting the spaces between sleep and survival. But I show up — not because someone told me to, but because no one else would. There is no rescuer. No strong arms. No warm voice saying, “You’re safe now.” So I became him. I became the father figure. Not by blood. Not by name. But by need. The one who stays. The one who soothes. The one who lifts even when the weight is me. I taught myself how to breathe when the flares made fire of my skin. I stood guard over my body when doctors didn’t believe me, when family looked away, when silence was louder than care. Like a Taylor Swift bridge, I cracked — but never collapsed. I stitched my soul with invisible thread. I held the door open for the versio...

I’m Sick Every Day. You know what’s harder than being sick every day? It’s when the people you love—your own family—don’t even try to understand what that really means. I live with an autoimmune disease. That means I am unwell every single day of my life. There is no break, no “getting better,” no “bounce back tomorrow.” This is my life. My normal is exhaustion, pain, unpredictability, and isolation. And still, I try—I show up, I push through, I smile even when I feel like collapsing. But here’s the part that hurts more than the illness itself: healthy people don’t make the necessary choices to support me. They don’t adjust. They don’t ask. They don’t listen—not really. It’s especially painful when it’s your own sister. She always says, “We have to make an appointment to come see you.” Like I’m a calendar entry. Like I’m a task. Like spending time with me is a chore that needs scheduling and fitting in between more important things. But here’s my reality: there is no “perfect” day for ...

They say I live in a dreamland. Because I don’t shout. Because I don’t fight back. Because I choose peace over proving a point. Because I’m the youngest — and somehow, that means I must not know anything. But they don’t understand. I don’t avoid conflict because I’m weak. I avoid it because I’ve seen what it does. I’ve seen the way words can slice deeper than silence. I’ve felt the heaviness of family tension — and I’d rather hold my breath than add to the fire. I’m a simple person. I love soft things. Gentle energy. People who get it — who ask questions, who listen, who don’t try to fix me or judge me. Just understand me. But that’s not how it works in my family. They don’t call to say “How are you?” They don’t call when I’m sick. When I’m falling apart. When I’m barely holding myself together with fragile hands and a stitched-up smile. They only remember me when I’m in crisis — when I’m in bed with pain clawing at my body, when I can’t walk without wincing, when my autoimmune disease...

                                                         For the Rest of Us Still Healing Living with chronic illness means carrying a lot the world can’t always see. Some days feel invisible. Some days feel impossible. And then there are the people—like Selena Gomez —who remind us that softness is still strength. She’s been open about her battles with lupus , anxiety , and depression , showing that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s truth. She makes space for people like us: the ones who don’t always feel strong, but show up anyway. This poem is for anyone who needs a little light on a heavy day. She sings in shadows, soft but brave, With strength behind each word— A voice that whispers, “You’re enough,” Even when it hurts. She walks through storms the world can’t see, And still, she shows up true— A mirror for the ones like me, Still healing...

 My Selena Gomez-Inspired Chronic Illness Blog Series There’s a lyric in “My Mind & Me” that doesn’t try to be poetic — and maybe that’s why it cuts so deep: “My mind and me / We don’t get along sometimes.” When I first heard Selena sing those words, I felt an instant lump in my throat. Because this isn’t just a song about mental illness. It’s about the battle inside your own head — one that doesn’t care how strong you are on the outside. For me, this lyric became something I couldn’t stop thinking about. Because living with fibromyalgia hasn’t only taken a toll on my body. It’s taken a toll on my mind, too.  The Mental Weight of Chronic Pain They don’t tell you this when you get diagnosed. They give you pamphlets, maybe a referral. They explain the symptoms: pain, fatigue, brain fog. But they rarely talk about the emotional grief that comes with it. The depression. The anxiety. The loneliness of living in a body that doesn’t feel like yours anymore. There are days I lie i...

   My Selena Gomez-Inspired Chronic Illness Blog Series When Selena Gomez released “Rare,” it felt like a quiet anthem — not loud, not angry, but full of strength. It was a reminder that even when the world forgets your worth, you can still remember it for yourself. Living with fibromyalgia, I’ve had to do exactly that. Because there have been so many moments where I’ve felt anything but rare. I’ve felt tired, broken, invisible. Like my body was betraying me and my life was no longer mine. But this song made me stop and ask myself: Why don’t I recognize that I’m rare, too?  When Illness Steals the Spotlight Fibromyalgia doesn’t just bring pain — it brings a loss of identity. Suddenly, I wasn’t the friend who showed up. I was the one canceling at the last minute. I wasn’t the go-getter at work. I was the one quietly burning out. I wasn’t the person I used to be — and worse, I didn’t know who I was becoming. People stopped checking in. Some assumed I was exaggerating. Other...

 “Lose You to Love Me”: Letting Go of Who I Was Before Fibromyalgia There’s a line in Selena Gomez’s “Lose You to Love Me” that always hits me right in the chest: “I needed to lose you to love me.” At first, it sounded like a breakup song. And it is — but not just with another person. Sometimes the deepest heartbreak is when you have to say goodbye to yourself — or at least, the version of you that existed before the pain. For me, that heartbreak came wrapped in the quiet cruelty of fibromyalgia. The Body That Betrayed Me! Before the diagnosis, there were just whispers: a little more fatigue here, a strange ache there. Things I brushed off, made excuses for. Until those whispers became shouts — and the body I once trusted became foreign, unreliable. I tried to hold on. To my old routines. To being “the dependable one.” To the person who could power through anything. But fibromyalgia doesn’t bargain. It takes. Slowly, subtly, and then all at once.  Grieving the “Old Me” It took...

A poem for those fighting fibromyalgia, inspired by the spirit of Taylor Swift’s lyricism My body sings in static tones, A song no one else can hear. Like thunder trapped in brittle bones, A storm that never clears. I wake with battles half begun, My armor made of ache. The morning light feels like a weight, Each breath a thread I break. They see me smile, but never feel The fire stitched in skin — Invisible bruises, tender steel, A war I fight within. I dance through days in borrowed grace, A mirror cracked, but whole. They don’t see pain behind my face, Just fragments of control. But still, I stand — a soft refrain That won’t give in or fade. A heartbeat echoing through rain, Unwritten, unafraid. So when you see me lost in thought, Know this is how I cope: In quiet wars that can’t be fought, I carry threads of hope.   https://x.com/FlareflourishF

 “They  (inspired by “CANCELLED! ) I wasn’t gold, wasn’t glitter, wasn’t shine Just a name they used when the stars aligned But I got sick, and silence hit the line They ghosted like guilt they didn’t wanna find Pale light from my hospital bed No texts back, just echoes in my head They said “Always,” But they meant: “Only when it’s easy.” All those girls in my mirror frame They posed for the light, disappeared in the rain I bled for them, they ran from pain And I still hear them spell my name— But they vanished When I was cracked and breaking Love was just a word for faking They vanished Left me on read, like I was contagious Turns out friendship’s so courageous ’Til it costs something ’Til it stings ’Til I need Real things They posted prayers but never called Burned me down and blamed the fall One by one they closed the door Guess sick girls aren’t trending anymore They sold “support” like a souvenir Gave applause when the coast was clear I was too much — or maybe too real Bu...

When the Villain Has a Name (Fibromyalgia) A Taylor Swift-inspired reflection on chronic illness When Taylor Swift released “The Manuscript”, tucked like a secret at the end of The Tortured Poets Department, I felt something shift. It wasn’t just the way she told a story — though, of course, it was beautiful and bittersweet, like all the best endings that don’t really end. It was the power she gave to memory. The way she gave voice to something invisible. Something that lingered. Something that changed her, even when no one else could see it. And that’s exactly what fibromyalgia is. The Villain in My Story Fibromyalgia isn’t loud. It doesn’t show up in blood tests or X-rays. It doesn’t wear a villain’s cloak or announce itself with drama. It whispers. It chips away. It hides in the margins, like a footnote you can’t erase. And yet, it rewrites everything. It rewrote my mornings — turning them from routines into recoveries. It rewrote my body — from a place of strength to a map of pain....