Flare & Flourish

                                                  Version of My Life If fibromyalgia were a movie, it wouldn’t politely introduce itself. It would kick the door open, steal the spotlight, and say, “Hi. I live here now.” The genre would be impossible to pin down. Part comedy, part drama, part psychological thriller, with moments that feel like a low-budget horror film filmed entirely inside my nervous system. Every day starts the same way. Not with motivation. Not with affirmations. With a body scan. I lie there thinking: “Okay… what hurts today?” Neck? Back? Legs that feel like they ran a marathon while I slept? There’s suspense. There’s tension. There is absolutely no plot consistency. Fibromyalgia would be the villain you never see clearly. One day she’s quiet enough to make me believe I’m fine. The next day she flips the script and reminds me she’s still in cha...

                                                                     Something In The Orange There’s something in the orange sky that tells me everything will be fine. Zach Bryan sings it, and somehow it lands right in my chest — like a quiet promise whispered between heartbeats. If you know me personally, you already know this: you almost never see me in daylight. I’ve been called many things. “Are you human?” “Are you a vampire?” “We only see you when the sun sets.” And honestly? I laugh. Because sometimes humour is easier than explaining nervous systems, autoimmune flares, and sensory overload. So let me tell you a secret. My brain doesn’t work like a healthy person’s. Light hurts. Noise overwhelms. Smells linger too long. Sight feels sharp. When I step into the sun, my eyes feel like they’re filled with tiny sh...

  It Rewrote Me There was a time when that sentence felt impossible. Years ago, while I was studying teaching, my neurologist told me something that changed everything. The tests came back showing water cysts throughout my brain. Suddenly, there was an explanation for why information wouldn’t stay, why studying felt like trying to hold water in my hands. And just like that, I was told I might have to give up my studies. I only had two years left. It felt like the world was swept out from under me, and I just kept falling—no ground, no certainty, no plan. When something you’ve worked toward for so long disappears, it’s not just a degree you lose. It’s identity. Direction. Hope. But in the middle of that loss, something unexpected happened. A wonderful friend saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself anymore. My friend told me I should become a psychologist. At first, it sounded almost ironic—after endless blood tests, scans, appointments, and learning the language of illness...

   My Nervous System Is Holding the Spoon Some days my life feels like a storm in a teacup. Tiny cup. Big feelings. Absolutely unnecessary amount of thunder. On the outside, everything looks fine. I’m busy. Productive. Smiling. Making plans. Setting new and exciting goals like a person who definitely has it all together. On the inside? My nervous system is hosting its own music festival—headlined by anxiety, supported by fatigue, and sponsored by “Why Is My Body Doing This?” I used to think mental health lived only in the brain. You know—thoughts, moods, worries, overthinking at 2 a.m. But plot twist: the body is very much involved. The nervous system doesn’t just send emails; it sends full-body notifications. Tight shoulders. Racing heart. Random exhaustion. A stomach that reacts like it just read a scary headline. And no matter how hard I try to stay busy—because wow, do I try—my body eventually taps me on the shoulder and says, Hey. We need to talk. Busy Isn’t the Same as R...