Flare & Flourish

 In August's chill, the last wind blow. A gentle hint of spring below. The cold begins to fade away. As winter bows to brighter days. We savour stillness, crisp and clear. Embracing all that lingers here. In August;s breath, we learn to trust - That change will come, as all things must. Follow me on twitter for updates  https://x.com/FlareflourishF

A few mornings ago, I was halfway through microwaving my heat pack (for the third time that day) when the internet exploded: Taylor Swift is engaged. And I smiled. Not just because I’ve been a Swiftie since the days of cowboy boots and teardrops on guitars—but because something about that headline hit me differently. Not in a “wow, she’s lucky” kind of way (though hey, she is), but in a “look how far we can come, in our own time” kind of way. Because while Taylor has been crafting love stories in lyrics and arenas, I’ve been crafting my own kind of love story—a quieter, often invisible one—with my life, my body, and a diagnosis called fibromyalgia. The Flare Comes First If you’re reading this, you probably already know the script. You wake up tired. Your bones ache like you’ve run a marathon in your sleep. Showers feel like endurance sports. A single grocery trip? A two-day recovery. When I first heard the word fibromyalgia, I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or defeated. It was fi...

                                 A Real Life Guide from Someone Who Gets It Let’s be honest — when your body hurts, your brain is foggy, and your energy is hanging on by a thread… the last thing you want to do is stand in a kitchen. But living with fibromyalgia and autoimmune diseases means that if I don’t plan at least a little ahead, I end up skipping meals or eating whatever is closest — and that just makes the pain and fatigue worse. So I had to find a middle ground: gentle, fibromyalgia-friendly meal prepping that doesn’t push me over the edge. This isn’t the kind of meal prep you see online where someone chops veggies for hours or fills twenty containers with perfectly portioned meals. No. This is survival-mode meal prep — realistic, flexible, and built around how my body feels. I don’t wait for a perfect day, because let’s be real — I don’t get those often. But if I wake up and feel okay-ish — no...

I wasn’t loved— not in the way that fills your bones with warmth or makes the silence feel like safety. I was useful. Like a flashlight in a storm, they only held me when the dark got loud. They liked me because I listened like rain on a roof— gentle, steady, never demanding a thing in return. I was easy to talk to, so they poured themselves into me like I was hollow and could carry it all. No one asked if I needed space. No one stayed when the room stopped spinning around them. I was the echo in a canyon— only alive when someone needed to hear their own voice bounce back. I became their diary, their late-night phone call, their confessional booth. But when I cried, my words felt like static, tuned out as if my pain wasn’t poetic enough. I gave and gave until I became a ghost with a heartbeat. Smiling so they wouldn’t notice the cracks, laughing so they’d keep talking— because if I stayed useful, maybe they’d stay too. But usefulness is not love. It’s currency. And when I stopped givin...

  Have you ever felt like you have everyone — but when you’re sick in bed, barely able to move, there’s no one? I’ve had so many of those days lately. Days where my body flares so badly I can’t even make myself food. Days where the pain silences me, and exhaustion steals every ounce of strength I have. And yet, life doesn’t pause. What makes it even heavier now… is that my husband is sick too. He’s usually my anchor — the one who notices the small things, the one who never lets me feel alone in this fight. But now, he’s the one lying down, needing care, and I’m the one trying to hold it all together. Cooking, cleaning, checking in on him, pushing my pain aside just to keep things running. And I’m tired. Tired in ways I can’t even explain. My body is screaming for rest, but there’s no backup. No one knocking on the door with a pot of soup. No one asking, “How are you coping?” No one to say, “Let me take something off your plate.” I know people mean well. I know life keeps everyone b...

                                                          The life of a Showgirl When life has you on your knees, searching for answers you may never fully find, you start clinging to anything that feels like light in the dark. For me, that light has been music — and more specifically, Taylor Swift. While seeking answers for my illness, I’ve had moments where all I could do was pray, cry, and sit in stillness. In those moments, “Soon You’ll Get Better” played softly in the background. Even though I know I might never fully get better, the song became my quiet companion — a reminder that someone out there understands the ache of wanting healing. Taylor’s music doesn’t just fill the silence; it breathes life back into me. When people can’t grasp what I’m going through — when my pain is invisible to the world — I put on “This Is Me Trying”. Those ...

                                                     Finding Relief in an Unexpected Way Living with autoimmune diseases and fibromyalgia is like carrying an invisible weight — one that shifts, tightens, swells, and suffocates in ways that are hard to describe. It’s waking up tired, going to bed exhausted, and spending the in-between trying to pretend you’re okay when everything in your body is screaming otherwise. But this past winter, something changed — and for the first time in a long time, I had a little relief. Winter is the hardest on my body As soon as the cold hits, my body starts to feel like it’s fighting a war it never signed up for. My hands, feet, belly, face, and joints swell like balloons — tight, heavy, and painful to the touch. There are days when even getting out of bed feels impossible. My skin feels like it’s burning from the inside,...