07/08/2025
A Day in My Body
I wake up each morning not knowing what version of my body I’ll be met with. Sometimes, there’s a fleeting sense of calm — a moment where I imagine the day might flow like it used to. But more often, I’m met with a storm brewing behind my right eye: a deep, pulsing migraine that carries with it a wave of muscle weakness, spasms, and nausea that settles in my core like an anchor.
My limbs may tremble involuntarily, sometimes subtly, other times like a current running through me that I can’t switch off. I move slowly, deliberately, not because I lack motivation, but because my body demands reverence. Each step, each task, is a negotiation with the unseen — pain, vertigo, hot flashes, then cold ones — and sometimes even green-colored urine, a strange, unsettling reminder of the biochemical symphony happening inside me.
There are moments I feel like I’m floating in and out of my body — alert in mind but disoriented in form. I often feel alone in this experience, misunderstood by systems designed for acute emergencies rather than the ebb and flow of chronic, invisible complexity. I’m not on medication; Medicare limits my options, and I navigate this terrain with grit and grace, often leaning on the alternative tools I’ve studied and now offer to others.
Still, I show up. I pour sound through crystal bowls and tuning forks, not just for others but for myself — harmonizing what’s off-kilter, gently realigning what’s been disrupted. There’s power in those frequencies. They meet me where medicine hasn’t.
My days are not defined by what I can’t do, but by what I choose to do with what I have. And in those choices, I find strength — not in spite of my body, but because of the profound wisdom it carries, even in its suffering.
