Tag: writing

  • Looking Back: 30 Years of Shame and Finally Understanding My Experience

    Looking Back: 30 Years of Shame and Finally Understanding My Experience

    I’ve lived with this illness for over 30 years, and for most of that time I was ashamed of it.

    Doctors kept telling me it was all in my head.

    They said I was depressed, anxious, or that I just didn’t want to work hard enough. They usually prescribed antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications, claiming these drugs would fix me. While the medication may have helped my emotional state somewhat, it did nothing to fix the physical symptoms.

    Thankfully, I eventually stopped letting them gaslight me into taking more and different medications.

    Every time I tried to explain how my body would completely crash after doing normal things, I was met with skepticism or pity.

    So I started doubting myself.

    I felt weak.
    I felt crazy.
    I carried a lot of shame for something I couldn’t control.

    The fatigue and exhaustion that comes with this illness is crushing.

    It’s not normal tiredness. It’s a deep, heavy exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. Even the smallest activities can leave me completely wiped out for days.

    My sleep tracker consistently shows that I get adequate deep sleep and REM sleep, yet I still wake up exhausted. That helped me understand something important:

    The problem isn’t simply how much I sleep.

    It’s that my dysautonomia prevents the sleep from being restorative.

    In the early years, the emotional side of it felt a lot like PMS — that same sudden emotional dysregulation, irritability, and feeling completely off — except instead of happening once a month, it could hit at any time.

    Only recently have I finally understood what’s really happening.

    What I have is dysautonomia.

    My autonomic nervous system doesn’t regulate properly anymore.

    That’s why I can suddenly feel freezing cold in a warm room. That’s why I’m much more comfortable lying down than sitting or standing. And that’s why even mild activity can make my whole system short-circuit — suddenly bringing on intense brain fog, overwhelming exhaustion, headaches, insomnia, anxiety, and sometimes depression all at once.

    ME/CFS always felt like an incomplete label to me.

    Yes, I crash after exertion.
    Yes, sleep doesn’t fix it.
    Yes, my body has never functioned the way people expect it to.

    But understanding it as dysautonomia finally explains the day-to-day reality of living in a body whose nervous system breaks down so easily.

    The only thing that actually helps is pacing — staying within my energy envelope.

    I try to live as close to the edge as I can, but carefully. Migraines and tinnitus have become warning signs for me. If I respect those early signals, I can often avoid triggering insomnia, which is far worse than a regular crash and completely throws me off balance.

    After 30 years, I’ve finally stopped blaming myself.

    That alone has been healing.

    I’m sharing this journal entry in case it gives someone else a little more language for their own experience.

    And for family members, friends, and doctors: please know that when we keep turning down invitations, or seem withdrawn, or disappear for long stretches of time, it’s not because we don’t want to be around you.

    Our energy is extremely limited.

    We have to be very careful to avoid crashes.

    Even now, I keep a little journal between doctor visits so I can clearly communicate what I’ve been experiencing. If you’re struggling to explain this illness during appointments, writing things down and bringing it with you can be incredibly helpful.

    Sometimes understanding does not cure the body.

    But it can begin to release the shame.

    And after so many years of being misunderstood, that matters.

  • Bodhi the Hamster and the Small Kingdom of Care

    Bodhi the Hamster and the Small Kingdom of Care

    In this tender sharing, you are invited into the small yet sacred world of Bodhi the hamster—a quiet kingdom of moss, seed, and devotion. Through the gentle rituals of care—refreshing water, offering food, adjusting her tiny habitat—what emerges is not just a home for a beloved creature, but a living expression of mindful love. Each act, humble in appearance, becomes a spiritual practice, echoing the rhythms of prayer and presence. As Bodhi scurries and pauses, so too does the heart awaken to the profound truth that joy is found not in grand gestures, but in the simple tending of life—right here, in plain view.

    Yes, there is a kingdom in my room. It is no larger than a few plastic bins stacked neatly in the corner, but within them lives a world. A world of moss and hay, of soft paper and tiny tunnels. And at the center of it all, like a blessing curled into fur, lives Bodhi—a small dwarf hamster with a quiet heart and eyes that carry the light of simple being.

    Each day, I attend to her world. I refresh her water, place a few seeds with care, adjust the lid to allow for air and safety. I arrange moss as one might arrange flowers for a shrine. I replace what has grown soiled and offer new textures to explore. I watch her—sometimes scurrying, sometimes still. Always aware, always present.

    And in this tending, I discover a deeper rhythm.

    There is something quietly profound in shaping a space for another’s well-being. Something sacred in the simple gesture of making sure the water dish is full and the bedding is dry. These small actions, repeated daily, become a practice of love—not the grand love of epics and vows, but the quiet, faithful love that shows up without fanfare.

    Bodhi’s needs are humble: safety, nourishment, a sense of the familiar. And yet, meeting those needs teaches me to slow down. To notice. To offer care with a full heart. To witness the small, sacred acts that build trust over time.

    This is not unlike spiritual practice. Whether one sits in contemplative prayer, tends a garden, or sweeps a floor, the spirit in which we do these things makes all the difference. As I arrange her world, I find I am also arranging my own mind—clearing clutter, softening edges, making space for peace.

    And what joy there is in watching her explore! When Bodhi climbs into her little blue teacup—her teleporter, as I fondly call it—and lets me carry her from her home to her play area, I smile. Not just at the cuteness of it, but at the trust it represents. The silent language between species that says: I see you. I care for you. You are safe here.

    This small kingdom, this gentle rhythm of tending and watching, invites me into presence. It becomes a mirror, showing me that love doesn’t have to be loud. That devotion can be measured in teaspoons of millet, and prayer can look like cleaning up after someone you cherish.

    In Bodhi’s world, and in the care I give, I learn again and again: everything matters. And in that attentiveness, joy arises—not as something to be achieved, but as something already here, waiting to be noticed.

    🙏🕊🙏

  • 🌿 A Poem of Strength & Renewal 🌿

    🌿 A Poem of Strength & Renewal 🌿

    ✨ English ✨
    The light of warmth shines through the long night, 🌙
    Though storms may rage, the heart’s lantern never fades. 🕯️
    Though mountains are high and waters far, a homebound boat remains, ⛰️🌊⛵
    After hardship, spring arrives, and the world is born anew. 🌿🌸

    ✨ Spanish / Español ✨
    La luz del alma brilla en la oscuridad, 🌙
    Aunque ruja la tormenta, la llama no se apaga. 🕯️
    Montañas y mares no detienen el regreso, ⛰️🌊⛵
    Tras la prueba, la primavera renace. 🌿🌸

    ✨ Italiano ✨
    La luce dell’anima illumina la notte, 🌙
    Anche nella tempesta, la fiamma non si spegne. 🕯️
    Monti e mari non fermano il ritorno, ⛰️🌊⛵
    Dopo il dolore, la primavera rinasce. 🌿🌸

    ✨ العربية / Arabic ✨
    نور الروح يضيء الظلام، 🌙
    مهما اشتدت العواصف، لا تنطفئ الشمعة. 🕯️
    الجبال والبحار لا تمنع العودة، ⛰️🌊⛵
    بعد المحن، يأتي الربيع ويولد العالم من جديد. 🌿🌸

    ✨ עברית / Hebrew ✨
    אור הנשמה זורח בלילה החשוך, 🌙
    גם בסערה, הנר אינו כבה. 🕯️
    ההרים והימים אינם עוצרים את השיבה, ⛰️🌊⛵
    לאחר הקושי, האביב מגיע והעולם נולד מחדש. 🌿🌸

    ✨ Русский / Russian ✨
    Свет души сияет сквозь ночь, 🌙
    Пусть бушует буря, но огонь не гаснет. 🕯️
    Горы и воды не остановят путь домой, ⛰️🌊⛵
    После невзгод приходит весна, и мир обновляется. 🌿🌸

    ✨ Українська / Ukrainian ✨
    Світло душі сяє крізь ніч, 🌙
    Хай шторм бушує, та вогонь не згасне. 🕯️
    Гори й води не зупинять дорогу додому, ⛰️🌊⛵
    Після труднощів настає весна, і світ відроджується. 🌿🌸

  • The Gentle Path: A Bedtime Story for Children with Chronic Fatigue

    The Gentle Path: A Bedtime Story for Children with Chronic Fatigue

    In a small village nestled between quiet hills and flowing rivers, there lived a kind, gentle teacher named Sage. Everyone in the village loved Sage because he carried a peaceful presence, like a calm breeze on a warm day. People often came to him for guidance, and he always had time to sit with them, no matter how small or big their worries were.

    One day, a group of children gathered by the firelight in Sage’s little house. These children, like you, had bodies that often felt tired—too tired to run and play like other children. Some days, their legs felt as heavy as stones, and even getting out of bed was hard. Other days, the sounds and lights of the world felt too loud and overwhelming, and they needed quiet spaces just to rest.

    They had come to Sage with questions. “Why do our bodies feel like this?” one of them asked softly. “How can we find peace when we feel so tired and sad?”

    Sage smiled gently, his eyes filled with warmth. “Come,” he said. “Let me tell you a story about a little river, a floating cloud, and a flower seed. Each of these can teach us how to find peace, even on the hardest days.”

    The children nestled into their blankets, their bodies relaxing as they listened to Sage’s voice, soft and soothing.

    “Once upon a time,” Sage began, “there was a little river. The river flowed gently through the valley, singing quietly as it went. But one day, it rained so hard that the river became muddy and rough. The river thought, ‘Oh no! I can’t sing anymore. Everything is so heavy.’

    A passing cloud saw the river’s sadness and whispered, ‘Dear river, you don’t need to be clear right now. Just flow, even if it feels heavy. The mud will settle when it’s ready. You are still a river, just as you are.’

    The river listened to the cloud and let itself flow, even though it felt muddy and tired. And slowly, without trying, the mud began to settle. The river’s song returned, not because it had rushed to fix itself, but because it had trusted in the flow of life.”

    Sage looked at the children with kindness. “When your body feels tired, like the muddy river, you don’t need to fight it or force yourself to feel better. Just breathe gently and say, It’s okay to feel this way. I will let my body rest. With time, the heaviness will shift, just like the mud settles in the river.”

    The children closed their eyes and breathed softly: It’s okay to feel this way. I will let my body rest. Their shoulders softened, and a small sense of ease began to bloom inside them.

    “Next,” Sage continued, “there was a little cloud that floated high in the sky. One day, the cloud began to feel very lonely. It looked down and saw other clouds floating by, but it couldn’t keep up with them. The cloud thought, ‘I wish I could float faster and be with the others.’

    Then the sun spoke gently to the cloud. ‘Dear cloud,’ the sun said, ‘you are already perfect just as you are. You don’t need to rush. Wherever you float, you bring shade to the earth and water to the rivers. That is enough.’

    The cloud felt a little lighter, knowing it didn’t need to rush. It drifted slowly through the sky, enjoying the way the breeze carried it along.”

    Sage paused for a moment, letting the story sink in. “Sometimes, it’s easy to feel like you need to do more, or be like everyone else. But just like the cloud, you are enough exactly as you are, even when you need to rest. With each small breath, you are already giving your love to the world.”

    The children breathed quietly, feeling a small spark of kindness for themselves, whispering: I am enough, just as I am.

    “Now,” Sage said softly, “I will tell you about the little flower seed. This seed lay hidden under the earth, waiting quietly through winter. It wanted to bloom, but the snow felt so heavy on top of it. The seed whispered, ‘When will I ever grow? I want to be a flower, but I feel stuck.’

    The earth wrapped the seed in its warm embrace and said, ‘You are already growing, little one, even though you cannot see it yet. Each day, even as you rest, the roots inside you grow deeper. Trust the process, and when the time is right, you will bloom.’

    And so the little seed rested through the winter, trusting in the earth. When spring finally came, it bloomed into the most beautiful flower the world had ever seen.”

    Sage smiled at the children. “Sometimes, it feels like you are waiting, like the flower seed under the snow. But even on the days when you can’t see it, you are growing. Every time you care for yourself, every time you rest with kindness, you are planting seeds of strength inside you. And when the time is right, those seeds will bloom.”

    The children snuggled deeper into their blankets, their breaths slow and soft, like gentle waves on the shore. Sage placed his hands gently on their heads, offering a quiet blessing.

    “Now,” Sage whispered, “as you drift off to sleep, you can imagine yourself as the river, the cloud, and the flower seed. There is no need to rush. Just flow, just float, just rest. You are already enough, and your roots are already growing deep. With each breath, you are planting seeds of love, kindness, and peace—not just for yourself, but for the whole world.”

    The children closed their eyes, their little hearts filled with the warmth of Sage’s words. As they drifted into sleep, they carried the stories with them, like seeds planted in the soft soil of their dreams.

    Sage whispered a final blessing, his voice as soft as a lullaby:

    “Breathing in, I rest.

    Breathing out, I am at peace.

    With each breath, I grow in love.

    With each dream, my heart blooms in kindness.”

    And with that, the children drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep, their dreams filled with rivers flowing gently, clouds floating freely, and flowers blooming in the sunlight. They carried these teachings in their hearts, knowing that even on the hardest days, they could flow, float, and grow at their own pace.

    May your hearts always be filled with kindness, and may you grow into beautiful flowers, spreading peace and love wherever you go. Sleep well. The seeds of mindfulness and compassion are already blooming within you.

    Goodnight, little ones. ❤️




    If you’d like to explore more bedtime stories for children, including tales that nurture compassion and mindfulness, you can find our collection here.




    🙏🕊️🙏