“Resting in the space I worked so hard to create—learning, once again, that pacing is not just theory but a daily practice.”
A Note on Pacing:
Before you begin, take a moment to check in with yourself. How much energy do you have for reading today? Maybe just a sentence or two. Maybe a paragraph. Maybe the whole piece. However much you take in, let it be enough. This article, like life with myalgic encephalomyelitis, is not meant to be rushed.
Pacing is a word we hear often in the world of ME, spoken like a compass meant to guide us. We read about it, talk about it, explain it to others. But then comes the quiet, complicated work of living it.
To truly embody pacing is not just to believe in rest but to yield to it before collapse. It is the difference between knowing water quenches thirst and actually drinking, between understanding a path on a map and walking it, step by deliberate step.
ME exists on a spectrum. Some reading this are bedridden, as I once was, for whom pacing looks like shifting slightly in bed, drinking water in small sips, or turning down the brightness of a screen. Others may have the energy to sit up, to fold a blanket, to wash a single dish. And for some, on a better day, pacing might mean pausing between errands or choosing not to add one more thing to an already full day.
Today, I wake with the weight of PEM pressing down, the kind of fatigue that makes even stillness feel like too much. Considering how I feel, I know I should probably just stay in bed all day and do nothing. However, I am giving myself these next three days to recuperate while including a few small tasks around the house. So rather than staying in bed indefinitely, my plan is to get up every now and then, do a little something—without overdoing it—and then return to bed. This is how I imagine my day unfolding, and how I imagine the next three days unfolding.
But today is different from other days of PEM. Because today, I am resting in a home I have created. A home I moved into just weeks ago—an exhausting, overwhelming feat that took everything I had to give. Packing, unpacking, pushing my body past its limits to carve out a space of refuge. And now, for the first time, I get to use it. I get to experience the space I have fought to create.
And so, I stand.
Not to conquer, not to override, but to move in a way that does not break me. I wipe the stove instead of the sink, because that is where my hand reaches first. I rest between tasks—not as surrender, but as part of the rhythm. I remind myself: small movements, long pauses, no urgency.
I lay down between tasks, not because I want to, but because I need to. And in doing so, I begin to feel the quiet power of pacing—not as a limitation, but as a lifeline.
And then, something unexpected: gratitude. Gratitude for having built a space where I can rest. Gratitude for the fact that I no longer have to push every moment of the day. Gratitude that my version of pacing today involves getting up every now and then, rather than going into complete sensory deprivation. I have been in those places before, where even the smallest light or sound was too much. And while PEM still drags at my limbs, I can move. That alone is something to honor.
Pacing is not just a strategy; it is a conversation with the body, a practice of trust.
I want to do more, of course. The mind races ahead of what my body allows. But I am learning—again and again—that healing is not found in force. That to rest is not to fail. That pacing is not about withholding movement but about weaving it together with stillness in a way that lets life unfold without collapse.
And so, after the stove, I stop. I fold a blanket, but slowly, already thinking of the bed that waits. I let myself arrive at rest before I am shattered. This is the lesson I know in theory but must practice in flesh.
To pace is not to do nothing; it is to do with awareness. To listen. To trust.
And to begin again, as many times as it takes.
Whether beginning again means practicing acceptance and self-compassion in the face of complete immobility and overwhelm, shifting thoughts away from frustration, shame, and darkness—or whether it means considering, with gratitude, the possibility of standing, washing a dish, or even the luxury of taking a bath.
Living with myalgic encephalomyelitis is a spectrum. One that can change from moment to moment, one day to the next, or even year by year. This year, I am grateful for a greater capacity than the year before. But today, my capacity is fragile, and I must return to deep rest in order to honor the rhythm, the harmony, the cycle of change that ME demands of me each day.
My heart goes out to all of us living this.
Living with this.
Mysterious. Unrelenting. Yet still, we live.
To those reading this from bed, unable to move—your experience is seen, honored, and valid. To those who, like me, are navigating the in-between, finding ways to weave movement into rest—your effort is enough. To those who today feel a little more capacity than yesterday—may you hold it with gentleness.
You are not alone. We are a community, bound not just by struggle, but by resilience. By the courage it takes to listen to our bodies when the world urges us not to. By the strength it takes to rest when everything in us longs to do more.
And so, together, we continue.
We pace.
We rest.
We begin again.
🙏🕊🙏
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