Today, I’m writing this in the middle of a fibro flare. My body hurts, my energy is gone, and my brain feels like it’s been wrapped in cotton and put in airplane mode. If you’ve never experienced fibromyalgia, it’s hard to explain. And if you have—then you already know.
It’s one of those days where just existing feels like an accomplishment. Where even thinking about putting on a bra feels like I deserve a medal. My muscles ache like I ran a marathon, though I haven’t done anything more exciting than moving from the bed to the couch (and even that felt like a climb up Everest).
This is fibromyalgia. And these are the parts nobody sees.
The Invisible Stuff is the Heaviest
Most of what I deal with can’t be seen. There are no bandages, no casts, no obvious signs that my nervous system is throwing a full-blown tantrum (other than moving at the speed of a tortoise) But behind my tired eyes is a body screaming in static. Behind my smile is someone calculating how long they can sit upright before the fatigue wins. Behind my “I’m fine” is… well, a lie I tell to make you feel better, because there is really nothing you can do to make it better.
It’s not just the pain—it’s the brain fog that steals words mid-sentence. It’s forgetting why I walked into the kitchen or calling the dog by three wrong names before I get it right. It’s the coffee cup that weighs 20 pounds, the sounds that are too loud, the smells that are too strong, and the lights that feel like they’re trying to melt my eyeballs.
Humor and God Are My Armor (even when I’m still in pj’s at 3 PM)
Sometimes I have to laugh, or I’ll cry. (sometimes I do both within five minutes.) But really—there’s something slightly ridiculous about a condition that can make your hair hurt one day and your teeth ache the next, right?
Once, I forgot the word for “refrigerator” and just called it “the cold food thingy.” I’ve started the Keurig and forgot to put a cup under the brewer. I’ve put food in the crockpot, only to find out 8 hours later that I forgot to turn it on… My brain is doing its best… It’s just… on a delay.
Dear Fellow Warriors (and My Future Self)
If you’re also in a flare, or you’ve had one recently, I see you. I know how defeating it feels when you have plans and your body says, “Nope.” I know the guilt that creeps in when you cancel something again. And I know the frustration of not being able to explain how deeply tired and overwhelmed you feel—even though you “don’t look sick.”
So here’s what I want to say, both to you and to myself:
You are not lazy. You are not crazy. You are not weak.
You are doing your absolute best inside a body that often feels like it’s working against you. And on days like today, surviving is enough. Curling up with a heating pad and resting your eyes is enough. Taking deep breaths through the pain and choosing grace over guilt is enough.
Some Encouragement for the Road (or the Couch)
I don’t know how long this flare will last. I never do. But I do know I’ve survived every one that came before, even when I swore I couldn’t take another day of it. I’ve laughed in the middle of pain. I’ve created, written, prayed, and loved through the fog. And I’m still here. So are you.
🌧 Flare Day Survival Checklist 🌧
(Because “just power through it” is not a real strategy)
☑️ Comfy clothes only:
If it has a waistband, it’s a no. Pajamas count as productivity wear today.
☑️ Heating pad or ice pack:
Your body’s favorite form of comfort (besides canceling plans).
☑️ Fluids, snacks, and grace:
Drink water. Eat something soft. Forgive yourself for not cooking a five-course meal.
☑️ One soft blanket minimum:
Preferably the weight of a small bear. Bonus if it’s warm from the dryer.
☑️ Zero guilt about rest:
Resting is not quitting. It’s healing. You have nothing to prove.
☑️ Move gently IF you can:
Stretch, pace the house, sway in place like a tired toddler—whatever feels manageable.
☑️ Reduce stimulation:
Lights low, sounds soft, humans optional.
☑️ A little joy, if possible:
Watch your comfort show. Listen to a soothing playlist. Scroll memes. Laugh gently.
☑️ One win, however small:
Brushed your teeth? Sent a text? Made it to the porch? That’s a win. Claim it.
☑️ Kind thoughts only:
You’re not lazy. You’re not dramatic. You are enduring more than most people will ever understand—with grace and grit.
Remember, you are not alone, you are not broken, and you are still you—even on the hard days.
Let’s keep showing up—one slow step, one deep breath, one fuzzy thought at a time.
And if all else fails, just remember: you are stronger than your symptoms, even if today you’re only strong enough to lift a fork (and only because there was cheesecake involved).
With love from the couch,
Casandra
(fibro warrior, cold food thingy navigator, and professional napper)
PS Give yourself the grace and kindness you often try to give others
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