Living Gently in a Body That Hurts

Welcome. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been thinking about how to begin this space, and the truth is—I don’t want to begin with certainty or advice or a polished version of healing. I want to begin with honesty. I live in a body that hurts. Some days quietly. Some days loudly. I’ve spent over two decades navigating Lyme Disease & chronic illness, learning how to listen to a nervous system that has been on high alert for far too long. Along the way, I’ve learned that healing isn’t a finish line—it’s a relationship. One that asks for patience, softness, and a willingness to rest when the world tells you to push. This Substack is not about fixing. It’s not about becoming more productive, more positive, or more resilient. It’s about living gently—especially when life has been anything but. Here, I’ll be sharing reflections drawn from lived experience: the quiet grief that doesn’t get named, the small rituals that help me steady myself and the moments of recognition that remind us we’re not broken—we’re responding. Some entries will be short. Some may feel like letters written just for you. All of them are offered with care. If you’re here because your body feels heavy, your heart feels tired, or you’re learning how to soften after surviving for a long time—please know this: You don’t need to perform your healing. You don’t need to rush your becoming. You are allowed to take up space exactly as you are. Thank you for being here. We’ll move slowly. 🤍 — Krista 🌸

Rest is Not Quitting

There’s a quiet fear many of us carry—that if we rest, we’ll fall behind. That if we stop, even briefly, we’ll lose momentum, relevance, or worth. For those of us living with chronic illness, rest is often misunderstood—not only by others, but by ourselves. We learn to push past signals, to negotiate with exhaustion, to delay listening until the body forces our hand. But rest is not quitting. It’s responding. The body speaks in sensations long before it speaks in crisis. Tightness. Fog. A heaviness that settles in the limbs. A need to lie down that feels almost emotional. These are not failures of will—they’re communications. Rest is how the nervous system recalibrates. It’s how inflammation is soothed. It’s how the body remembers safety. There is nothing lazy about tending to your limits. There is nothing weak about choosing pause in a world that rewards overextension. If your life has required you to be strong for a long time, rest may feel unfamiliar—or even unsafe. That doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means your system is learning something new. You don’t need to earn rest. You don’t need to justify it. You don’t need to explain it. Rest is not the absence of healing. Often, it is the healing. Gentle ways to invite rest (no fixing, no forcing — only invitations) • Breath before solutions Before trying to resolve anything, try placing one hand on your chest and one on your belly. Slow the breath just enough to feel it. This alone can signal safety to the nervous system. • Sound support — 110 Hz In sound and nervous-system traditions, 110 Hz is often associated with grounding and the rest-and-digest state. Listening to a steady 110 Hz tone may help the body downshift from vigilance into rest. You might try listening while lying down, eyes closed, allowing the breath to soften without effort. • Reducing stimulation Sometimes rest isn’t sleep—it’s less input. Lower lights. Fewer tabs open. Silence notifications. Let the body experience quiet without guilt. • Gentle warmth Warm water, a heating pad, or a wrapped blanket can be deeply regulating. Warmth often communicates safety faster than words. • Permission Perhaps the most important practice: allowing rest without turning it into a task. No timers. No goals. Just space. Rest doesn’t mean you’ve given up. It means you’re listening. I See You. - Krista 🌸

When the Body Whispers

Rooting is not about holding still. It’s about feeling supported enough to listen. For a long time, I didn’t trust my body. Not because I didn’t want to—but because listening had always come with consequences. Pain. Fatigue. Disruption. When the body hasn’t felt safe, even gentle signals can feel threatening. So many of us learn to override first and listen later. We wait until certainty appears. Until permission arrives. Until the whisper becomes impossible to ignore. But the body rarely begins by shouting. It starts with subtle cues: A heaviness in the legs. A breath that shortens. A quiet pull toward stillness. A sense of “not today.” These are not signs of weakness. They are invitations to root. Rooting means allowing yourself to feel held by the moment you’re in—by the ground beneath you, the chair supporting you, the breath moving through you. It’s the body’s way of saying, we are here, and we are safe enough to notice. When you’ve lived in survival mode for a long time, slowing down can feel destabilizing. Listening can feel like losing control. But rooting doesn’t ask you to give anything up. It asks you to arrive. The body isn’t asking for perfection. It’s asking for presence. Sometimes rooting looks like resting earlier than planned. Sometimes it looks like saying no without explanation. Sometimes it looks like changing nothing at all—just staying. You don’t need to understand every sensation. You don’t need to respond correctly. You’re allowed to learn how to listen while being supported. The body learns trust through steadiness. It learns safety through being met. Rooted support (offered gently, take or leave) • Sound medicine — 174 Hz (Rooted) 174 Hz is associated with grounding, safety, and physical steadiness. Listening to this frequency may help the body settle into a sense of support and presence. You might listen while seated or lying down, allowing your weight to be fully held. • Grounded contact Place both feet on the floor or one hand on the earth, the bed, or your chest. Let your body register what’s supporting you right now. • Soften downward Rather than lifting or striving, imagine your awareness moving downward—into the hips, legs, and feet. Rooting often happens below the mind. • Reduce urgency You don’t need to interpret or fix what you feel. Rooting is about staying, not solving. • Close with acknowledgement You might quietly say, “I’m here.” Sometimes that’s enough. Rooting doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It means you’re supported. I See You. -Krista 🌸

Shedding What No Longer Belongs

There comes a point when holding on takes more energy than letting go. Shedding isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t always come with clarity or closure. More often, it arrives quietly—as fatigue, resistance, or a sense that something once useful has grown heavy. Many of the layers we carry were never mistakes. They formed to protect us, to help us survive, to get us through moments when we didn’t have the luxury of softness. But what once served us can eventually become weight. Shedding is the body’s way of saying, thank you — and it’s safe to loosen now. This kind of release doesn’t ask you to force change. It doesn’t require effort or fixing. It happens when the body feels supported enough to let go. Sometimes shedding looks like outgrowing a rhythm that no longer fits. Sometimes it looks like releasing expectations you never agreed to. Sometimes it looks like resting instead of pushing — and letting that be enough. There is wisdom in what falls away. There is intelligence in what the body no longer wants to carry. You don’t need to strip everything back at once. You don’t need to know what comes next. Shedding creates space. And space is where something new can breathe. Shedding support (offered gently, take or leave) • Sound medicine — 285 Hz (Shedding) 285 Hz is often associated with restoration and release. Listening to this frequency may feel supportive when letting go of energetic residue that no longer serves the body. You might listen while resting, allowing release to happen without effort or intention. • Aromatic support — Tea Tree Tea Tree is known for its clarifying and cleansing qualities. Used gently, its aroma may support a sense of freshness and renewal. You might diffuse lightly or inhale slowly, inviting space where heaviness once lived. • Crystal support — Shungite Shungite is often associated with detoxification and energetic protection. You might keep it nearby during moments of rest or reflection as a reminder that release can be grounding, not destabilizing. • A moment of acknowledgement You might quietly name one thing you’re ready to loosen — without needing to explain or resolve it. Recognition alone can begin the process. Shedding doesn’t mean something was wrong. It means you’re ready for less weight. I See You. -Krista 🌸

The Grief No One Names

There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t come with casseroles or condolences. It arrives quietly—through missed plans, shortened days, and the version of yourself you keep having to release. It’s the grief of living in a body that can’t always keep up with your heart or your hopes. Chronic illness teaches you how to let go in increments. Not all at once. Not ceremoniously. But slowly, and often without witnesses. You grieve the energy you once had. The ease you didn’t know was precious. The timelines that no longer make sense. And yet—this grief is rarely acknowledged. Because you’re still here. Still functioning. Still trying. But grief doesn’t require disappearance to be valid. This space between who you were and who you are becoming deserves tenderness. It deserves pauses. It deserves permission. If you’re carrying a grief you can’t quite name, please know this: nothing is wrong with you. You’re responding to loss in a body that has asked you to be brave far too often. You don’t have to rush the acceptance. You don’t have to silver-line it. You’re allowed to mourn softly. Gentle ways to support grief (offered softly, take or leave anything) Grief doesn’t live only in the heart—it often settles in the body. These are gentle practices some people find supportive when moving through grief. There is no right way, and no need to do all of them. • Sound support — 220 Hz In many body-based traditions, grief is associated with the lungs and breath. Listening to a gentle 220 Hz tone can be a calming way to bring awareness and softness to the breath. You might try listening while resting, breathing slowly, or placing a hand over your chest. • Mullein tea Mullein has long been used as a gentle, supportive herb for the respiratory system. Sipping mullein tea slowly can feel grounding and comforting—especially when grief feels heavy in the chest. Let it be a moment of warmth and pause rather than a remedy. • Simple lymphatic movement Grief can feel stagnant. Gentle movement can help invite a sense of flow. Some people use the “Big 6” lymphatic movements—slow, intentional motions that encourage circulation and ease. Even a few minutes of light movement, stretching, or walking can be enough. • A ritual bath or soak Warm water can be deeply regulating for the nervous system. A simple soak with gentle aromatherapy—like lavender, chamomile, or another scent you associate with safety—can offer the body a signal of rest. No ritual needs to be elaborate to be meaningful. • Smoky Quartz Smoky Quartz is often associated with grounding and emotional release. You might hold it during quiet moments, place it near you while resting, or simply let it serve as a reminder to stay connected to the present moment while grief moves through. Grief doesn’t need to be fixed. It needs to be witnessed—sometimes by you, sometimes by something small and steady. Move slowly. Be kind to yourself. 🤍 I See You. - Krista 🌸