Freedom Has Changed Its Shape

When I think about July, I remember lake water, smoky campfires, and children running until the light began to fade. Back then, freedom meant long summer days with nothing planned except swimming, playing, and being outside. Those memories still make me smile, but I've realized something over the years. Freedom hasn't disappeared. It has simply changed its shape.

At sixty-five, freedom feels different than it once did. It isn't about having endless choices or escaping responsibility anymore. Instead, it's found in small moments that remind me this life is still very much my own. This week alone I can count a few moments of freedom that quietly shaped my days.

These days I rarely need to ask anyone for a ride. If I want to visit one of my favourite places, I simply head out the door. I may not move as quickly as I once did, and some days my body argues with me every step of the way, but I can still get where I want to go. As long as I'm willing to lace up my shoes, the city is mine to explore.

Since the beginning of the month I've done exactly that a couple of times, and I plan to do it again and again throughout the summer. If you're local, you'll understand when I say the railroad paths make getting almost anywhere in Peterborough easy. They're wonderful when I want to get somewhere quickly, but I've discovered the sidewalks are where the surprises live.

A flower covered hedge. A beautifully tended garden. A front porch decorated with someone's personality. Little details I'd never notice if I hurried past. The sidewalks invite me to pay attention instead of simply arriving. There is a quiet freedom in choosing the longer route simply because it looks interesting. No timetable. No destination that can't wait another ten minutes. Just curiosity leading the way.

Another moment of freedom came during Aquafit, though not because of the exercise, enjoyable as that is. What makes those mornings special is sharing the pool with Dean, Ness, Sara, and now Sara's father, Len. We laugh our way through the class.

Not every favourite memory can be captured with a camera.

I am shy and quiet on my own, but when I'm with my family I am anything but. As the matriarch of this family, I settle into a role that feels completely natural. We tease each other, encourage each other, and laugh more than we probably should. In those moments, I don't worry about what anyone else thinks. I simply enjoy being myself.

The final freedom may sound like a small thing, but to me it makes all the difference. Every morning, whether it's raining, sunny, or even snowing, the first thing I do is open my window. Fresh air is the first thing I invite into my day. There was a time when something that simple wasn't possible, so I never take it for granted. A cup of coffee, an open window, and a few quiet minutes have become one of the freedoms I treasure most.

As a child, freedom was a lake on a hot July afternoon. Today it is fresh air through an open window, choosing the long way home, and three generations laughing together in a public pool. None of those moments lasted very long, but each one reminded me that freedom doesn't always arrive with grand gestures. Sometimes it quietly slips into an ordinary afternoon. We only have to leave room for it.

Collected Moments

When we talk about our summer, we talk about big things. The first beach day. The family barbecue. The vacation everyone remembers years later. But that is not summer at all.

Summer is built from moments. Trying on a new bathing suit, discovering a new café, or returning to an old haunt. We remember fireflies and the sounds of a summer night with crickets and June bugs and, if you live in the right place, the bullfrogs' nightly song. That is what the last two weeks reminded me of: moments from my childhood remembered today.

The walk to the local beach, swimming, always swimming. I loved the water. The first ice cream cone from the local ice cream shop. As I grew older, it began to include the taste of new strawberries fresh from the plant and the vanilla iced coffee that became a fixture in my summer life. The first road trip to anywhere was also a treat. I've relived those moments every year, this year included.

Those moments may not seem important when they happen, but they are often the things we remember long after the larger events have faded. This has been my focus this week: Seeing, with a capital S, all the little things that make up summer.

Some of those moments have come through my camera lens. A rain-covered oak leaf caught my attention after a morning shower. The water droplets transformed something ordinary into something worth stopping for. It was only a leaf, but for a few minutes it became the entire focus of my attention. The many shades of green crowd around, asking to be noticed. The world is bursting with life if you take a moment to look beyond yourself and into the natural world around you.

Don't get me wrong, bad things happen too: careless fires, spoiled food, and sometimes something that sours the mood. But if you look up and out, you can always find something that brings you joy.

Other moments arrived through routine.

Aquafit has become one of the rhythms of my week. The class itself matters, but so do the pieces around it. The walk to the YMCA. The familiar faces. The relief of moving in water rather than fighting gravity on land. The few quiet minutes in the hot tub afterward.

 None of these moments would make a headline. Together, however, they tell the story of a summer that is unfolding one ordinary day at a time.

This week also included errands, appointments, and unexpected frustrations. A damaged birth certificate meant another round of paperwork. Appointments brought waiting rooms and uncertainty. There were moments when I felt tired, discouraged, or simply overwhelmed by the number of things demanding attention. Yet even within those days, there were small things worth keeping.

A successful photograph. I managed quite a collection of those, from the oak leaf to a dress I found at a yard sale to all the green of the world as it exists in summer. The purples and yellows of late spring flowers followed, or mingled with, the pinks and reds of summer blooms. The blue sky and drifting clouds are there too. They are all things I've collected with my camera.

Summer lives in our senses.

The sounds and songs of summer are there too. A shared laugh with my daughter. Crickets and June bugs. Children at play. Music blasting in the air. They are all sounds that surround me day and night. The rain on the windowpane is in there too, and everywhere the laughter of people simply enjoying the sun.

The taste of strawberries I savour. The iced coffee that is my everyday order from Tims and the ones I make myself. That is summer. Ice cream, all kinds of ice cream, and recently a place called Crumbl with the most delicious cookies I've ever tasted. Salads of all sorts blend flavours beyond compare. They too are part of summer.

The smell of newly cut grass and lilacs perfumes the air. Other flowers too; their scents mingle and linger, transformed and strengthened by the summer sun. Suntan oil and OFF are in there as well, but I prefer the perfumes from the flowers.

The velvety feel of peony petals. The tickle as I allow my hands to float through the leaves as I walk. The softness of grass beneath my feet is a favourite, but so too is the slight burning sensation of walking on hot pavement. Soft dresses comfort me, and the elasticity of my swimsuit always makes me smile because it means that soon I'll be in the water. Nothing compares to that feeling except maybe a cool shower after a long walk.

The older I get, the more I realize that collecting moments is a practice of attention. The moments are always there. The challenge is noticing them.

When I began this month's Summer Threads theme, I imagined gathering small signs of the season. What I am discovering instead is that I am gathering evidence of a life being lived, of days that are full of sensation and pleasure, and of moments spent with family too long ignored.

A life filled with appointments and errands, family worries and household chores, cups of coffee and photographs, pool visits and quiet evenings. A life that is made meaningful not by its grand achievements but by its accumulation of ordinary days.

 It is not a perfect life. It is not always an exciting life. There are difficult moments, like filling out forms that require me to put my mental pain on display, or days when worry and uncertainty take up more space than I would like. Yet it is also a life rich with small pleasures, familiar comforts, and the people I love. My gratitude knows no bounds for the bounty Mother Nature shares at this time of year and for the reminder that even ordinary days can hold moments worth collecting.

That is what my journal pages have been reflecting this month. Envelopes filled with scraps, photographs tucked between pages, notes written quickly before they are forgotten. None of it seems particularly significant on its own.

Together, however, they become a record. Proof that these days happened. Proof that I was here. Proof that even the quietest seasons leave traces behind, and proof that I am alive and living my best life within this season.

As summer continues, I hope to keep collecting these moments. Not because they are extraordinary, but because they are not. The small things matter. The ordinary things matter. Perhaps that is what a season really becomes in the end—not a collection of major events, but a gathering of moments we cared enough to notice.

The Small Days Count

This has been a good week in some ways and a lousy one in others.

On the plus side, I walked nearly 10,000 steps and did not collapse into a fibro flare afterward. In fact, this week has been harder mentally than physically.

 Thursday was nearly a perfect day aside from getting lost on the way back from getting my sugar checked. Even that turned into a positive because I ended up walking over 9,700 steps and used my bus pass for the first time in a long while. But that was also when the bad luck for the week seemed to begin. When I got home, my key would not work in the front door, so I had to use my phone to get into the building. I assumed it was a one-time problem and just sent a message to Ruth to let her know.

Friday I stayed home and did food prep using what I had left in the freezer. I managed to make enough dinners to get me through to Thursday, which felt like a small victory in itself. Other than being tired from all the walking the day before, it was not a bad day.

As the weekend went on, though, the front door still was not fixed. Each day I sent another message to the building manager, and tenants started stopping me to ask about the problem or tell me their own experiences with the door. I also sent an email to her and her boss because it was becoming clear this was no longer a minor issue.

Then on Sunday, when I went to do laundry, I found a broken crack pipe outside the laundry room. After that I checked the hallway connecting our wing to the other side of the building and found a pile of garbage blocking part of the fire door area. Again, I contacted the building manager.

 Later that same day I discovered someone had stuffed paper into the latch section of the outside door so people could come and go freely without needing a key or access code. That was the moment the situation stopped feeling frustrating and started feeling genuinely unsafe. I live in an area where there are a lot of crack houses nearby, and with the building now easily accessible, outsiders could come and go as they pleased. Many people in this building do not lock their apartment doors during the day. Suddenly the possibility of break-ins did not feel abstract anymore.

Sunday was also Mother’s Day, which always brings its own wave of dysthymia with it. Physically I was fine, but depression has a way of making everything feel heavier. Mother’s Day usually leaves me struggling for a few days because of my mother, now gone, and the complicated history between us.

By Monday the depression was still sitting heavily on me, so I stayed home from the Y and decided to work on my poetry instead. Unfortunately, the poem I chose to work on was one about living inside depression at its worst. Unsurprisingly, that did not exactly help.

Physically, aside from a stupid headache, I am okay. Mentally, not so much.

Which brings me to today and the pièce de résistance for the week. I tried to contact the Landlord and Tenant Board and instead ended up being scammed by a site pretending to be legal help. On top of everything else, I now need to replace my bank access card.

I know situations like this eventually pass, but sometimes when I am in the middle of them I have a hard time remembering that there is always a way around or through even difficult circumstances. “This too will pass” is something I have lived with for a long time now. Sometimes it is the only thing holding hope open long enough for things to begin easing again.

 And the small wins — walking nearly 10,000 steps, preparing meals for the week, continuing to show up for my life even while mentally struggling — they matter. They count.

Sometimes far more than the bad days do, even when the bad days temporarily seem louder.

Learning Not to Fix Everything

This week didn’t go the way I expected. Not in any dramatic way—just small things. A thread stalled, a tool didn’t behave the way it used to, and I found myself sitting with a question I couldn’t quite answer about friendship. Nothing big, just enough friction to notice.

 

And that’s where this week seemed to settle. Not in fixing anything, but in paying attention to how I respond when things don’t go the way I expect. It turned out to be less about solving problems and more about noticing my habits around them.

I noticed how quickly I want things to work properly. The system should behave, the routine should hold, and the plan should still fit. When that didn’t happen, my first instinct was the same as always: figure it out, adjust it, fix it.

But this week offered something quieter. Sometimes the answer was to refresh, restart, or simply let it go. Not everything needs a workaround, and not everything needs my full attention.

At one point, I caught myself thinking I had lost momentum. It felt like I had somehow undone the progress I made earlier this year, like the routines I built in January and February had slipped out of my hands. But looking at it now, that’s not what actually happened.

My system didn’t fail—it shifted. My energy dropped, my focus narrowed, and the things that usually matter stopped feeling important. Not because I’m weak, but because something in me didn’t feel safe.

 

Fear has a way of settling in quietly. It doesn’t always show up as panic; sometimes it’s just a steady “what if” sitting in the background. Once that thought is there, everything else slows down whether I want it to or not.

There were different kinds of days this week, and they didn’t all feel the same. There were flare days, where the pain came back louder than I expected, and foggy days, where I couldn’t focus long enough to stay with anything. There were also what I’ve started thinking of as waiting days—where the best thing I could do was keep things gentle and let time pass.

None of those days looked productive in the usual sense. But they weren’t useless either, even if they didn’t give me anything I could point to at the end of the day.

I saw the same pattern showing up in other places too. I started looking at travel—what it might take to go somewhere a little farther from home. For a moment, it turned into something big, complicated, and expensive, something that didn’t fit my life at all.

So I stepped back and changed the shape of the idea. What I’m working toward now isn’t one big trip, but something smaller and more manageable. One simple trip, something close, something I can actually follow through on without it becoming overwhelming.

The same thing came up in how I help people. I’ve been offering water and a snack at my window, nothing formal, just something I can do. At first, I found myself thinking about how to make it better—what else I could add, what would make it more helpful.

But what I’m learning is that keeping it simple matters more than trying to improve it. Something to drink, something to eat, something steady. That’s enough, especially if it means I can keep doing it without wearing myself out.

Even in quieter moments, the same idea kept showing up. I found myself thinking about what a “friend” really is, not in a heavy way, just as a quiet check-in with myself. What I realized is that I might not be missing people as much as I’m missing a certain kind of connection.

Something steady, easy, and known. That’s different from having nothing at all—it just means what I have doesn’t quite match what I expected it to feel like.

There’s a pattern here I’m starting to recognize. When something doesn’t work, when something doesn’t fit, or when something feels off, my instinct is to fix it right away. I want to make it better, smoother, or more complete.

But this week offered a different option. Let the broken thread stay broken, let the unused thing stay unused, and let the question sit without a full answer. Not everything needs to be resolved to be okay.

 

By the end of the week, something small shifted. I don’t need everything to work perfectly to keep moving forward. Sometimes it’s enough to notice what’s happening, choose the simplest response, and leave the rest alone.

That might not feel like progress, but it is a kind of steadiness.

And right now, that’s enough.

Going Anyway

 Not what I planned. But I didn’t turn back.

I’ve been thinking about this whole “small adventures” idea, and I don’t think it looks the way people expect it to. It’s not big outings or full days planned out. Most of the time, it’s me standing in my kitchen trying to decide if I’m actually going to leave the house or not.

This week, I did.

The plan was to go to the Wednesday Farmers Market. Easy enough. Fifteen-minute walk, nothing complicated. I talked myself into it, got out the door, walked all the way down there… and it turns out there is no Wednesday market anymore. I just stood there for a minute thinking, well… now what.

 

That would have been a perfectly good excuse to turn around and go home, and I was tempted. But I’d already done the hard part—the getting out the door part—so I kept going. I crossed the bridge into East City, stopped at Tim’s for a few minutes to rest, and then carried on to the spa where GD#1 works to check out those shower steamers she mentioned.

From there I went into Foodland to pick up the groceries I’d meant to get at the market. Not what I planned, but it worked. After that I wandered a bit along Hunter Street, half-looking for a bus stop and half just seeing what was around me. I didn’t find the bus stop, but I did find a Vinnies, so I went in to warm up for a few minutes.

By then I could feel I was done. Not the good tired—the kind where you know you’re pushing it. So I listened to that and called a Y-Drive to get home. And honestly, I was pretty proud of that whole thing. Not because it was big, but because I didn’t quit when the first plan fell apart.

The only picture I took was from the bridge by Quaker Oats. I’d hoped to find a path along the water on our side, but it’s all fenced off now. Still, standing there for a minute, looking out over the river, it felt like I’d actually gone somewhere.

Good Friday was a quieter version of the same idea. I took a longer loop instead of going straight to Jeff Purvey’s—Park to Dalhousie, onto the bike path, around through Townsend and Rubidge. I got there, stood in line for a bit, and nothing was moving. I could feel my energy dropping, so I left and ordered fish and chips instead.

On the way back, though, I ran into Larry and stood there talking with him for a few minutes. Nothing big, just a bit of conversation, but it broke up the walk in a good way. He’s been moved somewhere better, which I’m glad about. He’s getting older now—not as old as me, but getting close.

 

Then Monday came around and I went to Aquafit. Before we even got into the pool, I ended up in a conversation in the change room while we were getting ready. Just a few minutes, nothing important, but those small bits of talking seem to matter more than you think they will.

After class, I went home, rested for a bit, and later in the afternoon I walked down to Brookside Plaza to check out the new Salvation Army. I didn’t need anything—I just wanted to see it. That’s kind of what all of this is, I think. Not big plans, not big energy, just a bit of curiosity and a willingness to go anyway.

When I look at the week, it doesn’t look like much. A couple of walks, a class, a few short conversations. But it doesn’t feel small. It feels like I’m not stuck in the same way.

And if you’re dealing with the same kind of stuff I am—low energy, pain that comes and goes, days where everything feels heavier than it should—you don’t need big adventures. You just need something. Something that gets you out the door and gives you a moment where you’re not just sitting in it. That’s enough.

This week, I’m thinking about trying the bus. I’ve got the pass, and I keep looking at it like I’m waiting for the “right” plan. I might just go to the terminal and get on whatever bus comes first. That idea makes me a little uncomfortable, which probably means it’s a good one.

🌸Spring Emerging

This is the last post for March, and spring has started to show up in small ways.

I saw a robin at the beginning of the month. This week, the geese came back. Now I’m waiting for the buds and the dandelions.

 

It doesn’t happen all at once.

And I think that’s what this month has been like for me too.

When I started this series, I didn’t expect it to be this hard—or this revealing. I thought I would see progress clearly, something I could point to and name.

But what I’m noticing instead is quieter than that.

The days don’t feel quite as heavy. There are moments where my energy lifts just enough for me to notice it.

Not a big change.
Just something beginning.

This month didn’t go the way I planned.

I thought I could handle more—two Aquafit classes, a couple of studio classes—but it didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t there yet. One week of that was enough to put me out of commission for the next.

So I adjusted.

By the end of February and into March, I was down to one class a week.

Not what I wanted—but something I could actually sustain.

And it worked.

I kept going. I learned the routines. I started to feel a little stronger. It got easier to move around the house.

More importantly, I showed up.

Every week. Even on the days I didn’t feel like it. Even on the days where I spent more time arguing with myself than getting ready.

I still went.

And somewhere along the way, that started to matter more than how much I was doing.

It’s only been three months, but something has shifted.

 

Not in a big, obvious way. But enough that I can feel it.

I’m a little stronger. I have more energy around the house. Things that felt impossible a few months ago don’t feel quite as heavy now.

My blood sugar and blood pressure are slowly coming down. The pain days and low days are still there—but not as often.

And I’m learning.

I’m getting better at reading my body. Knowing when to keep going and when to stop. Accepting that just because my mind wants to push doesn’t mean my body can.

That alone has made a difference.

But the biggest change hasn’t been physical.

It’s been the arguing.

For months, every class meant hours of back and forth in my head. By the time I got there, I was already worn out.

I still showed up. But it was hard.

Somewhere around the equinox, that started to shift.

I decided I was done with the fight.

I’m going to that class. Once a week. That’s it.

And without that constant argument, everything feels a little lighter.

Not easy. Just easier.

March always carries a certain weight for me.

My mother’s birthday falls near the end of the month, and even now, years later, I find myself remembering. The sadness has softened, but the reflection is still there.

We were just beginning to repair our relationship when she passed. I didn’t understand then what my father meant when he said we were too much alike.

I understand it now.

When I think about endurance, I don’t think about pushing harder anymore. I think about staying. About continuing, even when things aren’t ideal, even when the pace is slow.

That kind of steadiness matters more to me now than effort for the sake of effort.

The equinox felt like a turning point—not because anything suddenly changed, but because I made a decision.

I’m done fighting with myself.

I will show up. Once a week. That’s enough.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m actually proud of that.

As March comes to a close, I’m not starting over.

I’m choosing what comes with me.

I’m carrying forward what I’ve learned about my limits—how to work within them instead of against them.

I’m keeping the consistency. One class a week. Movement where I can.

I’m continuing to learn—about my body, how I think, and even small things like French and the programs I use every day.

What I’m not carrying forward is the constant self-doubt.

I’m not arguing with myself every time I need to leave the house. I’m not expecting perfection. And I’m not measuring progress by how much I can do in a day.

That hasn’t worked.

What does work is steadiness.

Right now, I feel more stable than I have in a long time. Not perfect—but steady enough to build on.

And that’s what I want to protect.

With the ice and snow receding, I find myself wanting to be outside more.

I may not be ready for more than one class a week, but walking is different. It’s something I can do at my own pace.

So for April, I’m keeping things simple.

I’ll continue with my weekly class, and maybe add a second—Chairfit, Tai Chi, or yoga. Nothing fixed yet, just options.

Alongside that, I want to move outward a little more.

I’ve been collecting ideas for small adventures—things I can do close to home, at my own pace. Not all at once. Just something to look forward to.

Walking. Exploring. Taking photos again.

Those are things I used to enjoy.

And they feel like a good place to begin again.

Not with pressure.
Just with curiosity.

 

This month didn’t give me a clear result.

What it gave me was something quieter.

A better understanding of what I can sustain. A little more strength. A little less resistance.

Spring doesn’t arrive all at once.

It shows up in small ways.

And right now, that’s where I am too.

Not starting over.
Just beginning to unfold.

🌱 Steady Growth

🌱 Steady Growth

I didn’t think this week was steady.

After effort, I expected steadiness to feel clearer. More structured. More predictable—something I could recognize right away. I had a plan for this month: one class per week, a 5-minute minimum movement rule, protein after classes, prep day consistency, and a weekly reflection entry. Small inputs, visible progress.

And in many ways, those pieces were there. I showed up. Not perfectly, not in a straight line, but often enough to count. The 5-minute rule held, even on the harder days. I made it to class. I moved regularly. I followed through in small ways that don’t look like much on their own, but add up when repeated.

What steady looked like, it turns out, was not dramatic.

It looked like writing things down so my thoughts didn’t loop endlessly in my head, and paying attention to what I was thinking so I could understand it, and then returning to the plan after a rough patch instead of letting everything fall apart.

It looked like showing up to movement in small ways. A walk through my building. A bit of housework. Not much, but done consistently—even on the days when I didn’t feel well. It looked like getting to the YMCA regularly, even while the home portion of my routine is still in flux.

It looked like feeding myself, even if it isn’t structured yet. A vegetable platter. A protein drink. Simple, but intentional.

It also looked like things I might have overlooked before. Continuing to read. Learning French for a trip later this year. Staying curious in small ways, even after thinking I had lost that part of myself.

And maybe most importantly, it looked like protecting recovery—something that doesn’t always feel like progress, but without it, there would be none.

Even with all of that, this week didn’t feel steady.

It felt like one mishap after another. Starts and stops. Things not quite lining up the way I expected them to. At times it was frustrating, especially when something simple became more complicated than it should have been.

Tai chi was one of those moments. What looked like a single movement turned into several, and I couldn’t quite follow it. I could have kept trying, but this week didn’t feel like the right place to push through that kind of friction.

There are also areas that still aren’t settled. Eating is consistent in quality, but not in routine. The home side of my movement plan is still shifting as I try to find something that works.

And underlying all of it is the awareness that this isn’t optional. Protecting recovery isn’t a preference—it’s necessary. Without it, there’s a real risk of losing ground in a way that would be much harder to rebuild.

So no, it didn’t feel steady.

And yet, the evidence points in a different direction.

I did go to Aquafit this week. I ate well. I moved regularly. I kept up with my French lessons each day. The 5-minute minimum held, even on the harder days. Not dramatic wins, but consistent ones.

There were smaller moments too. Getting up and going to babysit, even with a sore arm. Choosing to do something rather than nothing. Showing up in ways that would have felt out of reach a few months ago.

Some things are also getting easier. Not effortless, but easier. Getting up and moving instead of staying still all day, which is where I was in December. That shift alone is not small.

So while this week didn’t feel steady, it followed a pattern that is.

And that may be the point.

 I’m not sure I would have called this week steady.

But looking at it now, I’m not sure I would call it anything else.

Maybe steady isn’t about how a week feels while I’m in it, but something that shows up in the patterns that hold—even when everything else feels uneven.

Show up. Adjust. Continue.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. Just often enough, and long enough, for something to begin taking shape.

Maybe that’s what steady growth looks like.

🌿Protecting Recovery

March has a theme for me: Recovery is not a reward. It is part of the program.

 

That idea sounds simple when written on a page, but living it is something else entirely. For a long time I treated recovery like a break you earned after doing the real work. Push hard, finish the task, then rest afterward if you had to. That approach worked well enough before fibromyalgia entered the picture. With fibromyalgia, it doesn’t.

What I’m learning slowly is that recovery isn’t something that happens after the work. Recovery is part of the work. Protecting it is what makes everything else possible.

Since January I’ve been experimenting with what recovery actually looks like in my real life. Not the textbook version, but the daily version. The one that shows up when I’m deciding whether to go to class, whether to walk to the YMCA, or whether today needs to be a heating-pad and stretching kind of day.

Some patterns are beginning to appear.

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Learning to Read Pain Instead of Fighting It

For most of my life pain meant one thing: something to push through.

If something hurt, the answer was simple. Work harder. Ignore it. Finish what you started. That mindset worked for many years, but it doesn’t work very well with fibromyalgia.

One of the biggest shifts I’m trying to make now is learning to treat pain differently. Instead of treating it like an obstacle, I’m learning to treat it like information.

That doesn’t mean it feels helpful. Most days it still feels like an interruption. But when I look honestly at the pattern of my flare-ups, I can see that ignoring the signals is usually what leads to the crash cycle. The harder I push through, the more my body pushes back later.

I often find myself overriding those signals anyway. Fighting my own mind gets quite exhausting sometimes. One day it tells me “You can do more. You did once. You can do it again.” The next day it says “Are you nuts? This is too much.” Both voices sound convincing when they show up.

But the lesson keeps repeating itself.

Pain is not an obstacle, even though it often feels like one. Pain is information. It’s my body’s way of saying that something needs attention. Learning to listen to that message is becoming part of protecting my recovery.

 

I’m also discovering that listening requires a level of body awareness I haven’t always had. Sometimes the signals are obvious, like pain in my shoulders or back. Other times they show up as fogginess, headaches, or just the sense that my energy is draining faster than usual.

There has been a disconnect between my body’s reactions and my mind’s ability to notice them. Rebuilding that connection is part of the process. Recently I came across something called somatic tracking, which encourages paying calm, curious attention to body sensations instead of reacting to them with fear or frustration. The idea is not to force the sensation away but simply to observe it and remind yourself that you are safe.

It’s a small practice, but it fits with what I’m learning. If recovery is going to be protected, I need to become better at noticing what my body is trying to tell me.

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Discovering the Pattern

Since January I’ve been actively experimenting with what works for me.

Right now the pattern that seems to work best is one day of activity followed by one or two recovery days. It’s not the rhythm I would have chosen, but it’s the rhythm my body seems willing to cooperate with.

February was a good reminder of why this matters. External busyness can easily disrupt the balance. When I try to do more because things look manageable in the moment, the effects usually show up later as fatigue or increased pain.

What I’m learning is that consistency matters more than ambition.

 

In February I attended about two YMCA classes per week. It wasn’t the increase I had hoped for, but it was steady. And steady counts.

For March I’m hoping to attempt three classes per week and include the walk to and from the YMCA, while continuing to monitor how my body responds. I also plan to participate in two walking events: a small march for International Women’s Day and a longer walk I’ve been using as a 5K test.

Even as I write that, I can see that the plan itself is part of the experiment. Will I manage the whole distance or do I need more practice? I suspect it will be the latter, and that’s fine. Recovery for me right now means continuing trial and error.

It means treating pain and fatigue as information and keeping track of what I’ve done so I can see the patterns more clearly. It means resting when things get too bad instead of pushing until total collapse like I did in February.

Recovery is not about doing nothing. It’s about maintaining a rhythm that allows progress to happen without triggering a crash cycle.

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Protecting Capacity Before Expanding It

Of course, the goal isn’t to stay exactly where I am.

I would like to expand my capacity over time. Ideally I would move toward needing only one recovery day between activity days. Not because I want to push through pain, but because I want to gradually build endurance.

But growth only works if recovery is protected first.

 

The 5K walk I’ve been thinking about is a good example. When I first imagined it, I didn’t factor in the distance to and from home. What looked like a 5K quickly turned into six or eight kilometres.

That realization forced me to pause. Not because the goal itself is unreasonable, but because the timing might be.

If I push ahead anyway, I will probably spend the last week of March exactly the way I spent the last week of February — tired, sore, and paying for it afterward.

So the adjustment becomes part of the process. Maybe the walk gets shortened. Maybe it becomes a test of progress rather than a finish line. Adjusting the plan isn’t failure. It’s simply responding to the information my body is giving me.

I’m also experimenting with the idea of making days ten percent gentler. Sometimes that means catching the bus home instead of walking both directions. Sometimes it means using a prepped meal instead of cooking from scratch. Sometimes it simply means lowering my expectations and accepting that I don’t have to do everything on my list.

Small adjustments like that reduce friction. And reducing friction protects capacity.

My goal is not to eliminate pain or fatigue completely. Right now that isn’t realistic. My goal is to build a version of normal that feels steady and sustainable.

---

Closing Thoughts

Protecting recovery is turning out to be less about dramatic changes and more about quiet adjustments.

Listening when my body signals that it needs a pause.
Choosing consistency instead of bursts of ambition.
Allowing progress to happen slowly rather than forcing it to happen quickly.

Recovery used to feel like something that interrupted my plans. Now I’m beginning to see it differently. Recovery is what allows the plans to exist in the first place.

If I want to expand what I can do, I have to protect the foundation that supports it. That foundation is recovery.

Slow and steady might not look impressive from the outside, but for me it’s becoming the path toward something much more valuable: a life that feels steady, sustainable, and possible.

 

What I’m Learning About Stabilizing My Days

 

I have begun to notice that if I create a plan sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. When it works it includes space to breathe and rest. When it doesn’t, it’s because there is absolutely no structure — or very little.

For a long time, I thought the problem was over-planning
. I assumed that needing structure meant I was trying to control too much. But what I’m starting to see is the opposite. The plans that fail aren’t the structured ones. They’re the vague ones. The hopeful ones. The ones built on the assumption that I’ll “just manage.”

When I leave my days too open, I drift. I underestimate fatigue. I say yes without checking tomorrow’s cost. I end up reacting instead of choosing.

But when I build in shape — not rigidity, just shape — my days feel steadier.

 

Shape looks like this:

A recovery hour placed on purpose.
A walk measured in time instead of distance.
Meal components stored in a way that protects future energy.
Evenings that are intentionally simple.

I realized that if recovery is important, it can’t live in my head — it has to live in my phone. Good intentions aren’t enough. Reminders, alarms, and anchors turn intention into something visible. If it isn’t scheduled, I tend to negotiate it away.

This week, that structure showed up in small ways. I went to class on a day I wasn’t sure I could manage it — and instead of collapsing afterward, I had a protein shake ready and a quiet evening planned. I set up medication reminders so I’m not relying on memory. I placed posture resets into my day instead of hoping I’d remember. None of it is impressive. But all of it reduces friction.

None of these are dramatic changes. They’re small design decisions. But I’m noticing something important: when I include space to rest inside the structure, the structure holds. When I leave everything loose, I end up more tired, not less.

That has surprised me.

I used to think freedom meant fewer plans. Now I’m beginning to think freedom might mean thoughtful ones — the kind that assume my energy is limited and fluctuating, not endless and dependable.

I’m also noticing that the plans that work don’t push me to expand. They protect me from collapse. They stabilize.

And stabilization, at this stage of life, may be more valuable than expansion.

I’m not trying to build bigger days. I’m trying to build days that don’t undo me.

As we move toward March, I find myself thinking more about recovery, about endurance that is gentle, about growth that is steady instead of dramatic. I don’t have it fully figured out. I’m simply watching what works and what doesn’t — and adjusting.

As of today, what works includes structure with breathing room.

That feels like something worth continuing.

I don’t know that this is a formula. It’s simply what I’m noticing right now.

When there is no structure, I feel scattered. When there is too much pressure, I feel trapped. But when there is gentle structure — with breathing room built in — my days feel steadier. Not exciting. Not dramatic. Just steadier.

And steady, I’m learning, is not a small thing.

At this stage of life, with chronic illness as a constant companion, I’m less interested in proving what I can still do and more interested in protecting what allows me to keep doing it. That shift feels quiet, but significant.

So as February closes, I’m not setting big goals. I’m paying attention. I’m noticing what holds and what unravels. I’m keeping the pieces that support me and letting the others fall away.

If you’re in a similar season, you may be seeing your own patterns emerging. Not grand resolutions. Just small adjustments that make tomorrow a little more manageable than yesterday.

For now, that feels like enough.

 

Living Well After 60 With Chronic Illness: Why Energy Is My Real Currency

1. The Currency I Didn’t Know I Was Spending

I used to think time was my most limited resource. Lately I’ve realized it’s energy.

The shift didn’t happen in a doctor’s office or during some dramatic health scare. It happened in the middle of making lunch wraps. I had everything laid out on the counter — tuna mixed with Greek yogurt, sliced turkey, steak, spinach, tortillas. I was assembling them automatically, thinking I was being efficient, when I stopped mid-roll and wondered: Will this still be good in three days? Should I freeze it? Should I store everything separately?

It wasn’t really about food safety.

It was about tomorrow.

If I assemble everything now and it goes soggy, I’ll have wasted both food and effort. If I freeze something that doesn’t thaw well, I’ll feel frustrated and start over. If I store the components separately, I give myself options. I reduce friction for a future day when my energy may be lower than it is right now.

Standing there with a tortilla in my hand, I realized I wasn’t just prepping lunch. I was deciding how much of tomorrow’s energy I was willing to spend today.

That same realization followed me into travel planning. We’re heading to Old Montréal in September. Years ago I would have looked at a map and counted attractions. How many churches? How many museums? How much could we cover in a day?

This time I measured by hours.

One hour of walking. Two fifteen-minute rest stops. Time to sit with coffee without feeling behind. Time to eat lunch without pushing through fatigue. I even built in weather adjustments so a rainy day wouldn’t become a lost day — just a different one.

Planning rest stops on purpose felt almost rebellious. Not rest because I collapsed. Rest because I decided.

That’s when the word intention started to feel less like a slogan and more like a survival skill.

After sixty, and especially with chronic illness, energy is not predictable. It fluctuates. It vanishes without warning. It does not respond well to pressure. And yet most of the advice we’re given still sounds like it’s written for someone with a full tank.

What I’m beginning to understand is this: quality of life isn’t built on how much we can squeeze into a good day. It’s built on how carefully we design our days so the hard ones don’t undo us.

Energy, not time, is the real currency now.

And intention is how I decide where to spend it.

---

2. The Old Question: “Can I Still Do This?”

For a long time, my measuring stick was the past.

Can I still walk as far as I used to?
Can I still manage a full sightseeing day?
Can I still prep a week’s worth of meals in one afternoon?

It’s a quiet comparison, but it’s constant.

For women managing chronic illness after sixty, that comparison can become exhausting. We remember what a “normal” day felt like. We remember moving through a grocery store without scanning for benches. We remember planning travel without calculating recovery time.

When we ask, Can I still do this? what we’re really asking is, Am I shrinking?

That question carries more weight than we admit. It brushes up against independence. Capability. Identity.

And sometimes the answer is uncomfortable.

No, I can’t walk six hours straight anymore.
No, I can’t stack three big commitments in one day and expect to feel fine tomorrow.
No, I can’t ignore the cost of overextending.

But that question — Can I still do this? — is built on a flawed premise.

It assumes the goal is to replicate the past.

---

3. The Better Question: “How Do I Design This Differently?”

When I shifted the question, everything softened.

Instead of asking whether I could still manage Old Montréal the way I might have twenty years ago, I asked: How can I design this trip so it works for me now?

That’s how the one-hour walking blocks appeared.
That’s how the scheduled rest stops became intentional instead of accidental.
That’s how café time became part of the plan instead of a guilty delay.

The same thing happened in my kitchen.

Instead of pushing through meal prep in one burst of efficiency, I started thinking in systems. What keeps the ingredients fresh longer? What reduces decision-making on a low-energy day? What protects me from having to start over?

Storing the components separately may not feel impressive. Planning fewer sights per day may not look ambitious. A no-spend evening at home may not look exciting.

But each of those decisions says the same thing:

I am designing around my energy, not pretending it doesn’t matter.

That shift changes everything.

Designing differently doesn’t mean doing less in a defeated way. It means doing things in a structured way that supports tomorrow’s version of me. It means acknowledging that recovery time is real. That inflammation is real. That fatigue is not laziness.

It means building margin on purpose.

---

4. Intention as a Filter

This is where my word of the year — intention — stopped being abstract.

Intention has become a filter I run things through before I commit.

Does this respect my energy?
Is this worth the cost tomorrow?
Can I structure this so I’m not borrowing from next week?

That filter applies to travel.
It applies to food.
It applies to spending.
It applies to creativity.

It’s not about shrinking life.

It’s about stabilizing it.

For many of us, chronic illness makes energy unpredictable. We can’t always increase it. But we can reduce unnecessary drains. We can build systems that make good days steadier and hard days softer.

That, I’m discovering, is where quality of life quietly improves.

Not in dramatic reinvention.

But in thoughtful design.

---

5. Quality of Life Isn’t Built on Big Days

I’m not trying to build a bigger life than I had before illness.

I’m trying to build a steadier one.

There’s a difference.

A bigger life chases full calendars, ambitious itineraries, impressive productivity. A steadier life asks quieter questions. It leaves room. It assumes fatigue will visit. It prepares for that reality instead of resenting it.

Planning rest stops in Montréal doesn’t make the trip smaller. It makes it possible.

Storing meal components separately doesn’t make me inefficient. It makes future meals manageable.

Choosing a no-spend evening at home isn’t about restriction. It’s about protecting both my nervous system and my bank account from decisions I’ll regret tomorrow.

None of these choices look dramatic from the outside. But together they form something solid.

They form a life that doesn’t collapse after a good day.

For women over sixty managing chronic illness, quality of life isn’t built on how much we can endure. It’s built on how carefully we allocate what we have. Energy is limited. That’s not pessimism — it’s information.

And information lets us design wisely.

Intention, for me, has become less about goals and more about guardrails. It helps me decide where my energy goes before it leaks away unnoticed. It keeps me from borrowing from tomorrow without consent.

I don’t control my diagnoses.
I don’t control every flare or fatigue wave.
But I can control how I structure my days.

That is not a small thing.

If energy is the currency now, then intention is how I choose to spend it.

And that, more than anything, is how I’m improving my quality of life.

Steady not Spectacular

 

At 4:50 a.m. on Sunday, I learned something new about my blood pressure

This week was not about transformation.

It was about steadiness.

Which, when you’re managing chronic illness, fluctuating blood pressure, blood sugar, and a nervous system that apparently believes in dramatic entrances, is no small thing.

Clearing Space (and Not Just on My Screen)

It started innocently enough: deleting old chats and managing digital memory.

But while I was clearing out old threads, I found myself wondering how much emotional clutter I carry around the same way. Archived. Saved. Revisited.

Not everything needs to be stored for future reflection. Some thoughts can be acknowledged and gently released. Some seasons don’t need replaying.

There’s a quiet relief in deleting something and realizing the world does not collapse.

Maybe the same is true internally.

Energy Is the Real Currency

I used to think I needed better time management. Now I know I need better energy management.

I can have an entirely free afternoon and still feel like my internal battery is blinking red.

With fibromyalgia, diabetes, and high blood pressure, energy isn’t unlimited. It’s rationed. Carefully. Sometimes grudgingly.

So instead of asking, “How do I fill my time?” I’m asking, “What protects my energy?”

That shift has led to simple rhythms:

• No-spend evenings instead of wandering online and spending money out of boredom.

• A small, steady writing ritual instead of waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning.

• YMCA classes — Aquafit and Chairfit — because moving gently in water or from a chair is movement I can actually sustain.

Not impressive. Not dramatic.

But repeatable.

And repeatable matters more than ambitious.

The One-Page Growth Map (Because Overwhelm Is Not a Strategy)

I created a personal growth map this week. Not a vision board. Not a five-year overhaul.

Just one page.

• Stabilize blood sugar and blood pressure

• Increase gentle movement

• Practice emotional self-kindness

• Rebuild curiosity and writing

• Re-enter social spaces slowly

Seeing it all in one place didn’t make me feel pressured. It made me feel oriented.

It’s a compass, not a performance review.

At this stage of life, clarity feels far more useful than grand ambition.

Blood Pressure, Blood Sugar, and the 4:50 a.m. Reality

This week my blood pressure crept into hypertensive territory several times. Before this it had been merely elevated.

Naturally, my first thought was, “What did I do wrong?”

Too much tea? Not enough movement? A snack I shouldn’t have had?

Then I remembered how the day had actually started.

At 4:50 a.m. I was jolted awake by loud pounding on my door. Firefighters. Someone had smelled smoke and called it in. I went from deep sleep to upright and disoriented in seconds.

Adrenaline doesn’t ease you into the day.

And it hasn’t just been that one morning. This week has included early wake-ups from loud arguing outside, sometimes inside. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to keep my nervous system on alert before sunrise.

It’s easy to look at a number — blood pressure or blood sugar — and assume failure.

But maybe my body is simply responding to stress and sleep disruption.

Instead of spiralling, I’m trying (not always perfectly) to look for patterns.

Poor sleep.
Stress spikes.
Caffeine layered on top.

Data over self-blame.

The same goes for blood sugar. One high morning number isn’t proof that I’ve ruined everything. It might be stress hormones. It might be broken sleep. It might just be biology doing what biology does.

I’m learning to ask, “What happened around this number?” instead of “What’s wrong with me?”

That question changes everything.

Intentions That Don’t Require Perfection

I’ve been working with daily intentions. Not dramatic declarations. Just small reminders:

• Gentle movement still counts.

• Small progress is real progress.

• Showing up imperfectly is still showing up.

Between YMCA classes, rebuilding my writing practice, and managing chronic illness one day at a time, I’m not chasing reinvention.

I’m building steadiness.

Steadiness may not look impressive. It does feel sustainable.

And right now, sustainable wins

The Thread Through It All

This week wasn’t about fixing my life.

It was about:

Clearing space.
Protecting energy.
Creating gentle structure.
Managing blood pressure and blood sugar with curiosity instead of panic.
Practicing self-compassion even when I’d rather criticize myself into improvement.

Small shifts. Repeated.

That’s the work for me right now.

If you’re managing your own version of chronic illness, stress, or simply life after 60, what patterns are you noticing? What’s helping? What isn’t?

Sometimes comparing notes is more useful than comparing outcomes.

Looking Ahead: Goals for 2026 and Choosing Intention

 Looking toward 2026, I know one thing for sure. I do not want another year to drift by without intention. I am tired of feeling lost and disconnected from my own life. This is not about dramatic reinvention or chasing some ideal version of myself. It is about choosing steadier ground and building something livable, one small decision at a time.

Age has been echoing loudly in my head lately. Sixty five feels heavy, not because it is old, but because it comes with awareness. There is time left, real time, and what I do with it matters. That realization is uncomfortable, but it is also clarifying. I do not want to spend the coming years frozen in place by fear, exhaustion, or habit. If I am going to move forward, I need to do it deliberately.

Health is an unavoidable part of that picture. Not in a perfectionist or punishing way, but in a practical one. I want to walk regularly, in all kinds of weather. I want to use my weights to build strength and practice yoga or gentle stretching to improve flexibility. These are not lofty goals. They are basic acts of care. I do not need to love them. I just need to do them often enough that my body remembers how to move again.

Getting outside matters more than I have been allowing myself to admit. I want more walks in parks, more time in green spaces, and more participation in community events. Things like library classes, park activities, and walks that bring people together. My knees and hips complain, but avoiding movement has not helped them either. Strength might come slowly, but it will not come at all if I stay still.

My home also needs attention, because the way I live inside my space affects how I live inside my head. I want a simpler, more minimal environment. Less clutter. Fewer unused items. A bedroom that feels calm instead of chaotic. That means cleaning out my closet, clearing the floor, and creating room to move. I want dishes done regularly, not sitting in the sink for weeks. I want the top of my stove clear so cooking feels possible instead of overwhelming.

Cooking is something I want to return to gently. Not elaborate meals, just real food prepared ahead of time. Meal prep feels like a form of self respect when done realistically. If I can lower my blood pressure and blood sugar through consistent habits, everything else becomes a little easier. I am not chasing fast results. I am looking for steadiness.

Daily care matters too. Small things that seem insignificant but add up over time. Brushing my teeth every day. Wearing my teeth all day. Showering more than once a month. These are not moral failings. They are signals that structure has slipped away, and structure is something I need to rebuild with kindness rather than shame.

Creativity is another thread I do not want to lose. I want to publish my poetry book. That goal has stayed with me because it matters. Woulf’s story has changed over time, shifting from fantasy into something more educational and grounded, especially around caring for forests. I need to decide what that project truly wants to be now, instead of holding it frozen in an earlier version of myself.

Helping others continues to pull at me, but I need to be honest about what I can give. I have thought about volunteering at places like Trinity and Tiny Village, though I am not sure yet how much time or energy I can commit. At the very least, I want to keep water on my sill and stay connected to the idea that small acts still matter. I want helping to feel meaningful, not draining or obligatory.

Learning is another area where I feel uncertain. I thought I wanted to dive deeper into AI, especially art tools, but I am not sure what I actually want to create right now. That uncertainty is okay. Maybe 2026 is about exploration rather than mastery. Allowing curiosity to lead instead of forcing a plan where one does not yet exist.

Above all, I want to learn how to focus again. Focus feels like a lost skill, but it can be practiced. Slowly. Imperfectly. One habit at a time. If I can build even a small amount of consistency into my days, the rest has a chance to follow.

I am not aiming for a perfect year. I am aiming for a year that belongs to me. One where intention replaces drifting, and care replaces avoidance. That feels like a reasonable place to start.

A Quiet Year in Review: Finding My Way Back

I was going through my blog recently and realized something important: December 2024 came and went without any kind of year in review. At the time, I did not think much of it, but looking back now I can see how much that missing pause mattered. I do not function well without some kind of plan or reflection, and this past year really shows that. Skipping that moment of looking back may be one reason I have felt so lost moving through 2025.

When I reread my posts from early 2025, I noticed something else too. Things are better in some ways, yet emotionally I am still close to where I was in January. Winter has always pulled me inward, and December and January seem to amplify everything. I know this is common and that many people struggle more in the colder, darker months, but it always feels heavier when it is happening to you personally. Awareness does not stop the feeling, but it does help me name it.

This past year carried a lot of emotional weight, especially around family milestones. When the first grandchildren gets married, it stirs something deep, and when it happens within a short span, the emotions can feel overwhelming. Add in significant birthdays and major life markers, and it all stacks up quickly. These are good events, meaningful ones, but even joyful change can be exhausting when there is already a lot sitting under the surface.

Despite how foggy much of the year feels, there were bright moments that stand out clearly now. One of the highlights was visiting Casa Loma in Toronto while they were preparing for their Halloween gala. Seeing that historic place in transition was fascinating and memorable. I also experienced a Christkindl market and a Krampus Nacht event for the first time, which felt both strange and wonderful. Those moments mattered, even if I did not fully appreciate them at the time. They remind me that wonder still shows up, even when I am distracted by my own thoughts.

The truth is, I do not remember large parts of the year very well. I was too lost inside my own head. There was a lot of emotional spinning and not much structure. Looking back, I can see how easily self pity crept in and how little it helped. Laughing at myself helped more than sinking deeper, because tears alone do not create change unless they lead somewhere useful.

This year became less about what happened and more about what it revealed. Reading my own words showed me patterns that have been repeating for decades. Grief, stress, and responsibility have layered themselves one on top of another, and each time I regain my footing, something new seems to knock me sideways. Recognizing that pattern is uncomfortable but necessary. It helps explain why drifting has become my default and why focus feels so difficult to maintain.

What this year really taught me is that reflection is not indulgent, and it is not weakness. When done honestly, it becomes a tool. Without it, I drift. Without some kind of structure, I lose momentum and direction. That realization alone feels like progress, even if it does not come with instant solutions.

This has been more of a review of my inner landscape than a neat list of accomplishments or failures, and that is okay. Maybe this is exactly the kind of review I needed after all. 2025 was good in some ways and hard in others. Helping people in small ways brought meaning. Frustrations also took up more mental space than they deserved. Learning to let go of that mental clutter feels like part of the work ahead.

Looking back now, I can see that this year was not empty or wasted. It was quiet, messy, emotional, and unfinished. It showed me where I get stuck and what I need more of going forward: structure, intention, and gentleness, especially during the winter months. Naming all of this feels like the first solid step toward steadier ground and a more intentional year ahead.

Closing note:
In my next post, I look forward instead of back. I start turning these reflections into simple, practical goals for 2026, focusing on health, creativity, home, and showing up for life with more intention.

Happy Holidays

 The last one read like the manifesto of a suicide I know but I am not one of those. I've just been going through a rough patch.

Something  else is on my mind today and has been for awhile. Winter gives you nothing but time to think and December especially seems like a month for introspection what with the season of good will towards men turning into the lead up for a brand new year. For years I started this process right after my birthday in October but with all the shit I'm dealing with to get myself set up for the next 20-40 years,(turning 65 is no fun), I have just barely started the process.

A long time ago a doctor told me that obesity is a long slow death so that it what I chose but these days I am actually unhappy with my weight because it has begun to interfere with the thing I like best like travelling to new places and exploring them.

I have become more and more unhappy with myself over the last couple of months.  It has got to the point that I order in my groceries rather than go fetch them myself unless I have a ride. I hope that makes sense. Change is so hard though! 

I had a program I think it was near the beginning of the year where I did a couple of stretches in bed then got up and did some marching in place before I even got dressed. I had a whole routine for the morning: movement, making my bed, getting dressed, eating breakfast, cleaning up afterwards before I even turned my computer on. That routine and many others are very missing in my life and I miss it/them.

I kept that one up for 6 months I think before something came along and derailed me. That is the longest I've ever stuck to a routine. Now that I think on it it may have been a couple of years.

Since COVID so much has changed and this new political situation has caused prices to soar once again. Its been a long time since you could get a loaf of bread for a buck and even longer since you could get a can a pop and a small bag of chips for a quarter at the Five and Dime these days everything is a buck or two and they are called Dollar Stores.

Yeah I am old enough to remember the five and dime but that is not what I am talking about today. I miss my rut at least then I was doing something. These days all I do is play games, read and watch TV. Most of that on my computer.

I am all over the place today, memories are coming thick and fast but memories is not where I want to go. I want to get myself into a routine one that won't be derailed if I'm sharing my bed or sleeping in a hotel room and that is going to take some thinking and a lot of practice.

Microsoft To-Do is my planner of choice because it can be anywhere there is internet and you have a Microsoft ID which most people these day people do and it can contain a lot of lists that can be time-tabled and shown in one window with check boxes and everything. 

I have set up a lot of lists on it but I really need organize them better so that I don't have duplicates. It is easy and though it may not be as complex as one of the pricey ones I like it just fine. That is what I've been working on for the last couple of weeks with a little help from ChatGPT. While it is useful it definitely needs some refining which I'll be working on between now and the new year.

There is a book I have in my collection called Atomic Habits  which I highly recommend if you are struggling with keeping a regular routine, it will be one of the books I'll be referring to over the next couple of weeks to help me get organized again. This time I hope more than a couple of things will stick.

Another book I recommend is CHAOS to Clean which is the only book since the Sidetracked Sisters that I have found helpful for getting the house clean and organized. It is also on my reference list for the next couple of weeks because I really love her program 31 Easy Baby Steps. 

There are others but these two have helped me the most over the years and they will be the building blocks I will use to create a daily routine I can follow that works for me.

The other thing I need to find is a plan of some sort that will help me with my diabetes and hypertension. I really don't want a heart attack! This part of the planning will not be easy. As of right this minute I have enough to pay my rent and buy a few groceries. If I forgo food I can pay for my internet too but that leaves me no money for anything else. That makes me sad I have become used to living a life where I can afford almost anything I wanted but since my birthday I have found myself going to E for help far more than I am comfortable with.

Diet and Finances those are the two areas that I am having great difficulty with with all the changes that have happened since 2025 began. I will be glad to see the end of it. I hope 2026 is better. Happy holidays and wish me luck changing my life for the better.

Another Day, Another Tangle of Feelings

 Some days I get in my own head so deeply that I lose track of where the pain ends and where my words begin. When that happens, people sometimes get hurt — even the ones I care about. I don’t mean to. I don’t even fully understand why. If someone asks how I feel, I tell them… but the truth is, sometimes I don’t think they’re prepared to hear it. And if I’m being honest, sometimes neither am I.

Talking has never been easy for me, especially when emotions run high. The words vanish when I try to speak them, but when I write, they come out — raw, messy, and real. Writing is how I manage the pain. It’s also how I avoid interacting with people when I’m struggling, because I’m not great at it. The words feel safer on paper than in conversation.

Today they come slowly. I’m sitting with a lot of sadness and regret for the things I said yesterday. I was angry — more than I realized — and I let it spill onto someone who didn’t deserve it quite that way. He asked how I was feeling (or did he? I’m not sure anymore), and I unloaded more than either of us was ready for. I don’t regret being honest, but I regret the way it landed.

Right now, I’m tired of hiding how fragmented I feel inside. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine just to make others more comfortable. I’ve spent so much time accommodating everyone else that somewhere along the way, I started losing pieces of myself.

In Other News: E and I are Struggling

We’re fighting — not about anything important in the bigger picture, but small things that carry heavier meaning. He has a habit of reclaiming items he’s given away if the person later throws them out or passes them on. I threw away an air fryer he gave me over five years ago because it was beyond saving, and he wouldn’t let it go. I asked him twice to stop, but he wouldn’t. So I snapped.

I told him to stop, and when he signed off with “I love you, bye,” all I could manage was “bye.” Because in that moment, I didn’t feel loved. I felt distrusted — like I’d done something wrong by choosing cleanliness over clutter.

So I’ve decided if he wants to cook here, he can bring what he needs and take it back with him. If I’m not “responsible enough” to keep his things, then I won’t keep them. Truthfully, I don’t want anything material from him. What I wanted — what I still want — is care. Time. To be seen.

I wanted his undivided attention once in a while, to matter more than work, more than obligation. But instead, I’ve spent years in the background, supporting him quietly while feeling invisible. It hurts to admit that. It hurts more to wonder if I ever really mattered to him the way I hoped I did.

The Hard Part

The complicated truth is this: I still love him. I can’t imagine life without him. I just wish I felt loved back — or even cherished, occasionally prioritized. Instead, I feel like a convenience. A safe place to visit. Someone he comes to for comfort, not someone he chooses for connection.

Yesterday, I felt treated not as a partner but as untrustworthy. As a child. And I am tired. I survived before him, and I can survive again if I have to. I don’t want to… but I will if nothing changes.

For now, I’m sitting with what’s real. Not rushing it. Not burying it. Just writing it down so it stops echoing so loudly inside. Because I’ve learned something, even through the mess:

Being honest may hurt, but hiding yourself hurts more.