From the Edge of the Bed: Rest

Thank you so much for being here and joining me on this journey. I’ve already felt so much support since sharing this project, and it truly means a lot. I’ll be continuing to post here on the blog as the project unfolds, so stay tuned.

One of the biggest shifts for me through this process has been learning to stop instead of always pushing through. I’m naturally ambitious and driven, so slowing down didn’t come easy. But during the pandemic in 2020, I was forced to practice rest. Work came to a halt, and I spent about nine months unemployed. As hard as that was, it gave me the space to breathe, and honestly, it was a hidden blessing.

These days, I still put in long hours, but I’ve learned to listen when my body asks for rest. If I need to lie down, I do, whether it’s for five minutes or the whole day. I’ve stopped seeing rest as a weakness. It’s part of how I care for myself while continuing to pursue what I love. Monet, as always, is right there beside me.

Yesterday, I felt good, good enough to wash my car. I knew I’d be sore afterward, and I was. But on the days my body gives me a little more room, I take it. Doing small, everyday things reminds me of who I am beyond the pain.

Sneak Peek: From the Edge of the Bed

Have you ever been in so much pain that you didn’t know what to do with yourself? Lost faith, lost interest, lost motivation for life?

I have. And I still do at times.

I’m a chronic pain sufferer, living with fibromyalgia, a condition that has taken me through some of the darkest, most confusing seasons of my life. It’s taken away things I love. Simple things. Like going for a walk. Moving my body. Feeling strong.

At first, no one understood what was happening. Honestly, neither did I. I saw doctor after doctor, got MRIs and X-rays, tried acupuncture, chiropractic care, Z-therapy, physical therapy, a nutritionist, many diet changes. And still, no answers. I remember one day sitting in my doctor’s office and saying, “I’m at the end of the road. I don’t know what else to do. What can you do? Because I give up.”

Looking back, the signs were there. In my early 20s, I had mild symptoms, but I could still work out, lift weights, push through. But by 26, the pain became unbearable. After workouts, I’d feel like my body was on fire. Sometimes I’d vomit from the pain. I stopped exercising altogether. From the outside, it probably looked like I was just letting myself go, or being dramatic. But the truth is, I was hurting. Deeply.

Desperate to function, I started taking Advil and muscle relaxers several times a day. Every day. Who knows what damage that did. Eventually, I was prescribed a low-dose antidepressant, not for depression, but to target the nervous system and help reduce pain. It didn’t fix everything, but it gave me more good days. Days where I could walk. Days where I could start to heal.

But even now, the bad days still come. Some days I can’t do the things I want to do. I still struggle with movement, spasms, and grief over the body I once had.

I’ve had to come to terms with this new body. I’ve had to learn how to offer it compassion. To show myself grace. To love this version of me that is softer, slower, and still standing. I’ve also had to let go of people who didn’t understand. But I’ve learned this: I’m the only one who has to live in this body. And that makes it worthy of love, respect, and care.

This photo project From the Edge of the Bed is a visual diary of life with chronic pain. It’s about the full spectrum: the days where everything feels too heavy to bear, and the days where I feel optimistic and like myself again, where I can move through the world a little lighter. I’ve been on a slow and steady journey to improve my health, my mental health, and engage in life.

It’s going to be raw. It’s going to be vulnerable. I’ll be showing my body as it is, tired, healing, soft, scarred. I’ll be uncomfortable. I’ll be bold. I’ll be honest.

Because this is my truth. And I know I’m not alone and neither are you.