Life has been hard lately.

My fatigue has been draining me. My body aches all over. My tics come on easier. The smallest noise, light shift, or layered conversation feels like it’s scraping up against my nervous system.

Most of you know I live with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), which is a condition where the brain and body struggle to send and receive signals properly. It’s real, physical, and unpredictable. And while I’ve learned to manage it, I can’t always control when it flares.

I knew it could be a rollercoaster ride. I knew there would be rises and falls. But knowing something intellectually and living it are two very different things. Right now, I’m in a dip. I’ve cut back on everything that isn’t essential. I now only have my family, two days of work, and church on Sunday mornings.

Two nights ago, I started writing this while sitting on a bench outside my husband’s family home, looking out over a paddock with tears in my eyes. It was supposed to be a family event, but I couldn’t handle being with the group anymore. I couldn’t track the conversations. The noise layered over itself. My brain fog thickened. My eyes went in and out of focus. My tics started firing. My whole body felt like it wanted to scream. My husband asked what I wanted to eat, and I couldn’t find the words to reply… So, I stepped outside.

Sometimes strength looks like staying. Sometimes it looks like leaving the room. When I’m this fragile, I have to come back to one question: What is still in my control? Sometimes it feels like so much isn’t. I can’t force my nervous system to behave. I can’t smile the fatigue away. I can’t pretend night-time doesn’t hit me harder than the day. I could get caught up in these and let them get me down, and trust me, sometimes I do, but I also know I can shift my focus to what I can control.

I can use my planner to map my energy for the week and break activities into what must be done, what can wait, and what may need to be cancelled. I don’t have endless energy anymore, and pushing through or forcing it only hurts me further.

I know my limits. After 4pm, I’m out. That’s just the truth of it. Occasionally, I’ll stretch for something special, but I pay for it. Nights are my worst time, so home and rest are usually my wisest choice.

I take creatine (Please note this is not medical advice. I did my own research and spoke to my doctor.) For me, it’s helped my body recover faster than it used to.

I gently stretch each night, even when I don’t feel like it. It tells my body it’s time to relax and sleep.

I have structured wake-up and wind-down routines. It calms my nervous system and signals that the day is done. In the morning, I wake slowly, no rushing, because jolting my body awake sets the tone for everything that follows.

I wear closed-in shoes when I’m out. The firm foundation helps when my feet curl or feel unstable. I have a chair in the shower for low-energy days. I get dressed sitting down when standing feels like climbing a mountain.

Legs up time in the recliner. Or sitting on the floor with my legs stretched out. It sounds simple, but it helps regulate the storm inside me.

Audiobooks when my eyes won’t cooperate. Kindle with enlarged font when the words blur. I adapt instead of quitting.

I read my bible and journal. This consists of scripture, gratitude, and prayers. Even if it’s just one line.

Each month I give myself a small self-care gift. A book. A craft. An art activity. Something that reminds me I am still allowed joy.

And the other night, when I felt like I might unravel completely, I decided to distract myself by scrolling through Pinterest when a verse popped up from the Gospel of John in the Bible.

John 14:27 (TPT):
“I leave the gift of peace with you – my peace. Not the kind of fragile peace given by the world, but my perfect peace. Don’t yield to fear or be troubled in your hearts – instead, be courageous!”

It was a reminder that peace doesn’t mean the symptoms disappear. It means I am not going through it alone. So, I wiped my tears. Put my glasses back on. And looked up to the full moon rising over the hills and dales. The cattle grazing in the paddock. The purples and blues of the darkening sky. And I remembered: I have been lower than this before.
And I have come so far. This is a dip, not the end.

If you’re walking your own unseen battle right now, whether it be chronic illness, mental health, grief, or overwhelm. I see you.

Sometimes bravery is budgeting your energy.
Sometimes it’s sitting on a bench alone outside.
Sometimes it’s leaving early.
Sometimes it’s whispering Scripture through tears.

If you have some self-care habits you would like to share, please do. By being open and sharing you could be helping someone else who is having a rough time.

Take care of yourself,
Linda x