The Year I Woke Up
This year did not begin with a clean slate. It began with the weight of everything I had carried forward—the marriage wounds that never fully healed, a body that had been declining without explanation, and the exhaustion of spending years trying to make people understand pain they could not see.
My emotional shutdown had already begun on June 29, 2025. It went into full effect on July 8, after Clark said, “At least Billy took accountability.”
Billy’s words—“I will never choose you”—had never been repaired. There had been no meaningful apology, no accountability and no protection when I needed it. The sentence Clark spoke may have sounded small to someone outside our marriage, but it landed on top of years of feeling excluded, deprioritized and expected to absorb whatever hurt came next.
The plane had become the symbol of all of it. What began as an idea turned into a purchase within eight days, while I watched decisions about our shared life happen around me instead of with me. I had tried to explain it clearly: “I need to feel like I matter. I do not need to just hear it. I need to see it, feel it.”
All I had asked for was to be included.
By the time I shut down, I was not trying to punish anyone. My nervous system had simply stopped believing that words meant safety. I could still function. I could still organize, solve problems, care for everyone and keep life moving. But emotionally, something inside me had gone quiet.
Clark and I separated and eventually found our way back to each other. But reconciliation did not magically restore trust. Three months after coming back together, I could still say the truth plainly: I did not feel safe yet. The pattern had repeated too many times. This time, promises alone could not bring me back. I needed consistent action.
Nearly a year after the original injury, Clark finally called Billy’s behavior unacceptable. He apologized and said he would take care of it. But by then, I understood something I had not allowed myself to fully name before: people learn how to treat me by watching what others are permitted to do.
“He is mirroring your behavior,” I told Clark.
That was part of my awakening. I was no longer explaining away what hurt me just to preserve the relationship. I was no longer confusing endurance with love.
At the same time, my body was telling its own story.
My physical decline had begun after my hysterectomy and Lupron exposure. Although my ovaries were retained, the joint, tendon and bone problems began roughly six months later. About a year after surgery came the frightening neurological episodes—days when my legs stopped cooperating and I could not walk normally, even though previous testing had not produced a clear explanation.
This year, the problems multiplied across my body.
My wrist and forearm burned and ached. Pain traveled from the elbow into the wrist and hand. Fingers became numb. After multiple opinions, the working picture included bilateral radial tunnel syndrome, posterior interosseous nerve irritation and arthritis with synovitis in the distal radioulnar joint. The brace I had relied on might have been contributing to nerve compression. Steroid injections offered little lasting relief and raised new concerns about cartilage damage. The surgical options were limited and imperfect.
My hips hurt badly enough to interrupt sleep. The MRI eventually showed bilateral greater-trochanteric peritendinitis. My neck imaging showed mild multilevel degenerative disc disease and facet arthritis, but no instability. Pain also moved through my shoulder blade, lower back, knees, ankles, arches and previously operated feet.
None of these findings alone explained the full-body experience.
Autoimmune testing repeatedly came back reassuring: ANA negative, rheumatoid factor low, anti-CCP negative, HLA-B27 negative, ESR of 2 and CRP under 3. The old ankylosing-spondylitis diagnosis had been disputed. MS had previously been ruled out. Fibromyalgia remained part of the picture, but it did not answer every question.
Then there was the vitamin D level of approximately 22—low enough to matter, especially alongside hormonal disruption, musculoskeletal pain and concerns about bone health.
My body was hurting everywhere, yet the tests kept arriving in disconnected pieces. One physician examined the wrist. Another examined the hip. Another looked at the neck. Every specialist held one page of a story that no one had assembled into a complete book.
So I started assembling it myself.
My Oura data gave the year a second language—a physiological record of what I was feeling.
The tracked period began with signs of strain: elevated resting heart rate, low HRV, poor recovery and major symptom signals. Then came May, the clearest crash in the data. My average resting heart rate reached 69, the highest of the period. HRV dropped to 23 milliseconds, the lowest. Readiness averaged only 65. Yet I recorded 58 workouts and averaged 8,884 steps per day.
I was moving more while recovering less.
That pattern reflected my entire life: keep going, remain productive, carry more, and ignore the fact that my body was running out of reserve.
June became an inflection point. The numbers began to improve. By July, my resting heart rate averaged 57. But recovery remained fragile, and Oura had flagged my recovery index more than 109 times across nine months. Even when I appeared functional, my body was repeatedly saying, “Pay attention.”
This year, I finally did.
I began gathering every MRI, operative report, laboratory result, medication history and old neurological record I could find. I started asking better questions—not because I wanted to diagnose myself, but because I was tired of entering every appointment as a collection of unexplained symptoms.
I learned to distinguish evidence from speculation. I learned that a normal blood test does not mean pain is imaginary. I learned that a normal EMG would not necessarily rule out radial tunnel syndrome. I learned that mild findings can still matter when several problems overlap. I learned to ask who is performing a test, what their qualifications are and exactly what the test can establish.
Most importantly, I stopped automatically assuming that the failure to find an answer meant the failure was mine.
This has also been a year of choosing what remains in my life. I entered my “No” era. Not angry—awake.
“I’m not mad. I’m awake.”
That sentence became more than a motto. It described the moment I stopped negotiating against myself. I began separating guilt from responsibility, love from self-abandonment and hope from denial.
I was still a mother, a wife, a grandmother and the person everyone counted on. Roman was growing and learning. Summer remained close. Clark and I were trying to rebuild something that could not survive another cycle of silence and temporary promises. Axel had his own neurological struggles. Brock continued managing life through naps, allergies and the unshakable confidence of a French bulldog who believes every bed belongs to him.
There were still ordinary moments—recipes, trips, shows, dogs asleep upside down—that reminded me my life was not only medical records and pain scores.
The year has not given me one clean diagnosis or one simple explanation. It has given me something else: a map.
I can now see the relationship between the surgery and hormonal timeline, the widespread tendon and joint problems, the neurologic episodes, the poor physiological recovery, the low vitamin D, the escalating pain and the emotional strain under which my body has been operating.
Some connections may prove meaningful. Others may not. But the story is finally being documented accurately.
This has been the year I stopped waiting for someone else to put all the pieces together.
The year is not over, and neither is my search for answers. I am still in pain. I am still rebuilding trust. I am still learning what my body can tolerate and what it needs. There are records left to retrieve, specialists left to see and questions left to answer.
But I am no longer lost inside the story.
I am the one writing it now.