In the whirlwind of my early motherhood years, I was unstoppable. Picture this: a hardworking mom clocking 40+ hours a week, juggling the chaos of raising kids, running errands, and squeezing in time to be there for my mom. Somehow, amid the frenzy, I found pockets of joy—those stolen moments after school at the park, the laughter and bonding over shared adventures. Then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I’d return home, roll up my sleeves, and create a meal that brought smiles and warmth to everyone’s faces.
And it didn’t stop there. Hosting dinners was my ritual—a chance to connect, to laugh over good food, and to revel in meaningful conversation (even if my husband wasn't a real people person I still did it haha). I thrived in the hustle, pulling off miracles I never even thought possible. Life had rhythm, energy, and purpose. I didn’t just live—I thrived.
But Rheumatoid Arthritis has a way of rewriting the story. It’s not an immediate, earth-shattering rewrite—it’s slow, almost sneaky, creeping in until one day you realize the world you knew has shifted. These days, the park visits, the meals, and those lively dinners feel different. They’re dictated by my body’s whims, by the unpredictable flare-ups and the constant fatigue. Hosting isn’t the carefully curated event it used to be; it’s now spur-of-the-moment, a decision based on whether I can muster the energy to see it through.
Those vibrant, elaborate meals I once crafted with pride? Now they’re simpler, stripped back to the basics on my tougher days. But the love remains the same—it’s still my way of showing I care, of saying, “You are important to me.” That part hasn’t changed.
I grieve who I once was—the energetic mom who could do it all without hesitation, the woman who thrived on chaos and still came out ahead. There’s a raw, unspoken sadness in the quiet moments, in the memories of my kids laughing at the park, or the clinking of glasses around a dinner table I once filled with so much joy. Those moments feel like fragments of a life that belonged to someone else. I miss her—I miss me.
Life has a way of throwing curveballs, doesn’t it? Rheumatoid Arthritis hit me like a fastball I wasn’t ready to catch, and yet here I am—still in the game, just playing by a new set of rules. Managing the pain and fatigue isn’t easy, but I’ve discovered ways to keep showing up, giving my best—even if my best looks different now.
One of the most crucial lessons I’ve learned is to listen to my body. I’ve traded the relentless hustle for a rhythm that respects my limits. Some days, that means letting the laundry pile up or ordering takeout instead of cooking a three-course meal. It’s not giving up—it’s giving myself grace.
I’ve also become a Master of Planning ahead. Whether its meal prepping on a good day or mapping out short bursts of activity to balance rest, small adjustments have made a world of difference. I’ve found joy in slower, simpler moments with my kids—reading a book together on the couch or watching them play from the sidelines when I can’t join in. Those moments may not be Instagram-perfect, but they’re real, and they’re enough.
When the pain feels overwhelming, I turn to a mix of tools that help me manage it. Hot baths, gentle stretches, meditation, and even some well-timed dark humor have become part of my arsenal. I’ve learned to say no without guilt and to prioritize what truly matters—my family, my health, and the connections that fill my life with meaning.
And though I miss the energetic woman who once took on the world without hesitation, I’ve come to appreciate the strength of the woman I am now. She’s more deliberate, more compassionate, and she knows that thriving doesn’t always look like sprinting—it can look like a steady walk, one step at a time.
As I reflect on my journey, I’ve come to realize that life isn’t about holding onto the person we used to be—it’s about embracing the person we’re becoming. Rheumatoid Arthritis has forced me to slow down, but it’s also taught me the value of grace, patience, and finding beauty in the small victories.
I’ve learned that strength isn’t measured by how much we can accomplish in a day or how many hurdles we can leap over—it’s measured by our ability to keep moving forward, even when the weight feels unbearable. It’s okay to grieve, to feel the loss of what was, but don’t let that grief define you. Let it remind you of your resilience, of the depth of your love, and of the moments that still hold meaning, even in a changed world.
To anyone facing their own battles, remember this: you don’t have to carry it all alone. Lean on those who love you. Laugh when you can, cry when you need to, and give yourself permission to rest. Thriving doesn’t have to look like a sprint—it can be a quiet, steady walk, one step at a time.
So here I stand, not as the woman I once was, but as someone who’s still finding her way. And that’s enough. That’s more than enough.
Until Next time...
K
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