Recently I participated in a two-day clinic on chronic pain and fibromyalgia at Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. I rearranged many responsibilities in order to attend and hoped it wouldn’t be a waste of my time.

            Immediately I was impressed. There were people participating from around the United States, all desperate for direction, answers, and hope. The presenters were knowledgeable, humorous, and relatable, but what impressed me the most was that each of them had to complete the program if they planned to teach it. They had walked our road. And they said it was possible.

            This wasn’t a class on medications or what doctor to visit. This was about life change and mindset shifting. We learned how to retrain our brains and add needed practices into our lives. It’s stuff I already knew for the most part, but the way it was packaged and delivered made more sense than usual.

            At times, they led us to share about all we had lost because of our pain. I fought back tears as many shared similar struggles. We were all busy, go-getter types and suddenly each of us hit a wall. Determination was no longer enough to make our bodies push through the pain and life just stopped. There were other times we talked about things we’d like to get back to doing and the instructors offered us hope by using the word “yet”. You aren’t there, yet. You can’t sustain that level, yet.

            Many friends have asked me what I learned, and I’ve been rather vague in my responses, not because I don’t want to share, but I still have so much I need to process. One of the things I keep telling myself is it doesn’t have to be all or nothing, it’s okay if it’s all or something. For a person who has always been able to do whatever I put my mind to, settling for a lesser goal feels like surrender, but I’m having to retrain my brain to understand that something is much better than nothing. Lots of little somethings will eventually add up to a higher level of somethings. Before long, those little somethings will be significantly more than I would ever achieve if I was surrendering to the nothings. Living in the land of all or nothing has led to months of frustration and self-pity, and now is the time to retrain my brain.

            So, for now, I’m working on doing light stretching every morning and adding some sort of small physical activity every day. I’m also trying hard to rest when needed, but then get back up. Another piece is communicating with my family and friends about when I need help and when I don’t. Pride gets in the way sometimes or I get to feeling good and overdo. Stopping an activity I enjoy while I’m still enjoying it is also a new way of thinking, not waiting until I’m hurting and crippled like I’m known for.

Not focusing on my pain is another part, which at times seems impossible. If someone asks what’s hurting, I usually snicker and sarcastically comment, “Take your pick.” Grimacing or grunting happen even when I’m alone, so it’s hard not to acknowledge the hurt. One of things they suggested to distract us from the aches is to incorporate something we love and look forward to every single day.

As I’m writing this, it’s the day before Veteran’s Day and I’ve had a very sick kid all week. To say finding happy things this week wasn’t a reality is an understatement. So, even though I can barely walk after the fact, I asked my family to help me bring down the Christmas decorations and my youngest and I decorated our large tree, set up two nativities, one village, and the Christmas train. Now, every day I can look around and smile. I can plug in my tree lights, turn on the lights in the village, and enjoy our festive home.

Life change won’t come easy. Shifting a frustrated mindset will be incredibly hard at times. My new normal isn’t what I want. But it’s what I have, and I want to make the most of what God has given me. Moderation. Resting. Retraining. Accepting that if I can’t have all, then something is better than nothing. And holding onto the “yet” with all that I have will be the way of working on the next chapter. I’m holding onto hope. And turning the next page expectantly.