Another year is rolling in, and somehow I’m still here—coexisting with chronic Lyme disease, its clingy little coinfections, and a level of mold toxicity that could qualify me as a walking science experiment. Honestly, I have no idea how I’ve survived a daily Herxheimer reaction since 2017. If resilience were an Olympic sport, I’d have a whole shelf of medals by now.

These microbes showed up long before I even knew they existed—stealthy little squatters making themselves at home. They crept in quietly, mimicking a dozen other conditions while building a hidden kingdom inside my tissues. The symptoms have touched every corner of my body: vampire-level light sensitivity, vice-grip head pain, confusion, bass-boosted tinnitus, heart palpitations, random stabbing pains that wander like tourists, chronic sinus issues, crawling sensations, watery eyes, and nerve pain in my face. Some have eased, but many linger. Some days the fatigue is so heavy it feels like wearing a lead veil. If you talk to me, you may notice I sometimes struggle to find my words—talking about it too much can make me feel like a Lyme lunatic or hypochondriac.

Mold exposure was another plot twist I never expected. Apparently my immune system—and my lovely MTHFR gene—had other plans. It even sounds like a curse word. Fitting, really. I live in the high desert of Colorado, where the air is thin, the sun is intense, and the land has a way of teaching patience—a lesson chronic illness insists on, whether you’re ready or not.

And now my Obi-Wan, Dr. Kinderlehrer, is retiring, so I’m searching for a new guide on this saga of healing. The die-off symptoms I experience are so bizarre that even people in the Lyme community tilt their heads at me like confused puppies.

Despite everything, I’m still a high-functioning human—a stubborn creature with big dreams. Mountaineering, climbing, skiing, and horses have all shaped who I am. But my slower abilities have changed how I relate to those passions. When I first got sick, there were days I could barely lift my head from my chest. I honestly wondered if I’d ever climb another mountain. And yet—I have. It’s not graceful, and it usually wipes me out for days afterward, but still—there I am, showing up. Head pain persistent, vice grip squeezing harder, I keep moving anyway.

I’m on prescriptions, herbs, and more self-care than the entire wellness aisle combined. Cold showers every morning—who even needs coffee? Essential oils for sweetness and hope. I used to make my own yogurt, but now I’ve upgraded to kefir like it’s some kind of probiotic promotion. Bone broth, raw butter, and juicing remain sacred. I’ve been gluten-free since 2016, and the transition was rough—I cried real tears over pizza and beer. Sugar barely exists in my life now, so stevia has become my stand-in, with the occasional honey or maple syrup—the nectar of the gods. These food rituals aren’t just about nutrition—they are a way to care for myself when every day can feel like a challenge.

Through it all, my intuition has become one of my best friends. Gentle yoga is essential, and my mantra is simple: one foot in front of the other. I’m sharing this because these experiences have shaped my life and the gentle approach I bring to everything I do. I often mask the full extent of my health challenges because I don’t want them to get in the way of the life I’m creating, but invisible illnesses deserve a voice. This monthly blog will be a space where I share reflections on horses, yoga, and self-care, shaped by lived experience and a deep respect for slow healing. You’re warmly welcome here—exactly as you are. Finding Zen one stride at a time!