I was looking forward to welcoming this month with intention and energy, but it began instead with nausea, vomiting, migraines, vertigo that woke me from sleep, and a UTI layered on top of it all. The kind of symptoms that don’t politely wait their turn. The kind that make even small, familiar tasks—typing, standing, concentrating—feel suddenly out of reach.
And still, I came to work.
Still, life required tending.
Still, the calendar did not empty itself.
What unsettled me most wasn’t just the illness—it was the uncertainty. I don’t know how long this will last. I don’t really know what was “wrong.” I didn’t know how to plan when my body refused to cooperate. I feel handicapped in a way that is invisible to everyone but me.
So I asked the question I often encourage others to ask:
What is my body asking me right now?
At first, I wanted an answer with clarity and timeline. A diagnosis that would reassure me this was temporary, manageable, containable. But that’s not what my body offered. Instead, it spoke in sensations, limits, and refusals.
What I’m slowly coming to understand is this:
My body isn’t asking for answers. It’s asking for accommodation.
Not a full stop to life—but a different way of living inside it.
What my body seems to be saying
I cannot compensate anymore.
For a long time, I’ve been able to carry on through fatigue, stress, emotional labor, and responsibility. This feels like the moment that quiet compensation ended. The bill came due. Cha-ching!
I need safety more than productivity.
Vertigo that wakes you from sleep doesn’t care about good intentions. My nervous system isn’t looking to be inspired—it’s looking to feel safe.
Please stop asking how long and help me with now.
The fear of not knowing how long this will last is real. But right now, my body needs support in the present moment, not pressure to perform for the future.
Living February in “essential operations mode”
I can’t opt out of my family. I can’t disappear from work. But I can change how I show up.
This month isn’t about retreat—it’s about restructuring.
Instead of asking myself how to push through, I’m learning to ask:
What would make the next hour easier or safer?
That question changes everything.
It means reducing intensity without disappearing.
It means fewer conversations, more sitting, shorter stretches of focus.
It means letting “good enough” be truly enough—at home and at work.
Each day now has a minimum viable version:
- one essential work task
- one meaningful family connection
- one act of direct body support
Anything beyond that is optional. This isn’t laziness. It’s injury-level accommodation.
Reframing rest
I’m also confronting something uncomfortable: how deeply I equate rest with failure when it isn’t earned by exhaustion. My body is asking me to treat rest not as a reward, but as preventative care.
Ten minutes lying flat midday. Eyes closed. No fixing. No scrolling. No planning.
Just enough stillness to remind my system it is not under threat. Its not easy for me.
The intention I’m holding for February
Not I will push through.
But this:
This month, I will treat my body as injured—not defective—and organize my life accordingly.
That single shift makes room for compassion and responsibility to coexist.
I don’t know how long this season will last. I don’t have a neat ending yet.
But I do know this:
Listening to my body now is not a detour from my life—it is how I remain in it.
Beginning anyway still counts.
Well-Stirred & Wondering 
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