I certainly do not want to nestle into an ‘illness’. No matter how long it has been brewing. No matter what name it has been given. But since it is already here, I want to honor it by getting to know it up close and recognizing what it brings me. It is not evil, and perhaps not even arbitrary. It must have brought me something I needed. Even if I believe I did not order it.

As the ancient shamans so beautifully said: What gift does your illness truly bring you?

Gifts are meant to be unwrapped.

This is not easy, because this gift frightens me. It is clingy and active 24 hours a day, trying to render me inactive. Hiding it or trying to get rid of it, only to stumble over it again, does not work.
Ignoring it and sneaking a quick glance once in a while might be somewhat restful, yet it is far too loud to overlook.

It must have deeper and wider roots, even if it seemed to begin only on March 18, 2024, with a painful flash in the back of my head.

This ‘beast’ of a gift has since perched itself on my back at times more, at times less—nestled in my bones, my stomach, my heart, and my nervous system. It brings me to my knees, sparks waves of pain, causes circulatory mishaps and stomach problems. It keeps me from sleeping, working, laughing.

All healing hands that touch my body are puzzled. My body behaves stubbornly, frozen, reacting to even the slightest touch as if armies of trampling wild animals had taken hold.
Everything, even eating and going to the bathroom, is exhausting.

The lack of sleep, the exhaustion, the irregular heartbeat, the nausea, the pain, the dizziness with every movement weakened me day by day. The pounds fall off, hope diminished. And my bed felt like a prison ship below deck on a stormy sea, with shifting winds and no sunlight.

Between hope and grief, courage and despair, this ship has now drifted on the open sea for almost two years.

The beginning that was an ending.

My mother passed away at the end of 2023, and three weeks later my father. They held each other’s hands. And I was finally left here empty-handed, my little girl’s heart bleeding. Old, gaping wounds of the child abandoned at a few months of age now take their time and space to reveal themselves in all their force.

Covid then visited my abandoned, wounded, defenseless child, further draining what little injured strength I had left.

Ancient ancestral pathways shattered in my cells, telling of suffering, despair, and powerlessness. Of women who sacrificed themselves, who forgot themselves. And I was right in the middle.

My own story, anger, and grief exploded in my muscles. Fireworks of nerves kept me awake even in my dreams.

My body has indeed experienced and carried a lot. Accidents, trauma, separation, birth. Also the stories of others from journeys to medicine for the many people along my path.
But my soul is free, even now, while the body it inhabits seems to crumble. The crumbling itself is painful.

It is a maturation process.

Insights emerge again and again, sometimes very slowly. Acceptance is an important part of it.

Accepting myself like this. The strong medicine woman may also be weak. She may embody her vulnerable depth. She may rediscover and explore her body.

She may show her female dignity unadorned to the world

On this path lie wonderful encounters, support, prayers. The people around me are very strong.
I know I am too. Even now, when I can barely feel it.

Together with my wounded body, whose cells yearn for their original light, I move forward courageously.

… how it continued and continues, you can read in the next blog post …