Author: Sharon Korkes

Virtual Assistant by day. Planner, blogger, reader, writer, cat mom by night.

When Strength Feels Like Survival

Some days, strength looks like hope. Other days, it just looks like getting through the next hour. This is what it means to live in the space between fighting and surrender — to find grace even when the body can’t find peace.

Lately, my body feels like it’s fighting its own private war. Every morning, I wake up hoping for something different — a spark of energy, a little less pain, a sign that healing is finally catching up. But most days, my body reminds me that it’s still struggling. Muscles twitch. Nerves misfire. The fatigue sinks in deep, not just in my bones but somewhere softer, harder to reach.

People tell me I’m strong, and I know they mean it kindly. I smile and nod, because sometimes it’s easier than explaining that strength doesn’t feel like courage — it feels like endurance. It feels like breathing through another wave of pain, like whispering “you’ve got this” even when I’m not sure I do.

There are moments when I want to give up, and then there are moments — small ones — that pull me back—a kind word from John, the warmth of a cat curled at my feet. Those are the quiet victories, the little flickers of grace that make the next hour possible.

I used to think strength meant pushing through, pretending everything was okay. But maybe real strength is letting myself admit that I’m not okay — and still trying anyway. Maybe it’s holding onto hope when the body can’t hold much else.

So tonight, I’m not claiming victory. I’m not pretending this is easy.
I’m just here — trying to be strong in the only way I can: by not giving up.

“The Day I Realized Healing Isn’t Linear — And That’s Okay”

Healing isn’t a straight road. It’s a winding, uphill, sometimes-backward path — and learning to accept that has been one of the most freeing lessons of my life. This is the day I finally realized that healing doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.

For the longest time, I believed healing was a straight road. You get hurt, you work on it, and eventually, you “get better.” Easy enough, right? Except… that’s not how it works. Not for me, and probably not for you either. Healing, as I’ve come to understand, is more like a winding mountain trail — beautiful at times, exhausting at others, and full of unexpected switchbacks that take you right past where you thought you’d already been.

When I Thought I Was Done Healing

There was a morning when I woke up and thought, “I’m finally through it.” My body felt strong, my spirit lighter. I made my coffee, smiled at my reflection, and thought the worst was behind me. But just a few weeks later, everything came crashing back — pain, fatigue, the frustration of feeling like I’d lost progress.

That moment nearly broke me. I kept asking myself, “Why am I back here again?” It felt unfair, like all my effort hadn’t mattered.

But somewhere in the middle of that grief and anger, a quiet thought whispered: “You’re not back where you started. You’re just learning a new part of the journey.”

The Truth About Setbacks

Here’s the truth I wish I’d known sooner: healing doesn’t move in a straight line because we don’t. We grow, we stumble, we rest, and we keep going. A setback doesn’t erase progress — it’s just another layer of learning.

Sometimes that “two steps back” moment is what teaches us patience. Sometimes it’s the reminder that strength isn’t just pushing through, but pausing and asking for help.

Healing asks us to be gentle with ourselves, even when our brains are screaming, “You should be past this by now.”

Finding Grace in the Messy Middle

It took time, tears, and more coffee than I’d like to admit, but I began to see healing as a dance — one that doesn’t always follow the rhythm I expect. Some days are graceful, some are clumsy, and some I just sit out altogether.

But every single step — even the awkward ones — counts.

Now, when I feel myself slipping back into frustration, I remind myself: I’ve made it this far before, and I can make it again. Healing isn’t about crossing a finish line. It’s about learning to live in the space between hurting and whole, and finding grace right there.

Maybe healing isn’t linear because life isn’t either.
And maybe that’s okay — because the curves, the spirals, and the unexpected turns are where the real growth happens.

Today has been a tough day, as they all are…

…but there’s a part of me who doesn’t want to give up. It’s a small part… most days, I want to give up. But there’s a voice inside me who is encouraging me, telling me I can do this. I know that’s the Holy Spirit. I know she is guiding me through all of this and is by my side the entire time. I thank her every day. And I pray every night that tomorrow will be better. If it’s not, I know She’s got me.

How We Can Support Jamaica as Hurricane Melissa Approaches

As Hurricane Melissa bears down on Jamaica, my heart aches for those preparing to face it — especially families already struggling to make ends meet. When disasters like this unfold, it’s easy to feel helpless from miles away. But the truth is, compassion travels farther than any storm.

Even small actions — a shared link, a few dollars, a heartfelt prayer — can bring real relief and hope to someone in need.

💙 Give Where It Counts

Right now, cash donations make the biggest impact. Relief teams can purchase exactly what’s needed — food, clean water, tarps, and medical supplies — directly on the island without the delay and cost of shipping.

Trusted Organizations Providing On-the-Ground Support:

Even $10 can provide clean water for a family for several days. $50 can help provide emergency shelter materials. Every contribution matters.

🤝 Share and Amplify

If you can’t donate right now, that’s okay. You can still help by sharing this post or spreading donation links on your social media, church group, or neighborhood boards. Your voice could reach someone who can give — and that ripple effect truly changes lives.

🕊️ Think Beyond the Storm

Recovery doesn’t end when the winds die down. Jamaica will need months of rebuilding homes, schools, and livelihoods. Bookmark these organizations or set a reminder to check back and support long-term recovery.

💌 A Note from Me

When the world feels heavy, I try to remember this: Grace shows up in small, steady acts of kindness.

If your heart feels pulled to help, follow that nudge. It matters more than you know.

🌿 Join Me in Giving

I’ve donated to the Jamaica Red Cross, and I invite you to join me in giving whatever you can. Let’s wrap Jamaica in the same compassion that sustains us on our own hardest days.

👉 Donate here to the Jamaica Red Cross Hurricane Melissa Relief

When Numbness Became My Wake-Up Call: My Journey to a CIDP Diagnosis

What started as tingling in my hands slowly turned into a life-changing diagnosis: CIDP. This is my story of pain, patience, and the grace I found along the way — proof that even in the hardest moments, there’s still light in the growing.

The Search for Answers

It started as something small — something I brushed off. A tingle here, a little numbness there. My hands felt like they’d fallen asleep and just hadn’t quite woken up yet. I figured maybe I’d slept funny, or perhaps I’d overdone it the day before. I’m used to pushing through discomfort. Most of us are.

At first, I thought it might be something simple. Vitamin deficiency? Maybe nerve compression? And then one day, I fell and couldn’t get up. An ambulance came and took me to the hospital, and I was admitted. And so began the long, confusing carousel of tests — bloodwork, nerve studies, pokes, prods, and more waiting than I ever thought possible.

Each test felt like a tiny chapter of hope — until another “We’re not sure yet” pushed me back into uncertainty.

If you’ve ever lived in that waiting space, you know how loud it can get inside your head. Every tingle becomes a question. Every unanswered call from the nurse’s office feels like a cliffhanger in a story you didn’t ask to star in.

The Day I Heard “CIDP”

I was initially diagnosed with GBS (Guillian-Barré Syndrome), but soon after, my neurologist finally sat me down and said, “We think it’s CIDP — Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy.” I remember nodding like I understood, but truthfully, I didn’t. It sounded clinical, foreign — too big to fit into the small, quiet life I knew.

Part of me felt relief that it wasn’t “all in my head.” Another part of me grieved the simplicity I’d lost — the days when walking across the room didn’t require courage or calculation.

Learning to Live with It

CIDP changed my life. There’s no sugarcoating that. But it also slowed me down in ways that revealed unexpected grace. I began to notice the small mercies: my husband’s patience when I needed help standing, the way prayer and meditation became less routine and more lifeline.

Most days, I hurt — physically and emotionally. Some mornings, my body feels like it’s made of static. The truth is, living with CIDP means living in the in-between — between pain and peace, frustration and faith, exhaustion and endurance.

Finding Grace in the Growing

If there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that growth rarely comes wrapped in comfort. But even when my nerves misfire and my muscles tremble, grace shows up — sometimes quietly, sometimes through tears, sometimes in the form of a hand I didn’t have to ask for.

I don’t have all the answers, but I have a story. And if my story helps someone else feel seen — even for a moment — then maybe that’s what all this is for.

Pistacio Ice Cream

John, bless him, knows how to make me feel better. Pistachio ice cream. It’s just a little pint, and I will only have a few spoonfuls because the sugar will do unfortunate things to my gut.

But it is delicious.

I am so thankful for John. He knows me so well and knows when I need a pick-me-up. He always delivers what I need (or want) at the time.

I haven’t had a good week, but I’m making it through. I’m learning to give myself grace when I need it. I have to remind myself that I’m not lazy (which I tell myself every day…). I have SO much I want to do, but the strength to do it right now seems overwhelming. Still, I will forge ahead and make things happen. I can’t let this disease keep me from what I want to do. I cannot let it define me.

When the Body Hurts, the Mind Follows — and Grace Steps In

A gentle World Mental Health Day reflection on the link between autoimmune illness and mental health — and how prayer, meditation, and love offer peace in the struggle.

When the Body Speaks, the Mind Listens

October 10 is World Mental Health Day, a gentle reminder that our minds deserve the same care and tenderness we give our bodies.

For those of us living with chronic illness or autoimmune disease, that connection runs deep. When my body hurts, my mind often follows.

But here’s what I’ve learned: tending to my mental health isn’t selfish—it’s sacred work.

The Weight of the Invisible Battle

Living with an autoimmune disease means my body often feels like it’s fighting itself.

Some mornings, I wake up hopeful. Other days, the heaviness arrives before I even open my eyes.

Pain, fatigue, and uncertainty can easily stir frustration, anxiety, or sadness.
There’s real grief in losing the version of yourself who once did “all the things” without thinking twice. And that’s okay to admit. Naming the struggle is a crucial part of the healing process.

Finding Peace in Stillness

When my thoughts start racing, I turn to prayer and meditation.

Sometimes it’s a whispered prayer:

“Lord, help me find peace in this moment.”

Other times, it’s just breathing quietly until the world slows down a little.

I picture grace flowing through every tired part of me—body, mind, and spirit.
Even a few minutes of stillness can shift everything. It’s not about pretending everything is fine; it’s about inviting God into the ache.

Love That Holds You Steady

I’m deeply thankful for my husband’s steady love. His patience, humor, and quiet companionship remind me that love doesn’t run from weakness—it roots deeper into it.

Mental health isn’t only about what we do alone; it’s also about letting others help us carry the weight. Sometimes grace comes wrapped in someone else’s arms.

Closing Reflection

This World Mental Health Day, I’m reminding myself—and maybe you, too—that caring for our mental health is a form of worship.

It’s saying:

“God, I trust You with my healing, even when I can’t see it yet.”

If you’re walking a similar road, know this: you’re not weak for needing rest, prayer, or help. You are beautifully human—and wholly loved.

Reflection Question

How do you nurture your mental health when your body feels weary?

Small Tools, Big Difference: My New Electric Nail Trimmer

Small tools can make a big difference. In this post, I share how a thoughtful gift from my husband — a Flend electric nail trimmer designed for weak hands — is helping me reclaim independence and confidence in daily life. Sometimes the simplest solutions bring the most meaningful change.

If you’ve been following along with my journey, you may recall a post I wrote a while back about the thoughtful devices my husband, John, discovered to make daily life a little easier for me. (If you missed it, you can catch up on that one here — it’s basically a love letter to adaptive gadgets and a very patient husband.)

Well, John’s back at it again — and this time, he’s really nailed it. Literally.

Recently, he surprised me with a new device: a Flend electric nail trimmer, explicitly designed for people with weak hands or limited dexterity. At first, I wasn’t sure how much difference something as small as a nail trimmer could make. But oh, friends… It’s been a game-changer.

A Gentle Touch That Actually Works

One of the most frustrating parts of living with chronic illness is how even tiny tasks can become overwhelming. Something as simple as trimming my nails — a task most people don’t think twice about — was suddenly painful, exhausting, or downright impossible.

The Flend trimmer changes that. It’s lightweight, easy to hold, and does the work for me with a soft, rotating file instead of sharp clippers. There’s no pressure to apply, no awkward hand positions, and no fear of accidentally nicking my skin. I can use it without pain, without frustration, and without needing John’s help every single time.

More Than Just a Gadget

I know it might sound silly to gush about a nail trimmer, but here’s the thing: tools like this aren’t just about convenience — they’re about independence. They’re about reclaiming the small pieces of daily life that illness tries to take away. And they’re about love, too — because behind every device that helps me live a little more comfortably is a husband who refuses to let me give up on myself.

So, if you or someone you love struggles with weak hands, I can’t recommend this little gadget enough. It may not seem like much, but sometimes it’s the smallest tools that make the most significant difference.

💅 Have you found a small device or trick that’s helped make daily life easier? I’d love to hear about it in the comments — we’re all in this together.

Quiet Kind of Strong

A heartfelt reflection on discovering quiet, resilient strength in the middle of chronic illness. This short, encouraging post reminds readers that even small steps forward are proof of incredible courage and grace.

If you’d asked me a few years ago where my strength came from, I probably would’ve pointed to the obvious things — determination, stubbornness, maybe even caffeine. But this journey has taught me that real strength isn’t loud or flashy. It’s quiet. It’s steady. And more often than not, it shows up when I least expect it.

Strength is getting up on a hard day when every part of my body is begging me to stay in bed. It’s finding joy in small moments when pain tries to steal the spotlight. It’s showing up for the people I love in new ways — even if I can’t do everything I used to. It’s learning to accept help without guilt and to offer grace to myself without apology.

Some days, strength is messy. It’s tear-streaked cheeks and shaky hands. It’s taking one small step forward, even when it doesn’t feel like enough. But every single time I do — every time I choose hope over despair, love over bitterness, courage over fear — I prove to myself that I’m stronger than I ever thought I was.

This isn’t the life I imagined, but it’s the life I’m living — and I’m proud of the person I’m becoming in the middle of it. If you’re walking a hard road too, I hope you know this: strength isn’t about never falling. It’s about rising, again and again, with grace in your heart and hope in your hands.

💛 How about you? What’s one way you’ve shown strength — even in a small, quiet way — this week?

#UnsteadyGrace, #StrengthInTheStruggle, #GraceOverGrit, #SmallStepsBigStrength

So Thankful For My Husband

John always knows how to make me feel better.

I’ve mentioned, I think, that today has been a rough day. I try hard not to complain, but John can sense when I am having a hard time.

He is so good about helping me with anything — DOING anything for me. He’ll fix my breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and even asks me if I want a snack. He helps me to bed. His go-to snack for me is pistachio ice cream, which he knows I love. He fixes my sheets that are crumpled up in a pile when I can’t feel my legs. He helps me with so much more to help take the load off. He is the BEST caregiver I could ask for. I honestly don’t know what I would do without him.

This disease is no joke and has taken a lot of independence away from me. Temporarily. I am determined to get back to my regular life, no matter how long it takes.

Until then, I will accept the help offered to me and do for myself when I can.