Sharon Korkes

Email Me!

I’m relatively new to blogging on this platform. I’m embarrassed to say that I haven’t yet figured out how to add my email address. I’ll provide my email address here and invite you to email me anytime.

Here’s my email address: sharon@unsteadygrace.com

I would love to hear about your experience with chronic illness or your life in general. My goal is to create a friendly and encouraging community where we can come together and support one another.

Email me anytime, whether it’s related to this content or not (please refrain from sales pitches or spam).

I really look forward to hearing from you!

Wrapped in Warmth: Finding Comfort and Grace on the Hard Days

Some days, pain has the loudest voice in the room — but I’m learning how to quiet it with small comforts, gentle self-care, and the support of my husband. Here’s how an electric blanket, a little creativity, and a lot of love are helping me find grace on the hardest days.

Some days, the pain is louder than everything else. It hums beneath my skin from the moment I wake up and, no matter how much I try to ignore it, it follows me from room to room like an uninvited guest. On those days, my secret weapon isn’t a fancy gadget or a complicated therapy — it’s my electric blanket.

There’s something about the steady, gentle heat that feels like a small act of kindness. I’ll wrap myself up in its warmth, and for a little while, the ache softens. It doesn’t erase the pain — nothing does — but it turns down the volume just enough for me to catch my breath and keep going.

A Softer Way to Stay Productive

I’m learning that “productive” doesn’t have to mean powering through a to-do list or scrubbing every corner of the house. These days, productivity looks more like reading a few chapters of a book, or losing myself in a bit of writing while curled up under that electric cocoon. I may not be folding laundry or vacuuming floors, but I am feeding my mind and heart — and that counts.

The Heart Beside Me

One of the biggest blessings in all of this is my husband, John. He’s been my rock through the ups and downs, meeting me with understanding and patience on the hardest days. When I feel guilty for not being able to do more, he gently reminds me that my worth isn’t measured by how much I can get done. And when my body says, “not today,” he steps in without hesitation — handling meals, running errands, tackling the chores, and keeping our home running when I can’t.

It’s both humbling and comforting at the same time. His encouragement keeps me grounded, and his care gives me space to focus on healing instead of feeling like I’m falling behind. I don’t know how I’d manage without his steady support, and I’m endlessly grateful that I don’t have to.

When the Chores Don’t Get Done

Of course, there’s still that stubborn part of me that feels guilty when the dishes pile up or the dust gathers. But I’m trying to be gentler with myself. Healing and coping aren’t linear, and neither are “good” days. If all I can manage is a few paragraphs and a warm blanket, that’s still something. It’s still me, doing my best with what I have — and thankfully, I have someone beside me who reminds me that my best is enough.

So here I am — tucked under my blanket, pen in hand (well, keyboard), and choosing to celebrate the small wins. Because even on the toughest days, comfort, love, and creativity can still bloom right here, in the warmth.

What’s something — or someone — that helps you get through the hard days? I’d love to hear how you find comfort when life slows you down.

I’m Tired

Today has been a rough day filled with pain. All of my days are painful, but I don’t understand why some are worse than others.

Ya’ll, I’m tired. I’m tired of hurting.

Today has been a rough day filled with pain. All of my days are painful, but I don’t understand why some are worse than others.

I’m tired of hurting. I have done research, and some of it suggests that this issue will suddenly go away. That’s what I am praying for. Others have said it stays with them for years. That I can’t handle and won’t even think that into fruition.

Otherwise, today has been all about the beginning of college football. I glance at it occasionally, but John is really into it, and I like the sound of it. Plus, it means Fall is on the horizon, which makes me very happy.

The Reality of GBS and CIDP

Living with Guillain-Barré syndrome (GBS) and its stubborn cousin, Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy (CIDP), is a strange ride I never signed up for. On paper, the words sound clinical, sterile, like something you might skim over in a medical textbook. In real life? It’s pain, exhaustion, and learning to adapt in ways I never imagined.

The Daily Reality

For me, the pain shows up most in my hands and legs. My mornings start off manageable—if I stay still long enough, I can almost pretend I’m fine. But the minute I get up and walk to the bathroom or the kitchen, my body reminds me that “pretend time” is over. Those short trips trigger waves of pain that stick with me the rest of the day. And typing, crocheting, even holding a cup—anything that uses my hands—can leave me hurting.

GBS was the sudden storm that knocked me flat, and CIDP feels like the lingering drizzle that just won’t quit. Together, they’ve forced me to live in a body that doesn’t work the way it used to, and honestly, it can be maddening.

Finding Ways to Cope

Ibuprofen and, when it’s really bad, stronger meds get me through the worst stretches. But coping isn’t just about medicine—it’s also about mindset. I’ve had to learn the art of pacing: giving myself permission to rest, even when my brain wants to do more. I’ve also taken on little projects, such as crochet kits, to keep my hands busy. I’ll be honest, sometimes it feels impossible, but other times I’m surprised by how much a tiny accomplishment (like finishing a single row of stitches) can lift my spirit.

Light in the Shadows

As heavy as this journey feels, there are still moments of light—moments that make me laugh at the absurdity of it all. For instance, when I named my rollator, it made it feel like less of a burden and more of a sidekick. Or when I joke with my husband that my “exercise routine” is the long trek from the couch to the bathroom. Finding humor in this messy reality keeps me from sinking under it.

Why I Share This

I write these things because GBS and CIDP can feel so isolating. When you’re in constant pain or struggling to walk across the room, it’s easy to think you’re alone. But you’re not. If you’re facing this too—whether it’s the numbness, the weakness, or the frustratingly slow progress—know that I see you. We may walk unsteadily (or shuffle, or roll), but we walk this path together.

So, how are you managing today?

Today Has Been An Okay Day

Today has been an okay day. I’m taking a course to help build my blog so that has kept me busy.

Today has been an okay day. I’m still in quite a bit of pain. Typing this is hard because my hands and fingers are numb.

I’ve been taking a Skillshare class on organizing tasks for launching a course, but I’m applying it to my blog. I’m learning a lot and am looking forward to applying what I’ve learned. I really want to make this something that will share my health experience, but also I hope to help other people experiencing the same thing. I know I’ve already written about that.

I have been pretty unproductive today, except for researching blog stuff. I slept late, as usual. This disease is so baffling. I try to move about my day, but I am not that successful. John is doing everything to run our life — laundry, dishes, cats, etc. I am very thankful for him, but struggle with feeling so guilty that he is doing everything. Truth be told, I can’t really do much of anything. I can barely get myself to the bathroom and back. It is incredibly frustrating for me, but I try to give myself grace. I’m hopeful that this will not last forever, and I can get back to my life and routines.

Laughing Through the Pain: Why Humor is My Secret Weapon

Life with chronic illness can be messy, but laughter is my not-so-secret weapon. From rollator mishaps to cat side-eye, here’s why humor keeps me going.

A Funny Moment
The other day, I tried to gracefully shuffle my way from the couch to the kitchen with all the poise of a ballerina… except my rollator squeaked like a rusty grocery cart and my pajama pants got caught on the handle. Picture it: me, tangled up, half-laughing, half-grumbling, wondering if Cirque du Soleil might need a new act called “The Clumsy Chronic Illness Chronicles.” Spoiler alert: no applause, just my cat staring at me like I’d lost my last marble.

How Humor Helps
That little disaster could’ve left me frustrated, but instead, I laughed until my face hurt (and honestly, that’s the best kind of pain). Humor doesn’t magically take away the nerve pain or the fatigue, but it does shift the spotlight. For a moment, I’m not “the patient” — I’m just me, cracking up at life’s ridiculousness. Laughter is like a tiny reset button. It lightens the heaviness and makes room for joy, even in the middle of all this mess.

The Encouraging Takeaway
Living with chronic illness can feel like slogging through mud while juggling flaming bowling pins. But if I can find even one silly moment to laugh about — whether it’s tripping over my own shoelaces or getting schooled by my cat’s judgmental eyes — I feel a little stronger. Humor doesn’t fix everything, but it softens the edges. And sometimes, that’s enough.

So here’s my pep talk to you: find one thing today that makes you laugh, even if it’s just a bad pun or your dog’s weird sneeze. Let that laughter carry you, even if just for a few steps.

How about you? What’s the last thing that made you laugh despite it all?

“You Say I Am Strong When I Think I Am Weak” — A Love Letter to Hope

Today I want to talk about something that’s been speaking to my heart in the quietest, yet most powerful way: the lyrics from Lauren Daigle’s You Say—especially the line, “You say I am strong when I think I am weak.”

Hey there, beautiful soul—welcome back to Unsteady Grace. Today I want to talk about something that’s been speaking to my heart in the quietest, yet most powerful way: the lyrics from Lauren Daigle’s You Say—especially the line, “You say I am strong when I think I am weak.”

When Weakness Feels Overwhelming

If you’re walking through an illness journey like I am, pain circuiting through every part of your day, it’s easy to feel like the strongest version of yourself is miles away—or even unreachable. You might wake up feeling fragile, limited, or defeated.

I get you. Some days, things that used to be simple—getting dressed, taking a shower, making a meal—feel like climbing Everest in flip-flops. And it hurts more than the physical pain—the invisible doubt, the ache of being less than who you used to be.

“You Say I Am Strong” — A Voice of Truth

That lyric—that glorious contrast between what you feel and what someone who loves you sees—hits differently when your body doesn’t cooperate the way you need it to.

Lauren Daigle says the song You Say is her reminder of identity, particularly during moments when she felt scattered, insecure, or in the low after a high. It’s her truth-tether: “When I’m weak, He’s strong.”

This song was crafted out of that tension—doubt, confusion, and a frayed sense of self—balanced by the encouragement and vision of something greater. It’s an invitation to say, even when life is fragile, you are strong in the eyes of someone who truly sees you.

Why These Words Matter to Me

Right now, I feel weak—a million little things weighed down by pain, fatigue, and limitations. But then, my rock of a husband whispers, “You are stronger than you know.” It’s his gentle encouragement that grounds me—the contrast is real, and it is everything.

In that moment, when reality says weak, love says strong. That single line becomes a lifeline. A whisper that maybe, just maybe, there’s a version of me that can still hold hope, even if today I can’t lift my own weight.

Grace in Every Type of Grace

Emotional grace—recognizing that healing isn’t just physical. It’s a messy, heartfelt journey.
Spiritual grace—holding onto a deeper truth—that your identity isn’t defined by your ability to do things, but by how you are seen and loved.
Relational grace—having someone who calls you stronger when you can’t call yourself that.

It’s okay to feel weak. It’s not okay to believe you’re defined by it.

A Tiny Affirmation for You

If you’re here because today feels a little too heavy, you’re doing your best in a battle that most people will never see. That makes you braver than you realize.

Let this lyric be your anthem:

You say I am strong when I think I am weak.

Let it sink in, little by little. Let it be carried forward by someone else’s unwavering belief in you—your husband’s, a friend’s, or perhaps, in the quiet spaces between, a whisper of faith.

Wrap-Up & Virtual Hug

Pain doesn’t define you. Your capacity to feel deeply, to endure, and to—against all odds—keep going, does. Every soft step forward in the face of suffering is heroic. You are strong—maybe not in the “I conquer mountains” kind of way—but in a softer, more resilient way that’s just as courageous.

You are not alone, and you are not weak.

Sending love, grace, and a sturdy dose of hope.

Here is a link to the video on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sIaT8Jl2zpI

So, What Is CIDP?

Living with CIDP means my days are a mix of wobbly steps, missing finger signals, and unexpected victories—like actually managing to pour tea without flooding the counter. Some days I lean on my rollator (aka Bluey McRollface), other days I lean on humor. Either way, I’m still rolling forward—with unsteady grace and a grin.

CIDP stands for Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy. Yep, that’s a mouthful. But here’s the simple version: it’s a rare condition where your immune system, which is supposed to protect you, gets a little confused and starts attacking the covering around your nerves. That covering is called myelin, and it works like insulation on an electrical wire—helping signals travel smoothly from your brain to your body.

When the myelin is damaged, those signals get scrambled. That’s why people with CIDP often deal with tingling, numbness, weakness, or trouble walking. Things like holding a coffee cup, buttoning a shirt, or taking a stroll can suddenly feel like a big challenge. This is what I experience every day, all day, lately. It’s rough!

The good news is that CIDP can be treated. Doctors usually use medications that calm the immune system down, and physical therapy can help keep muscles strong. I had immunotherapy in the hospital and take medications every day. I start physical therapy again later this month. It’s not a one-size-fits-all journey, but some tools and treatments make life with CIDP more manageable.

This is a difficult journey, for sure, but it is made a bit easier with medications, devices to help me with everyday tasks, and the unending support from my husband, John. I am so thankful every day.

Foot Massager Added To The Arsenal

Today has been another rough day, just like the previous days. I hurt all the time, no matter what I do. But I’m taking it minute by minute. Just breathe through it, Sharon, is what I keep hearing in my head. So that’s what I’m doing.

I used another device that John got for me. It’s a foot massager mat. I used it on my feet, but couldn’t really feel it because they are numb. I still used it for the recommended 20 minutes, thinking that maybe that would wake up my nerves and muscles. I also used it for my hands, and that was so good. I can actually feel my hands and fingers right now. There is still pain, numbness, and tingling, but it’s not as bad. I know I’m going to be using that a lot.

There’s really nothing else for me to talk about. I’m either on the couch or in bed. I try to keep up with what’s going on in the world, and visit Facebook to see what’s going on with my friends. Several have been so supportive since I posted about what’s going on with me. That’s really comforting.

I think that’s it for now. I know it’s short, but that’s just all I can do right now. More later.

What The Heck Is Guillain-Barre Syndrome?

Hey friends—Sharon here, bringing you a little health lesson that’s both eye-opening and oddly graceful in its own way. Today, I’m talking about Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS). No, it’s not a fancy French pastry. (Though I’d argue there’s nothing wrong with a buttery croissant on a rough day.)

I’ve been hospitalized by this twice this year alone and still have pretty bad effects to this day.

What the heck is GBS?

GBS is a rare autoimmune condition where, for reasons that remain puzzling, your immune system decides to accidentally attack your own peripheral nerves—the ones outside your brain and spinal cord. Think of it like a security system gone rogue, misidentifying family members as intruders and causing chaos.

These nerves are responsible for movement, touch, temperature, and pain. So when they’re under attack, you start feeling tingling or weakness that usually begins in your feet or legs and slowly travels upward. Sometimes your face, arms, or other areas can get involved, too.

Thankfully, I have not experienced this farther than my forearms, and I pray that’s where it stays.

Why does GBS happen?

The short answer? We don’t totally know—and that’s the frustrating part. GBS typically pops up after an infection (like a stomach bug or respiratory virus), and occasionally after a vaccine—but the risk from vaccines is still far lower than the risk from infections themselves. I haven’t had any infections that I’m aware of, and I did have the COVID-19 vaccine a few years ago. This honestly came out of nowhere.

How scary is it?

GBS can ramp up quickly—over days to a few weeks. In some cases, it can be severe enough to affect breathing muscles, and even heart and blood pressure regulation—yeah, it’s serious enough to earn a spot in the ICU. (World Health Organization, Hopkins Medicine, Wikipedia, Cleveland Clinic)

For me, I think it came on over a few weeks, but I didn’t realize what it was at the time. I just knew that I hurt in my feet, legs, and hands.

But here’s a bright side: with early treatment—like immunoglobulin therapy or plasmapheresis—many folks recover fully or nearly fully. Recovery can take months or even a couple of years, but most go on to walk again and resume their lives. (Verywell Health, Hopkins Medicine, Mayo Clinic, Health, Wikipedia)

I had the Immunoglobulin therapy each time I was in the hospital. It’s a five-day treatment, that’s why I was in the hospital for so long.

A little Sharon-style twist to end on:

So yeah, GBS is like that rogue, well-meaning auto-correct that turns “heart” into “hart” and suddenly you’re in a medieval hunting lodge when you meant to tweet love. But here’s the silver lining: with the proper care and patience, it often corrects itself—and you come out wiser, stronger, and maybe with an unexpected appreciation for your toes. That is what I am counting on.

Hang in there, I try to be kind to myself, and try to remember that my body is acting like an over-caffeinated intern, maybe it’s my immune system just trying to make things… interesting.