life – Unsteady Grace

“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.

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.

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.

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.

“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

Helpful Equipment I Use

John has been so helpful to me. He has purchased or rented the equipment I need, even before I knew that I needed it. I use them every day, and they have allowed me to move around my home almost as if my legs were not hampered by the CIDP. Here is a list of what I use.

I want to add links to each of the products below, but that is taking a while. I’m going to publish this without the links, but I hope you’ll come back as I update them. It is so weird to use my hands and fingers right now. Even my fingertips are struggling.

So, here we go.

Shower head
This shower head has a rainshower head mounted at the top with a handheld shower head with a hose that easily reaches when I am seated. It also has a toggle to pause the water when needed and turn it back on again.

Walker
This is what I used in the hospital and when I first came home. It was helpful, but after a while, it became a bit difficult to use. It had small wheels on the back legs, but I still had to pick it up to move a step across the carpet. I really wanted something that would help me achieve a more normal walking gait. Soon after, John invested in a rolling walker. That was a game-changer.

Rechargeable hand massager
John gave me this when I first started having hand pain and mobility issues. It gently massages and warms my hands one at a time. I usually use it for 15 minutes at a time, but lately, because my hands have been hurting more, I can only use it for about five minutes.

Step and handrail beside the bed
We have a high bed, and these help me to get in and out of bed safely.

Electric Leg Exerciser
I use this while seated on the couch. It has pedals that move my legs like those on a bicycle. It does it automatically, and I have a remote control to turn it off and on and adjust the speed.

Foot massager
This is similar to the hand massager, but for my feet. I can have both feet massaged at the same time. My feet and legs hurt all the time, and this helps to give me some temporary relief.

Bedside commode chair
We haven’t placed this beside the bed, but instead removed the bucket underneath and put it over the toilet in our bathroom. It is raised higher than the toilet bowl and has arms. That helps me to be seated appropriately.

Rollator Walker
This has been the most helpful for me. It has handlebars with hand brakes that I use when the rollator is parked, and a seat with a basket underneath. I use the basket to transport small items from room to room, like the book I’m reading, a notebook and pen, or my iPad. It also has a cup and phone holder that I use to hold my water bottle and iPhone.

Pouch for the front of the rollator
This was gifted to me when I was in the hospital the last time. It was handmade by volunteers. It is meant for a walker, but it fits nicely on the front of the rollator. It has pouches that allow me to carry things from room to room, like my pain meds, crackers for a snack, etc.

Cup and Phone Holder for the Rollator
John thoughtfully got me a cup/phone holder that clips onto the handlebars of my Rollator. It is very helpful to carry my water bottle to be refilled or even a glass of wine in the evening. The phone holder is, obviously, where I place my phone when moving from room to room. I’m due for a new iPhone, and we have confirmed that it will fit in the phone holder.

Bench for the shower
This is a bench that fits the back of the shower so I can sit facing the shower head. I’m still afraid of taking a shower because getting in and out, especially when the floor is wet, is a bit dicey, but the bench helps a great deal.

Hand cream for pain and nerve relief
I use two different hand creams throughout the day. They help a little bit, but applying the cream and massaging my hands is mostly what gives me temporary relief. The creams I use are Hempvana Ultra Pain Relief Cream and Nervive Pain Relieving Cream. I have also used Aspercream with Lidocaine.

CBD Oil
This oil is THC-free and contains 2000mg. I use the dropper to put the oil under my tongue. I use it 2-3 times a day.

This seems like a lot when I see a list like this, but they are used throughout the day and only take a short amount of time. Each of them is helpful in its own way, and I will continue to use them until they are no longer needed (which I’m praying will be sooner rather than later).

Some of the products mentioned here are affiliate links, and I make a small commission. There is no cost to you.

Say Hello to Bluey McRollface

My legs, thanks to GBS and CIDP, aren’t exactly doing the heavy lifting these days. Numbness, weakness, and general rebellion from the thighs down have turned a simple stroll into a high-stakes event. So, enter the rollator.

Okay, friends—this post is one part confession, one part celebration. The confession? I now require a rollator to walk safely. Hopefully, it is just temporary. The celebration? She’s got personality. And she needs a name. If I’m going to roll through life a little off-kilter, I might as well do it with style, humor, and a trusty sidekick by my side.

The Wheels of Change

The first time I used the rollator, I felt awkward and clunky—like I’d accidentally walked onto the set of a medical drama. My legs, thanks to GBS and CIDP, aren’t exactly doing the heavy lifting these days. Numbness, weakness, and general rebellion from the thighs down have turned a simple stroll into a high-stakes event. So, enter the rollator: not just a mobility aid, but a steady companion for unsteady grace.

And you know what? She’s grown on me. She’s sleek, she’s sassy, and she’s a cheerful shade of navy blue—like a Smurf with a driver’s license.

Naming My Not-So-Stealthy Sidekick

If I’m going to walk around with a set of wheels, I may as well treat it like the diva she is. And divas need names. Serious contenders so far:

Bluey McRollface (because the internet has taught us that every naming process deserves chaos)
The Rolling Duchess (for when I’m feeling extra regal)
Sapphire Sass (she’s classy and snarky)
The Stumble Coach (honest advertising)
Walker, Texas Swagger (she doesn’t chase bad guys, but she is bad news for door thresholds)

Naming her made something shift in me—something light. It’s easier to laugh at the weirdness of all this when you’re doing it with a friend. Even if that friend is made of aluminum and comes with a built-in seat.

Joy on Wheels

The best part? I no longer dread using her. Now, when I grab my rollator, I smile a little. Sometimes I even talk to her (quietly — John doesn’t need to know that, LOL). I’m happy to let Bluey stretch her wheels and exercise my feet and legs in the process.

It’s a reminder that I can take something heavy—like losing mobility—and paint it with a bit of humor and a lot of heart. Maybe it’s grace. Maybe it’s grit. Maybe it’s just a woman and her shiny blue battle buddy, rolling through life together.

The Day My Legs Quit and My Cat Took Over

It started with a simple walk to the kitchen. Or rather, the attempt at a walk. My legs, bless their rebellious little hearts, just gave up halfway. It wasn’t a dramatic collapse—thankfully, I had my rollator. It was more like a controlled kneel to the floor, like I was melting.

Some days I feel like my body is a toddler throwing a tantrum—flailing, unpredictable, and way too loud. This week had one of those days. But as always, I’m still here, figuring it out, one shaky step (or nap) at a time.

When My Legs Clocked Out

It started with a simple walk to the kitchen. Or rather, the attempt at a walk. My legs, bless their rebellious little hearts, just gave up halfway. It wasn’t a dramatic collapse—thankfully, I had my rollator in front of me. It was more like a controlled kneel to the floor, like I was melting.

I sat there, half-laughing, half-gritting my teeth, wondering how in the world I was going to stand back up. I considered just making my way back to the couch on my knees. But, by some miracle, I did manage to stand back up, turn myself around, and slowly make it back to the couch. Graceful? No. Determined? Absolutely.

What Helped: The “5-Minute Rule”

When I get overwhelmed (or immobilized), I’ve started using something I call the “5-Minute Rule.” I give myself five minutes to feel whatever I’m feeling—frustration, grief, rage that my legs are acting like divas. After that, I shift focus. Sometimes I breathe. Sometimes I stare at the cats until they judge me back to reality.

It doesn’t fix everything, but it keeps the spiral from pulling me under.

Comic Relief, Courtesy of the Cat

Speaking of the cats, Minnie saw me on the floor and clearly assumed I had finally accepted her superiority. She jumped up onto the seat of my rollator, which she had never done before, sat down, and looked at me. Not helpful, but oddly comforting.

Honestly, if she had opposable thumbs, I’m convinced she’d be running this household—and possibly this blog.

How about you?
Have you had a “melting moment” lately? If you’re in the thick of it, know this: you’re not broken—you’re adapting. And even on the floor, you’re still standing in your own kind of strength.