Not every day is sunshine and fluffy bunnies

This post is late because I wasn’t sure I wanted to write it. But the truth is the truth, and not every day can be well, you know. And if this is to be an honest blog, then I have to include the gray days too.

Monday evening, we planned for The Little to come see the rig and have dinner. It was the first time someone outside our bubble would be here (outside of our driveway, anyway!), and we love hosting—so we cleaned like it was a holiday. Rugs, laundry, candles, the fake fireplace that wouldn’t fool a soul. The weather was cool and drizzly, but nothing dramatic. It felt good to make the space feel special.

Dinner was lovely, but the rig is no entertainer’s dream. Office chairs doubled as guest seating, and the dogs maximized their begging from one central location. Still, it was warm and real. We made plans to visit The Overlook at Mount Sequoyah the next day—the highest drivable point in Fayetteville. Mountains, town views, fall foliage. It sounded perfect.

But the next morning, a cold front rolled in. And then I felt it—the first signs of a flare. I’ve finally learned to recognize the early warnings. As ridiculous as it sounds, my first sign is a throbbing in my gums, followed closely by sharp pain under my ribs, bilateral and insistent. The cold and rain persisted. So did the flare.

I tried to rest, hoping to abort it before it took hold. But this one had teeth. The pain under my ribs sharpened, my neck began to ache, and energy drained my body like a leaky faucet. By afternoon, I wanted to sleep forever. My bones felt like glass. My neck and torso felt like a 300-pound linebacker was sitting on top of me, holding me tight. All those years I made endless fun of my grandmother’s weather knees are coming back to haunt me. The plans we made—The Overlook, the foliage, the fresh air—slipped quietly off the table.

The night brought howling wind and no peace. Luna kept guard, her quiet presence a balm. Eventually, in the wee hours, I drifted off. By morning, I felt a bit better—far from par, but better. The rig, though small, held me gently. The dogs sensed the shift—Daisy curled close while Luna maintained her watch. I couldn’t fight the flare. I acknowledged it—out loud. That might be progress.

Today is still windy, cold, and dreary. The dogs are bored, staring out the tiny rig windows, hoping for a squirrel or a bird. Nothing is coming. The wind continues to gust and growl, the rain is relentless.

Tonight, Rob and The Little are off enjoying time together. I’m staying in, hoping rest will work its quiet magic. But the forecast doesn’t look promising. Better might not be soon. Still, I’m here. Still listening. Still learning to let the hard days be part of the story. Rob handles the outside world while I retreat inward.

By evening, the rain softened and so did I. Tomorrow would come. And with it, new listings to explore, new trails to walk, and hopefully, a body that feels more like mine again.

Next Up: Clear Skies and New Adventures

Tomorrow, if the skies clear, we’ll chase the view from Mount Sequoyah. If they don’t, we’ll chase warmth wherever it hides. And if you’re reading this on a gray day of your own—aching, waiting, weathering—I see you. May your rig, your room, your corner of the world hold you gently too.