Posts tagged share your story
Freeing Words: After Losing Her Ability to Move, Anna Found Hope in Letters of Encouragement, Even When She Couldn’t Pick Up a Pen

I was riding in the van with my family. It was late at night after a full day at my clinic receiving treatments. I remember clearly my lack of mental clarity, how I couldn’t think straight, or even see straight. It was like I had a constant fever, even when my head wasn’t hot. I honestly couldn’t tell what was “real.”

Were my parents really my parents? Was I really alive? I would say something and immediately question if I had really said it and then say it again ten seconds later. That particular night, I was obsessed with something random—grilled cheese sandwiches.

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The Burden That Blooms: Heart-led Thoughts From the Partner of Someone With Lyme Disease

This isn’t a stance we normally take. This isn’t a perspective that that I’m used to standing in. This isn’t the road I normally walk down when going to share with you a new voice. This isn’t what I’m used to and I’m quite certain it’s exactly what’s needed.

When things aren’t going well, I get caught up in my own thoughts. I retreat. I try and piece together “next steps” that seem somewhat logical and straightforward, only to be adjusted time and time again. Illness, it’s a funny thing, and sometime a selfish thing, as I don’t often think about what those around me must be feeling. Of how they are needing to process. Are they wanting to retreat? Are they also terrified? How are they going to deal with this? How are they going to get through this, too?

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We’re Celebrating Over 80 Stories Told Through the More Than Lyme Community

After impatiently waiting for the water to boil so I could steep my tea, wrap up in a blanket, and cozy up with my computer to write this out to you—somehow trying to come up with the “right” words to sum up over 80 stories told through the More Than Lyme community, I realized how close I was to writing you an apology.

In short, I was going to come here and apologize for the past two months where no new stories were posted, and though you could argue that that’s exactly what I’m doing here, apologizing, I want to use this tendency as an opportunity (or maybe excuse) to take those feelings of inadequacy, of letting you down, to celebrate what we have.

To celebrate all the voices that have been heard and stories that have been told since we first became a community.

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Rise and Thrive: A Story of Lyme Disease, Dance, the Negative Side of the Word “Heal,” and Why Hannah Has Never Thought of Herself As Broken & Needing to Be Fixed

Sometimes a diagnosis can feel like a death sentence.

Whether your particular sentence is an injury, illness, or mental health condition, it can feel as though the walls are closing in. It’s as if there’s no escape and no way back to the life you once lived. At least this is how I felt when I was diagnosed with not just Lyme disease, but also heavy metal poisoning, mold toxicity, and a garden variety of parasites.

I was 32, with a three-year-old son, assorted jobs, and a life that simply didn’t accommodate chronic illness. I was devastated. I shook with fear, with disbelief, with denial. Now I refer to myself as the luckiest Lyme patient alive...

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Why Sylvie Believes Creativity Means Choosing Curiosity Above Habit: On Being Fluid, Vulnerable, and Raw in Her Art + Fight Against Lyme Disease

It's 9pm on a Thursday and I am swaying and clapping and doing the chicken dance with a group of strangers. My awkwardness is melting, a smile pulling at the side of my mouth. Mostly I am thoroughly captivated by the leader. He’s a magical man who might have been a preacher in another life so I listen when mid lesson he stops and exclaims, “You don’t sing to make pretty music, you sing to feel the music. You sing to express your joy and sorrow. You sing as a release valve. You sing with your whole body.” 

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Love + Our Innate Ability To Heal: How Gabbie Li Uses Nature To Move Through Hours, Days, and Months Of Fighting Lyme Disease

I find myself in the isothermal region of North Carolina in a collapsed squat on a mossy rock, sure not to touch the trees, plants, and brush that I rarely find the courage to return to. The chickweed, poison ivy, and mountain flora around me lay heavy from the moisture that continues to blanket the region from the early morning passing of the clouds. I can barely hear myself talking to the plants, chanting a line from a book that had struck me as exactly this place. It’s a place where I feel like I haven’t quite died, yet it is quiet, primal, and dense with moisture and mystery. Frozen in my squat, legs increasingly numb, I talk to and draw the plants because if I don’t, I’m positive I’ll crumble and be lost forever. I came to these mountains to get out of my own head of soul crushing thoughts and it turns out that can sometimes be impossible when it comes to the stronghold that inflammation can have over my brain. I only arrived to this mossy rock by means of a complete breakdown in the middle of no where, screaming for help that took me out of a cabin and led me down a steep path off the side of a switchback road. 

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