Tools for Healing

People often ask me what I meant when I talked about pain, and how I began to heal from it. It’s hard to explain because the pain wasn’t just emotional, it was physical, relentless, and buried deep in my body for years, and I still battle it on and off. But I'm light years from where I was.

Pain wise, it was waking up so nauseous I’d run to the bathroom and throw up before I could even start the day, almost every day. It was the pounding in my head that never stopped, the pressure that felt like swimming too far underwater until my skull ached and my vision blurred. It was migraines so severe that light stabbed like knives and sounds echoed until the world went muffled.

Then there was the burning. The fucking burning. It never stopped. Sometimes it felt like someone dragging rusty forks across my back over and over again. Other times it simmered quietly, always waiting under the surface. Nothing helped it.

That’s what I meant by pain. Relentless. I remember not being able to focus on anything but it at times.

When your body is in constant revolt, you’ll try anything to stop it. Doctors didn’t have answers. Pills didn’t help. I needed tools, not cures or quick fixes, but ways to survive long enough to start healing.

 

My Complicated History with Doctors

My distrust of doctors started early. When I was a child they suspected leukemia. I remember being held down while blood was taken, no comfort, no explanation, only impatience. I didn’t understand what was happening, only that I was terrified.

It happened again when we were homeless and staying in a women’s shelter. I was left alone in a cold, empty room while strangers in white coats spoke over me as if I wasn’t there. No one explained. No one reassured. Just more needles and more silence.

That became my expectation of healthcare, not compassion or curiosity, but indifference. Doctor after doctor avoided eye contact, scribbled notes, and walked out without really seeing me. Then I’d walk out and hear them in the lobby, laughing, talking about their new boat or some expensive trip. The same mouth that couldn’t form words of empathy for me suddenly came alive with excitement over luxury. Standing there, I felt smaller than a price tag. Less important than fiberglass and saltwater. I felt like a waste of time.

Because we were poor, we didn’t go to the doctor unless it was serious, so it made it that much worse to be dismissed. Even when they suspected leukemia, once the tests came back negative they didn’t dig deeper. “Wait it out.” Translation: you’re alive, you’re moving, you’ll survive. We barely had money for food, let alone tests for someone who looked fine.

When I reached my late twenties, I finally had the means to pay. I thought that would make me worth listening to. It didn’t. Let me be clear, no doctor ever actually said it was all in my head, but they may as well have. The same coldness met me in every exam room. No curiosity, no real care, just a checklist:

“Here’s a painkiller.”

“Try losing weight.”

“Take Tylenol.”

“Maybe it’s depression, try these pills for a few months and see.”

It felt like screaming into a void.

Those years taught me not to wait for a white coat to save me. I had to listen to my body even when no one else would. I became determined to find tools outside the exam room because the system wasn’t built for people like me.

Not all doctors were like that though. A few broke the mold, and they changed everything. The team at Doran Clinic actually listened and looked me in the eyes and that led to discovering my tumor. The Mayo doctors ran every test, treated my tumor and endocrine issues. The providers at Active Health in Fort Dodge did everything they could to ease my pain. And Morgan Larson went through the trenches with me, doing massage and MYK. Those are the places where care felt human, not clinical.

Those rare ones reminded me that compassion in medicine does exist. But for the most part, it was the indifference that shaped me.

That’s why I talk so much about tools because when medicine turned me away, tools were what carried me through.

 

The First Tool: Breath

I didn’t learn this from a book or a therapist. I learned it in the middle of an episode when my chest was tight, my muscles locked, and I realized I wasn’t even breathing. My whole body was clenched. I forced myself to take slow breaths, even though it felt impossible. Inhale. Exhale. Over and over. It didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me back a little control.

 

Movement

When the pressure became unbearable, I had to move. Sometimes it was a slow walk around the block, sometimes just stretching on the floor. My body screamed, but movement reminded me I wasn’t just a victim of the burning, I was still alive inside it.

Over time I realized movement didn’t always mean exercise. It meant finding an outlet, something that helped me shift the energy out of my body and quiet my mind. For some people that’s running or biking, for others it’s art, writing, or reading in silence. Whatever helps you release tension or find peace counts.

 

Boundaries

I didn’t realize how much people contributed to my symptoms until I started drawing lines. Saying no. Stepping back. Removing myself from chaos. My body told me what my mouth couldn’t, who was safe and who wasn’t. Creating space from toxic people was just as much a healing tool as any pill could have been.

Nature

Nature has always been medicine for me. Fresh air, quiet fields, sunlight on my skin. I’d walk into the trees and feel my body loosen in ways it never did inside four walls. The ringing in my ears dulled. My chest stopped bracing. It wasn’t a cure, but it was relief.

 

Acupressure Mat

One of my favorite tools at home is my acupressure mat. I started using it on nights when my body refused to relax or my mind wouldn’t slow down. At first it was uncomfortable, but after a few minutes my muscles would loosen and that familiar tension would melt away. Now I use it often before bed or when my shoulders tighten up. It helps me unwind, fall asleep faster, and release the weight of the day.

 

Float Therapy

The first time I tried a float tank, I didn’t know what to expect. The idea of lying alone in a dark pod filled with saltwater sounded strange, but I was desperate to find something that would quiet my body and mind.

The moment I stepped in, everything went silent. The water was warm, body temperature, and the salt made me weightless. For the first time in years, there was no pressure, no burning, no noise, just stillness. I didn’t realize how much my body needed that kind of quiet until I felt it.

It wasn’t just about floating; it was about release. No bright lights, no distractions, no expectations. Just me, breathing in the dark, letting my nervous system finally rest.

After each session, I felt calmer, clearer, lighter. The tightness in my shoulders eased, my thoughts slowed down, and I carried that peace with me for days. It became one of my favorite ways to reset when life felt too loud or my body was on edge. Float therapy reminded me that sometimes healing doesn’t come from doing more, it comes from allowing stillness, from giving your body a chance to remember what calm feels like.

 

Massage Therapy

During pregnancy, I started massage therapy because I knew I needed to relax for my baby and myself. The therapist told me I was the tensest person she had ever worked on. It took time to build trust and allow my body to fully relax, but eventually I did. Those sessions showed me how much I had been holding inside.

 

Chiropractic Adjustments

I first brought my daughter to the chiropractor when we were desperate for relief from her months of colic. One simple adjustment changed her almost immediately and gave me a glimpse of hope that maybe there were tools beyond medicine.

I started going myself. With each adjustment, I felt the burning settle to a simmer, sometimes disappearing for days. My headaches became less frequent. I had energy again. I give a lot of credit to those adjustments for laying the groundwork for my physical healing.

Still, my nervous system was sensitive. Adjustments left me nauseous or exhausted at times, and I needed them frequently to maintain progress.

 

MYK Treatment

One day during a massage, my therapist offered to try an MYK treatment before she worked on me. Honestly, it sounded like nonsense, but I was open to trying anything once. She did an assessment and gave me two treatments, one for anxiety and one for my entire upper back.

When she finished, I melted into the table. I had never felt that kind of relaxation before. The tension was gone. And it wasn’t just in the moment, it lasted. Days went by and my muscles stayed relaxed. Sometimes the effects lasted for weeks.

Chiropractic care had been powerful, and I still miss parts of it and recommend it to many. But MYK felt gentler and more in sync with my body. It has given me the reset my nervous system had been begging for.

Inspiration from Others

Another tool I didn’t expect was following people who inspired me. Seeing their strength, their health, and their commitment to themselves made me believe I could learn new ways of living too.

Locally, the Wellness Warrior in Fort Dodge was a huge resource for me after pregnancy. She shared health knowledge that helped me take better care of myself. Online, people like Glucose Goddess and Kayla Itsines gave me practical tips and encouragement. Even just watching friends who lived healthy, balanced lives showed me it was possible.

Sometimes the most powerful tool is surrounding yourself with people who carry the traits you want to grow into.

 

Support

I wasn’t always good at asking for help. Letting people close was scary. But eventually I learned that even small forms of support, someone listening without judgment or simply sitting beside me, were tools too. Not the kind you find in a pharmacy, but the kind that make survival possible.

 

Tools Over Time

None of these things erased the burning overnight. Healing wasn’t a single breakthrough. It was stacking small tools, day after day, until the pain had fewer places to live.

If you need medication to get through a tough season, that’s okay too. Sometimes you need something that takes the edge off just long enough to stand up again. But medication alone won’t solve the deeper problem. It might calm the storm, but real healing begins when you start working with your body, not against it. Use it as a bridge, not a permanent home.

I’m probably forgetting other things and may update this as I remember them. Again, I'm not a professional, these are just things that have helped me and I have a lot of people ask so I thought I would share. 

 

Closing: A Note to You

If you’re in the burning right now, I want you to know this: you are not broken for needing tools. You’re human. The tools may feel small, breathing, moving, journaling, adjusting, massage, MYK, even following people who inspire you, but they matter. They create space where pain once filled every corner.

Healing looks different for everyone. For me, it was about finding whatever calms the noise, whether that was a walk outside, a treatment that actually worked, or hearing someone else’s story that reminded me I wasn’t alone. For you, it may be something entirely different.

Healing isn’t about waking up pain free. It’s about building a life where pain doesn’t run the show anymore.

Over the years, I’ve realized healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a collection of moments where you choose yourself again and again, even when it hurts. Every deep breath, every boundary, every walk, every adjustment, every conversation with someone who understands, that’s all healing. That’s all part of the toolbox.