When Neuroplasticity Meets Reality:

I was pulled into a different evaluation room today at my physical therapist’s office. Not a normal evaluation space, but more like their back office.

It has been a couple of months since I have been able to go myself, especially with everything going on after my husband’s accident. Between his appointments, my appointments, legal paperwork, and just surviving this season, consistency has been harder than usual. And if you live with a chronic illness as well, then you already know consistency is hard in general.

So when I was brought into that room, I felt uneasy. I honestly thought I was about to be told they were not accepting me back because of prior missed appointments, even with a new referral from my doctor.

But that is not what happened.

She introduced herself and explained that she had reviewed my records and saw that I am categorized as a chronic illness patient. She said chronic cases are approached differently than acute injuries and that she is starting a newer program based on research around chronic pain.

Then she asked if I had ever heard of neuroplasticity.

She pulled up a video and asked me to watch it.

The video explained that when the nervous system is stuck in fight or flight, pain signals become amplified. That if you calm the nervous system and retrain the brain through exposure and increased activity, pain can normalize. It contrasted injury pain, which heals and resolves, with chronic pain, which persists because of processing patterns.

Before that, she had asked about my migraines. She saw them in my chart and asked how long I have had them. I told her my first serious migraine lasted seventy two hours and put me in the emergency room at seventeen years old. She asked my triggers. I pointed to the bright lights above and said light, sound, smells, stress, and sometimes they feel random.

Even now, with my home set up with soft lighting and minimal stimulation, I still get them.

After the video, she stopped it and said she wanted to say one thing.

She said that my “oasis” home might actually be the problem. That because I keep my home calm and dim, when I come into medical offices I am triggered.

That it starts with exposure.

I just looked at her like she had six heads.

It felt like she was implying that I have lived in a small dark box since I was seventeen.

So I felt inclined to explain my life to this woman.

I have had symptoms since I was seventeen. I am thirty now. That is thirteen years.

I did gymnastics as a teenager. That is how I injured my spine during tumbling practice. Over time, because of compensation patterns, muscle guarding, and chronic pain, I developed a C shaped curvature and a rotated left hemipelvis. When one side of the pelvis stays tighter and the other weaker for years, the imbalance becomes structural. It does not happen overnight. It develops gradually.

I worked multiple jobs. I went to college while working two jobs. I lived independently. I exercised consistently. I was very fit. I lived in bright lights. I pushed through migraines and fatigue for years.

My symptoms still progressed.

To the point where I had to leave standing jobs and move to sitting work. Even then, I could not sustain flexible work like DoorDash. I stopped working around late twenty twenty into twenty twenty one.

I have not worked in five years.

That is not avoidance.

That is progression.

When I asked how much research she had done specifically on fibromyalgia, she paused and said, “Can I be honest with you?”

I said, “Sure.”

She said, “I don’t believe in it.”

She followed that by saying it just means you have pain and doctors do not focus on why. She said she is trying to focus on why.

Then the questions started.

“Who diagnosed you?”

“A doctor.”

“When?”

“Twenty twenty two.”

“How did they diagnose you?”

“A tender point exam and my medical history.”

She said she was surprised they even did the exam because usually doctors just “slap it on paper.”

When you are in the middle of a disability hearing, when your medical history is being evaluated and every diagnosis feels like it has to be defended, those questions land heavy.

It felt like I was defending the legitimacy of my illness instead of discussing treatment.

She talked about how their clinic usually treats acute injury patients, where there is a clear recovery timeline. Chronic illness, she admitted, is different. She said she genuinely wants to help me, but it felt like if the answer was not neuroplasticity or exposure, she was not entirely sure how to approach it.

Then she remembered my structural injury.

She asked about imaging. I showed her my recent exams. The originals from years ago are on a disc somewhere. She saw the rotated left hemipelvis and the curvature.

That is when something shifted.

She said she knew specific exercises that target pelvic rotation. She got up, grabbed the spine model, and walked me through how muscle imbalance contributes to rotation. She explained how strengthening one side, releasing the other, building core stability, and improving endurance can gradually support better alignment over time.

Not a quick snap like chiropractic.

But slow structural support.

That was the turning point.

The focus shifted from theory to practical application.

She explained that alongside targeted pelvic work, we would focus on graded strengthening, endurance building, pacing strategies, manual therapy to release chronically tight muscle groups, and both land and aquatic physical therapy like I was doing before. Aquatic therapy reduces joint load while improving circulation and mobility. We talked about increasing tolerance slowly, without pushing into flares.

Not cure.

Management.

Support.

Function.

There is no cure for fibromyalgia.

It is a neurological pain processing disorder. It can be managed. It can be supported. Muscles can be strengthened. Endurance can improve. The nervous system can be regulated.

But the condition itself does not disappear.

That distinction matters deeply to me.

Over the years I have done everything I possibly could to manage my pain. I have researched on my own. I have taken yoga classes. I have listened carefully to chiropractors and physical therapists. I have tried pacing, stretching, strengthening.

I am always open to learning new ways to support my body.

Then I explained the full scope.

Not just the migraines since seventeen.

Not just the chronic fatigue.

Not just the layered symptoms.

But the years of medications that led to my kidneys shutting down. The acute kidney injury at twenty eight that almost put me on dialysis. The fact that my nephrologist made it very clear that I can never again take medications that are excreted through my kidneys or anything harsh on my kidneys because I could end up right back in the hospital facing dialysis.

Now every medication must be processed through my liver, which requires caution and makes chronic illness management even more delicate.

That was the final shift.

She stopped talking.

She clasped her hands.

She leaned forward.

Her voice changed from clinician to human.

She apologized.

She acknowledged how much I have been through. She acknowledged that no one had truly looked at the big picture across providers and moves. She acknowledged the complexity.

It felt genuine.

It felt like she finally saw the entire picture instead of just a diagnosis.

And honestly, that meant a lot.

Now my husband and I are both scheduled three times a week together.

I know one day he will heal. He will return to his normal life. His injury has a clearer timeline than mine.

But right now, in this season, there is something comforting about not navigating medical spaces alone. Not having to explain everything by myself. Doing the exercises side by side. Supporting each other.

I am not grateful that he is hurt.

I am grateful that we are walking this season together.

Acceptance is not giving up.

Not on life.

Not on our dreams.

It is survival.

I do believe everything looks different. That is true.

But I do not believe that different means impossible.

I believe the nervous system plays a role in chronic pain. I believe stress matters. I believe trauma can live in the body.

That is true.

But fibromyalgia is real.

It is not imaginary.

It is not laziness.

It is not cured by mindset alone.

That is true too.

And for those who say they “don’t believe in it,” I would gently say this:

You may not understand it.

You may not see it on an X ray.

You may not know how to fix it.

But that does not make it fiction.

I am open to strengthening. I am open to support. I am open to improvement.

I am not open to being told my life shrank because I chose darkness.

It changed because my body changed.

But I am still here.

—

And if you are reading this, and you live with chronic illness, fibromyalgia, or anything that has quietly reshaped your life…

If you remember who you were before symptoms became part of your daily math.

If you remember when your mornings started with doing your hair, doing your makeup, planning your day, stepping into the world without calculating your energy first.

If you remember vacations, loud restaurants, spontaneous plans, late nights.

And now your calendar is neurologists, physical therapy, chiropractic, follow ups, medication management.

If you have watched medications stack.

If you have sat in rooms where you felt questioned instead of cared for.

If you have ever felt like you had to defend your diagnosis instead of simply receive treatment.

If you have grieved the gradual loss of independence, income, identity, normalcy.

If you have softened your home environment not because you are hiding from life, but because you are trying to survive it.

I see you.

Your illness is real.

Your adaptations are not weakness.

Your boundaries are not avoidance.

Your acceptance is not surrender.

And your hope is not delusion.

It is possible to hold truth and hope at the same time.

It is possible to say, this is my reality, and still work toward strength.

It is possible to honor your limits today and still believe in improvement tomorrow.

Your life may look different than it did at twenty.

That does not make it smaller.

It makes it harder earned.

Every appointment you show up to.

Every medication you carefully weigh.

Every time you advocate for yourself.

Every day you keep going when your body feels heavy.

That is strength.

We are not alone in this.

We are learning how to live inside bodies that changed.

We are adapting.

We are still here.

And that counts.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

Kristen, Unfiltered Xo 💋