It feels like fire in my veins. That kind of pain. The pain that makes you shake not from fear but from sheer bodily revolt. Electric shocks snap through me like I’ve been rigged up to a sadistic little taser and someone’s got a trigger-happy finger. It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m trying to hold back tears while typing this, because even typing feels like a bloody expedition.
This latest MS flare kicked off just after midnight Sunday, that weird, ghostly hour when the world is silent and your body chooses to riot. My fingers are stiff; they don’t want to move. My thoughts are flickering—like a dodgy lightbulb in a horror film.
And then it rains.
Bugsy, The Windscreen Wiper Assassin
The irony is thick: the one day I am at my most broken, the sky follows suit. Not a gentle drizzle. No, today it’s an angry, theatrical downpour. Bugsy—my ride-or-die, neurotic rescue dog—decides the windscreen wipers are obviously murderers. Every time they swipe, he lunges at the dashboard like he’s in a high-stakes action film and sinks his teeth into the once-beautiful leather seats. We have to head back to our town today. When I’ve managed to gather the strength or energy, we’ll hit the winding farm roads, half-swallowed by floods. Note to self: get life jackets to keep in car. My hands will barely grip the steering wheel, thank fuck for power steering, and my muscles will spasm with each bump in the road. And this is Africa, we have nothing but bumps in the road.
In Afrikaans, we have a saying, “ek voel vere.” It literally means, “I feel feathers,” but what it actually translates to is: I don’t give a damn. Today, I voel vere for everything outside this pain. Bills, emails, deadlines, they can all burn. I have a battle to fight, an onslaught to defend myself against, and a body to survive.
But here’s the kicker: I’m generally a sunny person. Not toxically positive, but cheerful. It’s unsettling to feel like I’ve been spiritually mugged in a dark alley of my own nervous system.
Summer’s Cruel Heat, Winter’s Damp Betrayal
Summer here hits 44° Celsius (that’s 111° Fahrenheit for my metric-challenged readers). That heat is its own private hell: it strangles your lungs, turns your brain to soup, and turns MS symptoms into a kind of demonic opera.
But winter? Oh, winter has its own weapons. Cold, wet air that drowns your lungs, drags bronchitis in like an uninvited guest. Sometimes even pneumonia.
Out of the frying pan, straight into the fucking fire.
But There’s a Silver Lining. Always.
Change is here. That counts. Even if it’s a shitstorm wrapped in fog. They say a change is as good as a holiday. Not sure who “they” are, but maybe they’ve been through something too.
Today, this is the best I can do: get through the drive. Hold Bugsy back from annihilating the car or me. Breathe through the fire in my limbs. And write it down, so tomorrow I don’t gaslight myself into thinking it wasn’t that bad.
If you’re in your own flare, of pain, grief, rage, consider this a hand squeezed in solidarity.
Hold on. Even feather-light resistance counts.
If this piece held your hand for a moment or made you feel a little less alone in your own firestorm, consider fueling my next journal entry with a warm cuppa. Bugsy and I run on caffeine and courage.
It’s 2:47 a.m. and I’m scrolling through Instagram, watching strangers toast champagne in Santorini, cuddle golden retrievers, and post “raw” captions that somehow still feel filtered. I’m not sad, exactly. But I’m not okay, either. I’m lonely. And I know I’m not alone in that.
In a world where we can FaceTime across oceans and “like” a hundred photos before breakfast, why do so many of us feel so disconnected? The answer is messy, layered, and deeply human if we’re brave enough to look.
The Digital Age: More Screens, Fewer Souls
We were promised connection. Instead, we got curated highlight reels and dopamine loops. A 2025 Baylor University study found that both passive scrolling and active posting on social media were linked to increased feelings of loneliness over time. Even when we’re engaging, we’re often left feeling emptier than before.
It’s not just the quantity of our interactions that’s changed, it’s the quality. We’ve traded deep conversations for comment threads, shared silences for typing indicators. And in doing so, we’ve lost something vital.
The Health Toll: Loneliness as a Silent Epidemic
Loneliness isn’t just a feeling; it’s a health crisis. The U.S. Surgeon General has equated the health risks of chronic loneliness to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. It increases the risk of heart disease, stroke, dementia, and premature death.
Mental health suffers, too. Lonely individuals are more prone to depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation. The emotional pain of isolation can be as real and as damaging as physical pain.
The Vicious Cycle: Social Media and Loneliness
It’s a cruel irony: we turn to social media to feel connected, but it often leaves us feeling more isolated. A longitudinal study among Chinese college students found a bidirectional relationship between loneliness and problematic social media use—each feeding into the other over time.
The more we scroll, the lonelier we feel. And the lonelier we feel, the more we scroll. Breaking this cycle requires conscious effort and, often, a reevaluation of our digital habits.
The Generational Divide: Gen Z and the Loneliness Surge
Gen Z, the first generation to grow up entirely in the digital age, is experiencing unprecedented levels of loneliness. A 2025 report revealed that one in four young Australians reports loneliness as a daily stressor. Social media, while offering avenues for connection, often exacerbates feelings of isolation among youth.
The constant exposure to others’ curated lives can lead to feelings of inadequacy and exclusion, further deepening the chasm of loneliness.
The Illusion of AI Companionship
In an attempt to address the loneliness epidemic, tech leaders like Mark Zuckerberg have proposed AI companions as a solution. While AI can offer temporary comfort, it cannot replace the depth and complexity of human relationships. Overreliance on AI risks diminishing the value of genuine human interaction and may lead society to neglect essential social infrastructure.
True connection requires vulnerability, empathy, and shared experiences—qualities that AI, no matter how advanced, cannot authentically replicate.
Reclaiming Connection: Steps Toward Healing
Addressing loneliness in the digital age requires intentional action:
Digital Detox: Set boundaries for screen time. Designate tech-free zones and times to foster real-world interactions.
Community Engagement: Participate in local events, volunteer, or join clubs to build meaningful relationships.
Mindful Technology Use: Use social media intentionally. Engage in content that uplifts and connects rather than isolates.
Seek Support: If loneliness becomes overwhelming, reach out to mental health professionals or support groups.
By taking these steps, we can begin to rebuild the social fabric that technology has, in some ways, unraveled.
A Personal Reflection
I remember a time when I felt truly connected—not through likes or comments, but through shared laughter and unfiltered conversations. It was messy, imperfect, and real. In our pursuit of digital perfection, we’ve lost sight of the beauty in imperfection.
Let’s choose to be present. To look up from our screens and into each other’s eyes. To embrace the awkward silences and the unfiltered moments. Because in those spaces, true connection thrives.
Anyone with ADHD or OCD will tell you, overthinking isn’t some quirky personality trait; it’s a full-contact sport. My brain is like a hamster on a cocaine bender in a wheel made of existential dread. Once it gets spinning? Good luck stopping it.
I’ve overanalyzed texts, tone of voice, facial expressions, past convos, future convos, and whether or not the barista actually wished me a good day or was just being polite. If overthinking burned calories, I’d be shredded.
But because I like to function (and not spiral into a puddle of what-ifs every time I misread a text), I’ve cobbled together a little overthinking survival kit. Not foolproof. Not therapist-approved. But it’s kept me afloat.
1. Puzzle Games
Word puzzles. Moving blocks into tiny spaces. Anything that demands just enough brainpower to hold my attention without tipping into frustration. When I’m doing a puzzle, my mind finally has something useful to chew on instead of gnawing on my own self-esteem.
There’s something weirdly soothing about finding the right fit, solving the next word, and clicking the piece into place. It gives my brain the satisfying illusion of control and resolution, which is all it really wants.
2. The “Fuck It” Timer
This one’s weirdly effective. I set a timer for 20 minutes and give myself permission to obsess the hell out of whatever I’m spiralling about.
I go full doom mode. Google things I probably shouldn’t. Rant in my notes app. Make imaginary arguments in the shower.
And when the timer goes off? That’s it. My brain had its tantrum. Time to rejoin humanity.
3. Walking My Dog in Nature
It’s not just the fresh air or the trees. It’s the rhythm. The leash in my hand. My dog sniffing the same patch of grass like it’s a holy relic. It’s ordinary, grounding, and so gloriously not about me.
Sometimes we walk in silence. Sometimes I talk to him like he’s my therapist with four legs. Either way, being outside with him resets something in me. It reminds me I have a body, a world, a life beyond my noisy head. It’s one of the most grounding ADHD coping tools I have.
4. Writing It Out (Usually in Poem Form)
When the mental noise is too loud to ignore, I write. Not a to-do list or a journal entry. I write poems. It’s like turning the chaos into something beautiful, or at least something shaped.
The structure, the rhythm, the hunt for the right word; it all forces my brain into focus. By the time I’m done, whatever had its claws in me has usually loosened its grip. It’s how I calm an anxious mind when nothing else is working.
5. One Person Who Gets It
Not someone who will fix it. Not someone who will say “just let it go.” Just someone who will go, “Yep. That sucks. I do that too.”
Sometimes we don’t need a solution. We just need to not feel like a lone freak in a sea of normal.
None of this is magic. My brain still spirals. But now I don’t spiral alone. I have tools. I have touchstones. I have a way back.
So if your mind is a loud, relentless bastard sometimes too? Welcome. You’re not broken. You’re just thinking real hard in a world that rarely makes sense.
If you don’t have someone to vent to, I’ve set up a Facebook group for people to safely come and let off steam, share their stories, and talk to the ether without judgment. Join the Kate & Ginger Mental Health Circle on Facebook
Rest Like a Rebel: Why the Soft Life Still Feels So Damn Hard
Let’s talk about something no one warns you about when you start unlearning hustle culture: rest guilt.
Even now, after years of therapy and self-work, rest still makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong.
I’ll be lying down—genuinely exhausted—and my brain will whisper that old poison: You should be working. You’re wasting time. You’re falling behind.
It’s not just internal. It’s cultural. We live in a world that worships busyness and treats slowing down like a character flaw. Choosing the soft life? That’s practically a subversive act.
I used to think rest was something you had to earn
Back when I was still trying to prove I was “normal” enough to keep up with a productivity-obsessed world, I saw rest as a luxury. A reward. Something you got after you did everything else: cleared the inbox, made dinner, replied to every text, pushed through every signal your body was sending.
But here’s the thing: the list never ends. The emails don’t stop. And if you live with chronic pain, burnout, trauma, neurodivergence, or literally any human vulnerability, waiting until it’s all done means you’ll never, ever rest.
The soft life; this idea of living gently, of choosing rest and slowness over grind and self-abandonment, isn’t something I just “have.” It’s something I have to actively choose. Every single day.
Some days I choose softness. Some days I don’t.
Some days, I override every signal my body sends. I hustle. I numb out. I spiral. The voice of internalised capitalism tells me I’m lazy, and I believe it.
But on the days I do choose rest?
It changes everything; not in some dramatic, movie-montage kind of way, but in small, sacred shifts.
Like:
Letting myself wake up without rushing or doomscrolling.
Drinking tea without multitasking.
Crying in the bath without apologising to myself.
Watching something light and letting that joy be enough.
These aren’t indulgences. They’re survival. They’re the daily rituals of someone trying to live outside the grind. Someone practising rest as resistance.
Softness isn’t weakness. It’s power in a quieter voice.
We don’t talk enough about how hard it is to choose the soft life in a culture built on overwork. It’s easier to stay busy than to feel. Easier to push through than to sit with what’s underneath.
But every time you choose rest, even when it feels wrong, you’re undoing a little piece of the lie that says your worth is in your output.
You’re reclaiming your humanity.
Maybe the real revolution isn’t about never feeling rest guilt. Maybe it’s about doing it anyway. Choosing softness. Slowing down. Giving yourself care without a justification.
The world doesn’t need more burned-out people who’ve forgotten how to breathe.
It needs people who’ve come home to themselves.
People who say no without a paragraph of explanation.
People who laugh, and cry, and rest, and rage; and don’t apologise for any of it.
Still feel guilty for resting? Yeah. Me too.
You’re not alone. You’re not lazy. You’re just unlearning a system that never had your best interest at heart.
Want to explore this more? Drop a comment below and tell me: What’s your relationship with rest right now? Let’s talk about it. Let’s make softness a conversation, not a secret.
There are days my body feels like a battlefield. Days when getting out of bed is a full-contact sport. Days when nothing fits right, nothing looks right, and my reflection feels like it belongs to someone else — someone heavier, sicker, older, and more broken than the version of myself I still carry around in my head.
If you know that feeling — that deep, gut-punch disconnect between who you are and what you see — then you already know: Body positivity isn’t always about love. Sometimes, it’s just about survival.
Body respect: the version of self-love that doesn’t require a mood ring
For most of my life, I thought body positivity meant waking up every morning, throwing on a bikini, and twirling in front of a mirror, shouting, “I’m a goddess!” (Newsflash: That’s not reality. That’s an Instagram ad.)
When you’re living with chronic illness, disability, trauma, aging, or just…being a human being in an unpredictable body — forcing yourself to “love” everything all the time is another impossible standard. Another stick to beat yourself with.
So I stopped chasing love. I started chasing respect instead.
Feeding my body even when I’m mad at it.
Stretching gently, even when it feels stiff and foreign.
Dressing in clothes that fit me, not the me I “should” be.
Taking rest seriously, not as a guilty secret, but as a freaking necessity.
Speaking to myself like I would to a dear friend who’s fighting hard to stay alive.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not always photogenic. It’s real healing.
The world profits off our self-hate. I’m opting out.
The wellness industry, the beauty industry, even the so-called “body positivity” movement sometimes, they all whisper the same garbage: “If you just try harder, spend more, punish yourself longer — you’ll finally be good enough.”
You know what? I’m tired. And I’m not buying it anymore.
This body — right now, as it is, on its best day and its worst — is good enough. Not because it looks a certain way. Not because it performs a certain way. But because it’s mine. Because it carries me through all of it: the heartbreaks, the flare-ups, the ordinary Tuesdays, and the small, stubborn joys.
That’s worth respecting.
How I endeavour to practice body respect (even when I don’t feel like it)
Here’s what it looks like on a normal, messy Tuesday:
I move when I can, how I can. Sometimes it’s yoga. Sometimes it’s hobbling to the couch. Both are valid.
I feed myself like I deserve nourishment. No punishing diets. No apology meals.
I rest without guilt. Productivity culture can kiss my very tired, very worthy ass.
I set boundaries with media. If my feed makes me hate my body, I unfollow, block, delete, walk away.
I celebrate functionality over appearance. This body digests food. It hugs my people. It lets me laugh until I snort. That matters more than what it looks like.
I’m not aiming for perfect self-love. I’m aiming for loyalty. I’m aiming for partnership. I’m aiming for showing up for myself, even on the days I don’t feel lovable.
Because guess what? Respect doesn’t wait for perfection.
You deserve that too.
You don’t have to earn your own compassion. You don’t have to be “fixed” before you’re allowed to care for yourself.
If you’re breathing, you’re worthy. If you’re fighting, you’re worthy. If you’re just surviving today, you are already doing something extraordinary.
Let’s stop waiting until we feel like we “deserve” to treat ourselves kindly. Let’s just decide — right now — that we do.
Some mornings, everything feels heavy. My body aches. My mind spins. The noise of the world — the pressure, the pain, the never-ending to-do lists — builds up. And then I take my dog, Bugsy, and we walk along the river.
It’s nothing dramatic. No intense cardio. No Instagram-worthy workout gear. Just me, my dog, and the steady rhythm of our steps on a dirt path.
But something happens out there.
The air shifts. The water moves. The world softens.
There’s a kind of quiet that only nature offers — a peaceful hush that holds you. And when I walk with Bugsy, I feel it settle into my bones. My breath deepens. My shoulders relax. My mind lets go, bit by bit. I’m not thinking — I’m just being. And somehow, that resets everything.
It’s movement, yes. But it’s also medicine.
Not the kind that comes in a bottle, but the kind that comes with birdsong, wind in the trees, and a dog who’s just happy to sniff everything.
I come back from those walks feeling more like myself. My sleep improves. My thoughts are clearer. My body — even with MS — feels a little looser, a little more alive. There’s something deeply healing about that kind of movement. No pressure. No performance. Just presence.
And it turns out, there’s science behind why this feels so good. Walking, particularly in natural settings, offers numerous physical and mental health benefits.
The Science Behind Nature Walks:
Research shows that walking in nature, often referred to as “green exercise,” can have a significant impact on reducing stress. A 2010 study published in Environmental Science & Technology found that people who walked in parks experienced lower cortisol levels and improved mood compared to those who walked in urban settings. This is why I always feel a sense of calm after my river walks.
In addition to stress relief, spending time in nature can help lower blood pressure and improve cardiovascular health. The simple act of walking without pressure to perform or achieve allows the body to find a natural rhythm. For those with chronic conditions like MS, this low-impact movement can help reduce muscle stiffness and improve joint mobility, making the body feel more alive.
Furthermore, walking in natural environments has been shown to boost serotonin levels, the “feel-good” neurotransmitter that’s linked to enhanced mood and mental clarity. Studies indicate that even a 20-minute walk outdoors can improve cognitive function and boost mood. The connection with nature also helps regulate our circadian rhythms, contributing to better sleep, which explains why I sleep so well after these riverside walks.
So, if you’re feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or disconnected — try a walk. No destination needed. No fitness tracker required. Just you, the open air, and maybe a four-legged friend.
Sometimes, the simplest movements carry the most profound healing.
Sources:
Thorp, A. A., et al. (2012).Physical activity and cardiovascular disease: The importance of the “free-living” context. Australian & New Zealand Journal of Public Health, 36(4), 343–349. This study discusses how walking and other forms of physical activity, especially those integrated into daily routines (like walking in nature), can have profound benefits for cardiovascular health, including lowering blood pressure. Link to study
Barton, J., & Pretty, J. (2010).What is the best dose of nature and green exercise for improving mental health? Environmental Science & Technology, 44(10), 3947–3952. This study explores how different “doses” of nature, including walking, can improve mental health by reducing stress and boosting mood. Link to study
Van den Berg, A. E., & Custers, M. (2011).Gardening and health: A review of the evidence and implications for the management of stress. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 31(3), 186-196. This article reviews evidence on the health benefits of engaging with nature, including walking, and discusses its potential for reducing stress and improving overall well-being. Link to study
Brown, D. K., Barton, J. L., & Gladwell, V. F. (2013).Viewing nature scenes positively affects recovery of autonomic function following acute mental stress. Environmental Science & Technology, 47(18), 10611-10617. This study shows how exposure to natural environments can positively affect the recovery of autonomic function after mental stress, supporting the claim that walking in nature can enhance mental clarity and emotional well-being. Link to study
