Let me just say this upfront: I’m not tired. I’m fatigued. And if you don’t know the difference, lucky you. Really.
Right now, I’m writing this from bed. Not in a “cozy Sunday morning with a latte and a little Netflix” kind of way. No. I’m in bed because my body has straight-up refused to participate in today. Multiple Sclerosis fatigue is not just tiredness; it’s full-body betrayal. It’s like your limbs have turned to concrete and your brain is wrapped in molasses and you’re supposed to keep going like everything’s fine. Spoiler: it’s not.
A doctor once explained it like this: if someone without a chronic illness wants to understand what MS fatigue feels like, they’d need to stay awake and upright for three days straight. Then try to function like a normal human. That’s the starting line.
The Daily Tradeoff: Do Something… or Everything Falls Apart
Lately, I’ve been doing too much. And when I push too hard, I pay. The interest rate on energy debt with MS is brutal. I need rest, like, non-negotiable, stop-the-world rest, but life doesn’t exactly come with a nap button.
I wish I were exaggerating when I say I need a midday nap just to function. But who the fuck has time for that? I’m not a toddler in daycare. I’m a woman with a life and deadlines and a cockroach infestation that’s slowly becoming a B-movie horror plot.
Oh Yeah, Let’s Talk About the Bugs
Because apparently fatigue and hunger weren’t enough, I’ve also got roaches. Big ones. The kind that have been around since the dinosaurs and act like they pay rent.
The foundation in my cottage shifted recently, which basically opened the gates of hell and invited every insect in the area to move in. Ants, roaches, you name it, they’re here. It’s a full-on wildlife convention here at Songbird Cottage. And I am not okay with it.
Last night, I was watching M*A*S*H in bed when Big Pappa Roach decided to take a stroll across my floor. Bugsy took one look, shrugged, and went back to sleep. Thanks for nothing, bro.
Love, Lattes, and Losing It
What I want more than anything right now is for my boyfriend to walk in with a cappuccino in one hand, that warm smile of his on his face, and just hold me for a minute. That kind of hug that smells like roasted coffee and promises you’re not in this alone. But no, he’s at work. And life doesn’t pause for nobody.
So I’ll get up. Slowly. I’ll do what I can. I’ll fight the roach war and do some cleaning. Bugsy will freak out over the mop and attack it. And honestly? I might give up halfway through and let him battle it while I lie back down. He’ll be proud of himself for protecting us, which will give his self-esteem a great boost.
Because this is the reality: MS fatigue isn’t lazy. It’s not optional. It’s not something you can just push through with a good attitude and positive vibes.
But still, I keep going, I try. Because I want to live. I want fruit. I want a clean house. I will not give up and I will conquer this world, one little itty bitty step at a time. And some days, just wanting is enough to get me moving. Kind of.
What about you? Ever felt like your body staged a coup and forgot to notify your plans?
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.
It’s strange how quiet a house gets when one little creature isn’t in it.
My dog, Bugsy, is at my Mum’s this weekend. He’s being absolutely spoiled, no doubt about that. She’s probably made him scrambled eggs and is reading him bedtime stories while feeding him snacks off a Royal Doulton plate. He’s living the high life. I know he’s happy. I know she adores having him. And he loves her too.
But the truth? I miss him like hell.
It’s only the second time we’ve been apart since I adopted him a year ago, and I feel a bit like I’ve misplaced a piece of my heart. I keep expecting to hear the jingle of his collar or feel his weight settle next to me on the bed. My eyes keep flicking toward the door like he’s about to burst through it at any second. But he won’t. Not till Sunday.
I miss his presence. His energy. His ridiculous snoring. He’s my baby. My child. My constant.
And yet, there’s something really beautiful about this too.
Letting go, even just for a weekend, is a practice. It’s a reminder that love doesn’t vanish just because someone’s not physically there. It’s about trust. About knowing that connections hold, even when they stretch.
Sometimes we hold on tight because we’re scared. Of change. Of distance. Of losing the very things that give us joy.
But love, real love, doesn’t fall apart when you give it space. It deepens.
I like that I can give Bugsy this time with someone who loves him. That I can share his joy. That I don’t need to control every moment to feel connected. And even though I miss him, I know we’ll both be better for it.
The silence is loud without him. But it’s not empty.
You haven’t really tasted life until you’ve eaten something that’s been kissed by flame and flipped by someone who calls everyone “dude”—even their dog. That, dear reader, is the essence of the braai.
I’ve been standing by a fire for over 30 years, tongs in one hand, something cold in the other. And while the smoke’s gotten in my eyes more times than I can count, what it’s really done is clear my head. So let me tell you—braaiing isn’t just a way to cook. It’s therapy. It’s nutrition. It’s an ancient, smoke-scented spell we keep casting, week after week.
Cooking Over Fire: The Real Health Hack
Let’s get one thing straight: braaiing is not some fly-by-night TikTok detox trend involving Himalayan moss and oat milk foam. It’s real food, made real simply.
When you cook meat over fire, you skip the litres of oil, the chemical circus in bottled marinades, and the sadness that comes from boiling a chicken breast into bland oblivion. Braaiing keeps the good stuff where it should be—inside the food. Protein stays intact. Nutrients hold up. And that charred edge? It’s flavour, not a felony.
Plus, you control the ingredients. Grass-fed lamb, hormone-free chicken, budget-friendly veg from the market—if it’s going on your fire, you know exactly what it is. That’s nutrition that doesn’t come with a label you need a PhD to understand.
As dietitian and real-food advocate Thandi Mokoena says: “When you braai, you’re working with fewer ingredients but more intention. It’s whole food, prepared simply, which makes it inherently healthier than many ‘wellness’ meals.”
The Ritual of Fire
But if you think braaiing is just about food, you’ve never really lit a fire.
It starts with that first flame. The whoosh. Then the wait. You have to slow down. There’s no rushing hot coals—it’s nature’s way of forcing us to breathe, chat, sip, and chill. And that, my friend, is where the real magic lies.
Whether it’s just you and your dog on a Tuesday, or a full-on Saturday gathering with seven uninvited cousins and a neighbour who brought his own cooler, the braai is about presence. You’re not scrolling. You’re not pan-frying while checking emails. You’re here—smelling the smoke, listening to the sizzle, maybe arguing about rugby.
According to psychologist and fire-enthusiast Dr. Bryan Petersen: “Fire is grounding. It engages our senses in a way that digital life doesn’t. The crackle, the smell, the warmth—it brings people into the moment. That’s incredibly therapeutic.”
Braaiing as Mental Health Medicine
You could pay R800 for a sound bath or you could light a fire, flip a chop, and listen to the rhythm of crackling wood. No offence to crystal therapy, but the braai’s been sorting us out long before wellness had a hashtag.
There’s actual research showing that outdoor cooking can lower cortisol levels. The scent of wood smoke reduces stress. That simply being outside, involved in a tactile, meaningful task (like coaxing perfect grill marks onto a mushroom) is enough to help recalibrate a frazzled nervous system.
Let me put it like this: It’s self-care, but with boerewors.
Real Food That Hits the Spot
And yes, you can keep it healthy without losing the soul of the braai. Here are a few of my go-to fire-friendly options that taste as good as they’ll make you feel:
• Lamb skewers with veg – Protein, fibre, colour, and that primal joy of eating off a stick. • Grilled aubergine with tahini drizzle – Earthy and rich; even the carnivores will sneak seconds. • Chicken drumsticks in yoghurt, lemon & herbs – Tender, gut-friendly, and way more exciting than plain fillets. • Snoek with mustard & apricot glaze – A coastal classic. Sweet, salty, satisfying. • Garlic-butter portobello mushrooms – Meaty enough for the plant-based crowd, decadent enough for anyone. • Grilled peaches or pineapple with cinnamon – Dessert that doesn’t feel like penance.
Or, as my friend Sipho always says: “If it didn’t need a label in the fridge, it probably belongs on the braai.”
Real Food. Real Fire. Real Connection.
Here’s the thing: we’ve overcomplicated health. We chase green powders and fermented dreams while forgetting that some of the best things we can do for our bodies (and our minds) involve sitting around a fire with people we love, eating food that comes from the earth and not a lab.
The braai is more than a cooking method. It’s a connection ritual, a stress-relief system, and a nutritional win. And if you’re lucky, it becomes memory. A whiff of wood smoke years later, and suddenly you’re back there—laughing at a joke that didn’t need to be funny, watching the sky turn orange, feeling okay.
Because in the end, the fire doesn’t just cook the food. It softens us, too.
What Is Spoon Theory? A Simple Way to Understand Chronic Illness and Fatigue
You’ve probably heard a loved one say, “I don’t have the spoons for that today.” Maybe you nodded along politely. Maybe you were confused.
Let’s break it down — because this little metaphor? It’s a game-changer in understanding what it’s really like to live with chronic illness, chronic pain, or fatigue-based conditions.
Spoon Theory 101: Where It Came From
Spoon Theory was created by Christine Miserandino, a writer and lupus warrior, during a conversation with a friend at a diner. Her friend asked what it was really like to live with a chronic illness.
Christine grabbed spoons from nearby tables and handed them over — twelve of them.
Each spoon, she explained, represented a unit of energy. And unlike healthy people who wake up with an unlimited number of spoons, people with chronic illness wake up with a limited supply.
Getting out of bed? That’s a spoon. Taking a shower? Spoon. Making breakfast? Spoon. Now imagine having only 6 left… and it’s 9 a.m.
Why Spoon Theory Matters
Spoon Theory helps people visualize what it’s like to live in a body that’s constantly budgeting energy. It explains why your chronically ill friend sometimes cancels plans. Or seems “fine” one day, and completely wiped out the next.
It isn’t about being lazy. It isn’t about being unreliable. It’s about managing a limited resource — energy — and trying to survive in a world that expects limitless output.
The Spoon Math of Chronic Illness
Here’s how a typical day might look for someone with chronic fatigue, MS, fibromyalgia, or another invisible illness:
Get dressed = 1 spoon
Make a meal = 2 spoons
Commute or school drop-off = 2 spoons
Work or errands = 3 spoons
Socializing = 2 spoons
Crash in bed by 6 p.m., out of spoons = 0
Now add pain. Add brain fog. Add guilt. Sometimes, even thinking costs a spoon.
What Healthy People Need to Know
They’re Not Making Excuses If someone says, “I don’t have the spoons today,” they’re not blowing you off. They’re out of fuel — and pushing through could mean crashing for days.
“Looking Fine” Doesn’t Mean Feeling Fine Most spoonies become masters of hiding their symptoms. Just because they look okay doesn’t mean they aren’t struggling internally.
Every Spoon Counts Helping with a meal, sending a kind message, or giving them space to rest can make a world of difference. It helps them save spoons for the things that really matter — like staying connected with people they care about.
Spoon Theory Isn’t Just a Metaphor — It’s a Lifeline
For many living with chronic illness, Spoon Theory has given them a language. A way to explain what it feels like to live in a body that doesn’t always cooperate. A way to ask for grace — without having to justify their existence.
If someone you love says they’re “low on spoons,” believe them. Offer support. Offer space. And remember: empathy doesn’t cost a thing.
Want to better support the chronically ill people in your life? Start by listening. Start by learning. And maybe, start by asking: “How many spoons do you have today?”
🥄 How Many Spoons Do Daily Activities Cost?
Understanding the “cost” of everyday tasks can offer valuable insight into the challenges faced by those with chronic illnesses. Here’s a breakdown inspired by the Burning Nights CRPS article:
1 Spoon Activities: 🥄
Getting out of bed
Brushing your teeth
Taking medication
Watching TV for an hour
Washing your hair
Listening to music
2 Spoon Activities: 🥄🥄
Making breakfast
Taking a shower (note: for some, this might require 3 spoons)
Drying and styling hair
Brushing hair
Managing daily or weekly medications
Reading
Studying for an hour
Making a phone call
3 Spoon Activities: 🥄🥄🥄
Cooking a meal
Light housework
Meeting a friend at home
Driving somewhere
Folding laundry
Caring for pets
Attending a medical appointment
Climbing stairs
4 Spoon Activities: 🥄🥄🥄🥄
Going to work
Attending school
Shopping
Seeing a specialist (especially with long waiting times)
Waiting for and using public transport
Ironing
Taking care of children
5 Spoon Activities: 🥄🥄🥄🥄🥄
Going out for coffee or a meal
Gardening
Studying and attending lectures/classes
Participating in social events with friends
It’s important to note that these values can vary based on individual circumstances and the nature of one’s chronic illness. Factors like flare-ups or particularly challenging days can increase the “spoon cost” of these activities.
🔄 Restoring Spoons: Self-Care and Recovery
While rest is a primary way to regain energy, individuals with chronic illnesses often find that certain activities can help replenish their spoons:
Mindfulness meditation
Listening to or reading positive affirmations
Engaging in relaxation techniques
Practicing yoga or chair yoga
Journaling
Adult colouring or Zentangle
Breathing exercises
Pursuing hobbies or listening to podcasts
Listening to music
Getting a massage
Taking a nap
Laughing
Spending time in nature or simply sitting by an open window
Remember, self-care isn’t selfish. It’s a necessary component of managing chronic illness.
