Category: Field Notes (Page 1 of 2)

A lit candle beside a pink lotus flower reflected in calm water with the words “Seeing It Clearly,” symbolizing gentle self-awareness, reflection, and healing.

🌿 Field Notes: When Reality Reflected Back

April 20, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week, I found myself looking at my life through a lens I usually avoid.

Not because I’m in denial.

Not because I’m pretending everything is fine.

But because when you live with limitations long enough, they become normal to you.

You adapt.

You compensate.

You learn workarounds.

You keep going.

And after a while, what would shock someone else just becomes Tuesday.

After completing two disability applications back to back, reading an assessment from the county, and hearing my therapist say I shouldn’t have much trouble qualifying because of my very significant physical and mental limitations…

I had a moment.

A real one.

Not a “I hate myself” moment.

Not shame.

More like:

Oh shit.

I didn’t realize it was this bad.

There’s something strange about seeing your reality written plainly on paper.

Things you’ve minimized.

Things you’ve pushed through.

Things you’ve explained away.

Suddenly listed clearly and clinically.

And for a moment, you see yourself from the outside.

I think many of us do this.

We become so used to carrying what we carry that we stop calling it heavy.

We become so used to struggling that we stop calling it struggle.

We become so used to surviving that we forget survival has a cost.

So this week, I’m holding one gentle truth:

If your life has become hard in ways you barely notice anymore…

That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.

It means you adapted.

And adaptation is not the same thing as ease.

Maybe some of us need to look at ourselves more kindly.

More honestly.

More gently.

Not with criticism.

But with compassion for everything we’ve been carrying while still trying to keep moving.

💛 Sometimes the clearest reflection isn’t cruel.It’s compassionate.

A soft blue background with the words “A Quiet Week,” featuring a resting dog, smiling flowers, and a small leaf, representing rest and slowing down.

🌿 Field Notes: Paperwork Week

April 13, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week has been filled with paperwork.

The kind that sits on the table and quietly takes up space in your mind, even when you’re not actively working on it.

Social Security sent another packet, and right now, that’s where most of my energy is going.

So if things feel a little quieter here…

that’s why.

Some weeks are for writing.

Some weeks are for getting through forms, appointments, and the invisible work that doesn’t leave much room for anything else.

I’ll be back soon.

Just… one page at a time.

💛 Progress doesn’t always look like productivity.

A sunlit forest path with warm light streaming through trees and the text “I Submitted It,” symbolizing relief, progress, and a quiet step forward after completing a disability application.

🌿 Field Notes: I Submitted It

April 7, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

I finally submitted my disability application.

That sentence feels small on paper.

But it doesn’t feel small in real life.

There’s a lot that goes into something like this.

The paperwork.

The remembering.

The explaining your body over and over again.

Putting words to things you’ve spent years just trying to get through.

It’s not just forms.

It’s your life, translated into boxes and timelines and medical language.

And that’s heavier than it sounds.

So this week hasn’t been about writing.

Or creating.

Or staying on schedule.

It’s been about getting through something that needed my full attention.

And now that it’s submitted…

There’s a strange mix of relief and exhaustion.

Like finishing a long climb and realizing you’re not at the top yet — but at least you reached the next marker.

I don’t know what comes next yet.

But for now, this part is done.

And that matters.

💛 Some steps are quiet. Some steps are heavy.

This one was both.

🌿 Field Notes: A Quiet Week

March 30, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

This week has been quieter here.

Not because there’s nothing to say…but because life has been asking for my attention elsewhere.

I’ve been working through a disability application — the kind of process that takes more energy than it looks like from the outside.

The paperwork.

The details.

The remembering.

It’s a different kind of work.

So this week, I’m choosing not to rush.

Not to force words onto the page just to stay on schedule.

Instead, I’m giving myself a little space to move through what’s in front of me.

The stories will still be here.

The words will still come.

Just… maybe a little more gently.

💛 Some weeks are for writing. Some weeks are for getting through.

Craft supplies, beads, and jewelry-making tools spread across a wooden table with the title “Christmas… Eventually,” representing handmade gifts that take longer than expected.

🎁 Field Notes: Christmas… Eventually

March 16, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

The other day I had a realization.

A deeply humbling realization.

I still have Christmas presents I started making two years ago.

And not only that…I also have presents from last Christmas that still need to be finished.

Which means, technically speaking, my holiday production schedule is running somewhere between “fashionably late” and “archaeological discovery.”

But in my defense…Handmade gifts take time.

Sometimes that time is measured in weeks.

Sometimes months.

And sometimes… apparently…multiple Christmases.

🎄 The Handmade Gift Timeline

When you decide to make gifts instead of buying them, there’s always this hopeful moment where you think:

“I’ll start early this year.”

And you mean it.

You really do.

But then life happens.

Chronic illness happens.

Caregiving happens.

Executive function goes on vacation.

And suddenly the calendar flips forward like a scene from a time-lapse nature documentary.

🧠 ADHD Holiday Math

Normal holiday math says:

Start gift → finish gift → wrap gift → Christmas morning.

My brain’s version looks more like this:

Start gift → set aside temporarily → forget about it → rediscover it six months later → feel hopeful again → repeat.

At this point my handmade gifts are less “Christmas presents” and more long-term creative investments.

🌿 Why I’m Not Beating Myself Up About It

There was a time when realizing this would have made me feel like I’d failed.

Like I should have been more organized.

More disciplined.More on top of things.

But life has taught me something important:

The timeline of a handmade gift doesn’t actually determine its value.

Care does.

Intention does.

Love does.

Even if that love takes a slightly… scenic route.

🎁 The Honest Truth

The truth is, when you live with chronic pain, ADHD, caregiving responsibilities, and the general chaos of being human…

Some things just move slower.

And that’s okay.

The people I love don’t care whether a gift shows up in December…or February…or occasionally two Christmases later.

What they care about is the thought behind it.

🌲 Field Notes From a Slightly Chaotic Holiday Schedule

Good things take time.

Sometimes that time is measured in days.

Sometimes in months.

And sometimes…apparently…in multiple holiday seasons.

Which is fine.

Because Christmas happens every year.

No rush.

Narrow gravel path between two concrete walls symbolizing barriers in accessible housing design.

🌿 Field Note: The House I Live In Was Never Built for Me

March 9, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about accessible housing — and how rare it really is.

There’s a quiet assumption built into most homes that everyone living there can walk, climb stairs, step over thresholds, and navigate narrow spaces without thinking about it. If you can’t, suddenly the most basic parts of daily life become complicated.

Take my own house, for example.

The only shower in the house is in the basement. I can’t safely get down there. The doorways are narrow enough that a wheelchair would struggle to fit through them. Even moving through the house with crutches takes planning.

And this wasn’t an oversight.

My mom had mobility issues long before I became disabled. But no modifications were ever made. No ramps. No accessible bathroom. Nothing that would make daily life easier.

The house worked for the person who built the rules of the house — and that was considered good enough.

If he could access everything, then the house was “fine.”

Everyone else was expected to figure it out.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately because accessible housing isn’t just a personal issue — it’s a systemic one.

New housing developments are still being built with multiple floors and stair-heavy designs as the default. Apartment buildings might include one or two accessible units in a building of a hundred. And the few homes that are intentionally designed with accessibility in mind are often marketed as “specialty” or “retirement” housing instead of simply being part of normal community planning.

The result is that disabled people are often forced to adapt themselves to spaces that were never designed with them in mind.

But here’s the quiet truth that doesn’t get talked about enough:

Mobility is not a permanent guarantee.

Most people will experience disability in some form during their lifetime — through injury, illness, or aging. Yet we continue building homes as if accessibility is a rare edge case instead of something that benefits everyone.

Wider doorways. Step-free entrances. Bathrooms that can actually accommodate mobility aids. These things don’t make a house “special.” They make a house usable.

And usable spaces benefit far more people than we tend to realize.

Right now, I live in a home that requires constant workarounds.

But it’s also made me see the bigger picture more clearly.

Accessible housing isn’t just about disability.

It’s about building spaces where people can continue living their lives safely — even when life doesn’t go according to plan.

Accessible housing is something most people don’t think about until they need it.

But once you start noticing it, you see it everywhere — the stairs, the narrow doors, the spaces that assume everyone moves the same way.

If you’ve experienced this too, or if you’ve seen homes designed differently, I’d love to hear your perspective.

Snow-covered rural driveway curving through quiet winter trees

🌿 Field Note: When I Stopped Explaining

March 2, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

We were about three miles from home when the tire went flat.

I had just picked my wife up from work, and we were heading back after what was supposed to be a mild snowstorm. The forecast said two to four inches. Minnesota, apparently, had other plans. By the time we were driving home, we were sitting closer to eight or ten.

I pulled over on the side of a country road while my wife hopped out to check the damage. Two puncture holes. Not exactly something you can wish away.

First call was to our neighbor. He wasn’t home — out plowing snow and booked solid for a couple more hours. Fair enough. My wife checked for the spare but looked in the wrong spot, so at that point we thought we didn’t have one. AAA said a tow truck could get to us in about two hours. They were busy pulling people out of ditches.

And that’s when the practical reality hit me.

If the car got towed… I was going to have to climb up into the truck cab.

And I couldn’t.

So I called my neighbor back and explained the situation. Told him it might be a few hours. And then — the part that stuck in my throat for a second — I said plainly that I wouldn’t be able to get into the tow truck because I’m disabled.

He paused.

Then said quietly “oh.”

And honestly? That made sense. This is someone I grew up with. Someone who has seen me in my pajamas more times than I can count on my fingers. 😂 For nearly twenty years, I’ve always had some kind of explanation ready when my crutches came up — something temporary-sounding, something easier than the full truth.

Old habits run deep.

He offered to have his son come get us. I told him I wanted to check what AAA could do first and that I’d keep him posted.

After that, there wasn’t much to do but wait.

So we did what you do when you’re stranded on a snowy roadside in Minnesota — we settled in and started working through the leftover Valentine’s chocolate like it was part of the emergency plan.

A woman pulled over and asked if we needed help. We thanked her and told her we were okay. Not long after, another man stopped and offered us a ride somewhere warm. We declined again, grateful but managing.

Then about fifteen minutes later, another SUV pulled up.

Turns out his wife was the one who had offered us snacks — and she had apparently sent him back on a mission. 😂

He found the spare tire (in the correct spot, bless him) and had it swapped out in no time. I offered to pay him. He refused. My wife handed him some car wash books we had in the car, and after a polite back-and-forth, he finally accepted.

He even followed us for a couple of miles just to make sure we made it safely down the road.

By the time we got home — truly home — something in my chest had shifted.

Not because the moment itself was easy. It wasn’t. Old voices were loud for a minute there — the ones that say don’t look weak, don’t show it, don’t let people see where it hurts.

But sitting there in the quiet afterward, I realized something I hadn’t expected.

For the first time in almost twenty years…I wasn’t trying to keep track of the story anymore.

And it turns out, that weighs a lot less.

A wide-eyed excited dog with mouth open in a playful, chaotic expression. Text reads “The Math Ain’t Mathing,” representing the unpredictability of chronic illness.

Field Notes: The Math Ain’t Mathing

February 23, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

Why the numbers never add up — and honestly, I’d like to speak to management.

There is regular math……and then there is chronic illness math.

They are not the same.

Not even a little bit.

Because according to normal human math:

Eight hours of sleep should equal feeling rested.

One small errand should equal a normal functioning day.

A quiet weekend should equal restored energy.

And yet.

My body routinely looks at these perfectly reasonable equations and says:

“Absolutely not.”

➕ The Math That Never Maths

Chronic illness math looks more like this:

8 hours of sleep = still tired

One appointment = full system reboot required

“I feel pretty good today” = mysterious consequences tomorrow

Cold weather = muscles immediately filing formal complaints

It’s less of a calculator situation…

…and more of a weather prediction crossed with interpretive dance.

Because as Annie Elise so perfectly puts it —the math ain’t mathing. 🤣

At this point I would just like someone — anyone — to explain it to me like I’m five.

🐶 Bingo Energy, Muffin Spirit (Revisited)

Spiritually, I am still very much:

✨ Bingo energy

🔥 Muffin spirit

Which means on the outside I am trying to be gentle and reasonable……but internally, when my body does something chaotic, there is a small Muffin voice going:

“EXCUSE ME???”

Especially when I’m tired.

Or cold.

Or — and this is very important —hungry.

🥄 Learning the New Math

The longer I live in this body, the more I’m learning:

This isn’t broken math.

It’s just… different math.

It’s a system where:

rest counts more than pushing

small wins count more than big plans

and listening to my body is more accurate than any calendar I’ve ever owned

Some days I still get frustrated.

Okay — many days.

But I’m slowly learning that working with my body instead of arguing with it tends to go… significantly better.

(Results may vary. Muffin still makes occasional appearances. Especially if I’m hangry)

🌱 Gentle Reminder

If your body’s math doesn’t make sense either…You are not doing it wrong.

You are not lazy.

You are not imagining things.

You are just living in a body that plays by different rules.

And honestly?

We’re doing pretty amazing considering the circumstances.

💛 Softly chaotic. Medically complicated. Still standing.

Phrase “the math ain’t mathing” lovingly borrowed from Annie Elise because… honestly… accurate.

A small brown dog mid-bark with an open mouth, looking excited and slightly chaotic. Overlaid text reads “Bingo energy, Muffin spirit,” conveying playful humor.

Field Notes: Bingo Energy, Muffin Spirit

February 16, 2026 / Sandi / 0 Comments

My spouse and I recently watched all of Bluey.

(All of it. No regrets.)

Somewhere around season three, we reached a consensus:

I have the personality of Bingo…but the spirit of Muffin.

Which, honestly, explains a lot.

On the outside, I am gentle. Thoughtful. Observant. I notice feelings. I want everyone to be okay. I try to be kind. I apologize when I bump into furniture.

Internally?

Pure Muffin.

Somewhere deep inside me lives Muffin in her grumpy grandma era: wildly confident, slightly feral, and absolutely prepared to argue over a scooter if necessary.

Especially if I’m hungry.

Winter has really brought this duality into focus.

My body wants softness. Blankets. Heating pads. Quiet. Rest.

My nervous system, meanwhile, is standing on the couch yelling, “THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE,” because it’s cold, the schedule changed, and someone suggested doing a thing.

I will be calm and reasonable for hours — and then completely unravel because my shirt sleeves are bothering me.

Classic Muffin.

I’m learning that listening to my body doesn’t always look serene and enlightened. Sometimes it looks like negotiating with a tiny, loud inner creature who is technically correct but extremely dramatic.

So we compromise.

Bingo gets:

gentleness

rest

warmth

compassion

Muffin gets:

snacks

very firm boundaries

a heating pad

and permission to stomp around a little (metaphorically….but sometimes literally)

And honestly?

It’s working.

Some days, healing looks like deep breathing and reflection.

Some days, it looks like laughter.

And some days, it looks like saying, “Okay, okay — I hear you,” and making another cup of coffee.

Field notes from winter:

I contain multitudes.

Some of them are cartoon dogs.

All of them deserve care.

A cozy winter living room with a lit fireplace, soft blankets and pillows on a couch, and candles glowing on a table. Snow falls outside the window. Overlaid text reads “Listening to My Body in Winter,” conveying warmth, rest, and attentiveness.

Field Notes: Listening to My Body in Winter

January 12, 2026 / Sandi

❄️ Winter has a way of making things honest.

The cold settles into my joints faster. Muscles tighten more easily. My body speaks up sooner — not dramatically, just clearly. I’ve learned that if I don’t listen early, it will insist later.

For a long time, I treated winter like something to push through. I kept the same pace, the same expectations, the same internal pressure — and paid for it with flares, exhaustion, and a body that felt constantly on edge.

This season, I’m trying something different.

I’m paying attention to the small signals: when my shoulders creep up toward my ears, when my pelvic floor clenches, when rest feels necessary instead of optional. I’m noticing how much warmth helps, how slowing down changes the volume of pain, how choosing gentler movement can be enough.

Listening doesn’t mean giving up.

It means responding sooner.

Some days that looks like doing less.

Some days it looks like doing things differently.

Most days, it looks like letting winter be winter — quieter, slower, and more contained.

I’m learning that my body isn’t asking for perfection or productivity. It’s asking for care, consistency, and permission to move at a pace that doesn’t hurt.

This season, I’m listening — and letting that be enough. ❄️