Yesterday was my birthday.

I wasn’t exactly looking forward to it,  no party plans, no balloons, no great expectations. Just another day of trying to keep it together while my body does its unpredictable chronic illness thing.

Still, I decided to take the day off. No work, no guilt. Just a quiet promise to focus on me.

And that’s when it happened, one of those rare days when the stars finally align, the universe stops ghosting you, and your body decides not to betray you for once.

Yeah, that happened.

After two long months of fatigue, pain, and medical-level mood swings, I woke up feeling… human. The kind of energy that makes you believe you could conquer the world, or at least your laundry.

So, naturally, I decided to conquer the day. And because I’m a visionary, I planned it all around one sacred mission: self-care.

First stop: the hair salon.

Now, if you’ve ever tried booking a last-minute salon appointment, you know it’s basically the adult version of winning the lottery.

First salon: no.

Second salon: no.

Third salon: “We can take you right now.”

Plot twist: it was right next to my house. What a joy!

Not only did she wash, blow-dry, and trim my undercut perfectly, but she looked at me and said the words every person dreams of hearing:

“You have such nice hair and colour!”

And because the universe was clearly in an uncharacteristically generous mood, there was a parking spot right in front of the salon. Not just one — two.

I even hesitated for a second, thinking, “No way, better park two streets away.”

But no. The universe said, “Girl, take the win.”

Back home, hair looking like it belonged in a shampoo commercial, I got flowers and cake. Actual, spontaneous celebration.

I didn’t even plan to feel good that day, yet there I was, main character energy, fully restored.

And because I’m an overachiever in joy, I decided to level up: sauna time.

Normally, finding a parking spot near the sauna is like finding hope during a Herx. But just as I was about to give up, someone walked out,  keys in hand, car leaving.

Universe: “You’re welcome.”

Three blissful hours later, I came home glowing, refreshed, ready for Netflix and dinner. No pain, no fatigue, no crash. Just… peace.

When you live with a chronic illness, days like this feel like divine comedy, the kind where the punchline is joy itself. They remind you what normal life feels like and why you keep pushing through the messy, painful, not-so-pretty ones.

I hadn’t been looking forward to my birthday.

But the universe had other plans, an unplanned, unexpected, perfectly timed celebration.

Thank you, universe. I’ll take the small miracles.

(But next time, maybe throw in a body that also conquered and overcame Lyme disease too. I know you can, and I can too 🙂)

I’m officially out of office today. Tomorrow is my birthday, 43, though honestly, I don’t feel like celebrating. This year has been… how do I put it nicely? A dumpster fire wearing a birthday hat. A bad dream with a sequel nobody asked for.

Chronic illness has a way of fast-forwarding the body clock, I may be 43 on paper, but my joints are out here celebrating 90 like it’s bingo night.

Still, I had a good breakfast. My spirits aren’t tragic. I even bought myself a cake and candles, there will be people singing, smiling, taking pictures, and I’ll do the same. Because sometimes you celebrate not out of joy, but out of habit, making appearances while the inside of you feels strangely quiet, like joy has gone on vacation without notice. Tomorrow, I plan a sauna day. I’ll call it “melting away the trauma”, self-care, but make it poetic.

This morning, as I took the dog out for her royal morning pee, I looked at my apple tree, the one I always see through my office window while working. Its leaves are falling fast, carpeting the ground like a golden resignation letter. It’s preparing for winter. And of course, my brain, the overthinker-in-chief, starts drawing analogies again.

Chronic pain feels like this moment: the tree stripped bare, every leaf (every ounce of energy) gone. No strength to bloom, no light to chase. Just standing there, exposed, in survival mode, waiting for something to shift. I mourn the spring I once had, when things felt lighter, and the summers that tasted sweet, like my own apples before life decided to throw worms at them.

But maybe, just maybe,  this is how healing works too. Maybe winter isn’t the end, just the intermission. A quiet pause before something green and stubborn decides to grow again.

So yes, this birthday feels bittersweet, more bitter than sweet, but still edible. I’m learning to sit with that. To rest like the tree. To trust that even when life feels stripped bare, there’s still something alive under the bark, quietly preparing for spring.