Growing up, my mom used to joke that I inherited her “accident-proneness.” She’d laugh, but I never found it funny. In fact, I didn’t think of myself as accident-prone at all—I just felt constantly in pain.
Yesterday was one of those days when every inch of my body ached. It was so overwhelming that my mind began to disassociate. In the past, I would have fought it—meditating harder, trying to stay present, and judging myself for not being able to handle it.
But through my healing journey, I’ve learned that the more I resist the pain and the dissociation, the worse it gets. So yesterday, I gave myself permission to rest. I allowed myself to feel the frustration and irritation as it came and went, without judgment.
As someone who is disabled, I feel grateful that I don’t have to force myself through the grind of corporate life on days like that anymore. But, of course, it comes at a cost. With only one income and no ability to work, it’s often hard to survive in today’s society.
I made it through yesterday by the skin of my teeth. I was irritable, short with my family, and couldn’t even find the energy to pay attention to my dog—who I usually adore. I didn’t judge myself for this. I’ve learned that some days, simply getting through it is enough. While I don’t justify being rude, I do my best to keep it in check and apologize when I know I’ve gone too far.
This, I’ve realized, is what it means to be human.
The journey of being a Wanderer is a difficult one. We often choose lives filled with catalysts—those lessons that come through the most intense experiences. And what’s the ultimate teacher? Pain.
This morning, at 3:38 am, I found myself kicking wildly in my sleep, terrified. I tried to scream, but no sound came out as the dark entity moved closer and closer. My husband shook me awake, and I gasped for breath, my chest heaving in the aftermath of the nightmare.
“I am safe; I am loved,” I repeated to myself, grounding myself back in the present moment.
When I woke up this morning, I felt the familiar twinge of pain in my knee. The nightmare, the kicking, had left its mark. My knee has been a source of discomfort since my early 30s, and today, I could barely put any weight on it. It’s another reminder of the fragile nature of my body, a body that, like many Wanderers, is often more vulnerable to physical and energetic imbalances. (If you’re curious about why this is common for Wanderers, read more about it here.)
Yesterday, I suspect I experienced another psychic attack. While I was vulnerable to interference—emotionally drained and grumpy—I had a simple task to do: cook edamame in the microwave. But in my haste and irritation, I pulled the plate out too quickly, unaware of the boiling water trapped at the bottom. It spilled out, scalding my arm and leg in an instant. The burn was intense, but it wasn’t just physical. It felt like an energetic wound, too, another reminder of how sensitive and susceptible my body can be.
As I sit with this, I’m reminded of the incredible sensitivity that comes with being a Wanderer. We experience the world on a different level—more attuned to energies, emotions, and experiences that others might miss. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, sometimes it’s painful, but it’s also deeply transformative.
And so, I choose to embrace these lessons with love, knowing that even in the pain, there is growth, and even in the vulnerability, there is strength.
