When Capacity Shrinks but the Calling Doesn’t
From the outside, my events look calm.
Crystal bowls.
Soft lighting.
Tea.
Gentle conversation.
And they are calm.
But calm does not mean my nervous system — or my body — is.
This Didn’t Start Last Year
I’ve had this business in some form for almost ten years.
Online coaching.
Offerings in between seasons of corporate work, marriage, divorce, motherhood.
Last year, I became a sound healer.
I became a Reiki Master.
I established Restorative Healing Haven physically in South Haven.
That wasn’t a whim.
It was the evolution of something I had been building quietly for a decade.
And at the same time, my health was shifting under me.
The Diagnoses That Changed the Landscape
In November 2024, I was diagnosed with PTSD.
In January 2026, autism became official.
I have confirmed Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome.
Cardiology is treating me under a Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome protocol — even though the formal diagnosis isn’t stamped yet.
Chronic fatigue and sciatica are documented in my chart.
An allergist is scheduled as we explore possible mast cell involvement.
SSDI paperwork sits in process.
This isn’t a finished list.
It’s a moving one.
January: The Wheelchair
In January, I started using a wheelchair more often.
At home.
At doctor’s appointments.
Sometimes even in my office.
I am ambulatory.
I can walk.
Sometimes.
But walking doesn’t always mean functioning.
Standing can spike my heart rate.
Joint instability builds.
Fatigue compounds.
Pain accumulates.
The wheelchair I use right now isn’t mine.
It’s borrowed.
Not fitted to my body.
Not built for my proportions.
So even the support is imperfect.
And because I am ambulatory, getting insurance to approve my own properly fitted chair is complicated.
It’s paperwork.
It’s justification.
It’s proving limitation.
It’s explaining that “can walk” does not mean “can sustain.”
There is something uniquely disorienting about needing a mobility aid while still being able to stand up.
It forces you to confront internalized narratives about what disability “should” look like.
It forces you to advocate while already exhausted.
That process is still unfolding.
And it’s hard.
The Expansion Season
When I established locally, I went all in.
Weekly sound healings.
Calm Connection gatherings.
Collaborations.
Part of it was passion.
Part of it was urgency.
If my body was changing, I wanted to build something meaningful while I could.
For a while, it worked.
Rooms filled.
Community grew.
There was rhythm.
I loved it.
The Decline No One Sees
But capacity didn’t stabilize.
There were events where I held space beautifully.
Then went home and lay on the floor.
There were weeks where recovery lasted longer than the gathering.
Between cardiology, PT/OT, SSDI stress, mobility aid navigation, and the constant recalibration of energy — I realized something sobering:
This isn’t a temporary dip.
This is adaptation inside a body that is still changing.
That realization carries grief.
I kept waiting for the month where everything would stabilize.
The appointment where someone would say, “Here’s the fix.”
The week where I’d bounce back.
That week hasn’t come.
The Recalibration
So I reduced events from weekly to 1–2 per month.
Not because I stopped caring.
Because I want to keep doing this at all.
Private bookings allow control.
Fewer public events allow recovery.
Intentional pacing allows regulation.
But I won’t pretend it feels empowering all the time.
I miss the weekly rhythm.
I miss not calculating the cost.
The Ongoing Tension
I am pursuing clarity.
I am pursuing tools.
I am pursuing stability through SSDI.
I am pursuing proper mobility equipment.
And I am grieving.
When capacity shrinks but the calling doesn’t, you live in tension.
You don’t get a clean comeback story.
You get adaptation.
And adaptation is messy, exhausting, and deeply human.