Dear Stranger,

Dear Stranger,

I’ve been thinking about you. Yes, you—the one reading this right now. Maybe you’re sitting at your desk, fighting off the wave of exhaustion that comes with another day of just getting through it. Maybe you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, already overwhelmed by the mountain of responsibilities waiting for you tomorrow. The things you should be doing, the things you want to do—but your body just isn’t cooperating.

It’s okay. Really, it’s okay.

I don’t know your story, but I know how it feels. Some days, the world expects you to be superhuman—to keep going, keep showing up, keep performing—even when your legs are shaking and your brain is foggy. And then there are the days where all you can do is breathe and tell yourself, “I’ll just make it through today.”

But let me tell you something: I see you. And more importantly, I feel you.

I wake up every day at war with my own body. If you’ve never had to fight yourself just to do basic things—get out of bed, make a cup of coffee, brush your damn hair—it’s hard to explain. It’s like waking up inside a body that isn’t yours. A body that aches, that feels heavy, that resists you at every turn.

Fibromyalgia is a thief. It steals your energy, your ability to think clearly, your sense of self. You try to hold on, but it’s like gripping oil—slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try.

There are mornings when getting out of bed feels like scaling mount Andes with no rope. You want to stay under the covers, just a little longer. Just a few more minutes of pretending the world isn’t waiting. But life doesn’t care. Bills need paying. Kids need feeding. Work expects you to show up and be present—whatever the hell that means.

Not long ago, I sat at my desk in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, staring blankly at my screen. I should have been working. Answering emails. Doing what I was supposed to do. But my brain wasn’t working. My body wasn’t cooperating.

It was one of those days—where my legs felt like lead, my arms like they were weighed down by bricks, my mind wrapped in a fog so thick I could barely think. It was 2 PM. I had been awake for hours, but I still felt like I had just woken up.

My supervisor—a kind woman—sent me a message: “How are you doing?”

And I remember thinking, How do I answer that without sounding like I’m failing?

How do you explain to someone that it feels like you’re fighting a war inside your own skin? That every movement, every breath, feels like a battle?

I lied.

I typed, “I’m okay. Just a little under the weather today. I’ll be fine.”

But that was not accurate. And the truth is, I’ve been lying for years. Not just to others—to myself. And I’m tired of it.

So here I am. Being real. Telling you the truth. I’m struggling. And I know, deep down, you probably are too.

The Big Question: How Do We Keep Going?

The honest answer? I don’t know.

But I do know this: I can’t keep living like this.

For years, I’ve dreamed of being my own boss. Of building something on my own terms. But when you have limited energy, when every day feels like an uphill battle, that dream feels impossible.

Still, I’m done pretending. Done pushing myself beyond my limits to be the employee I should be while my body is screaming at me to slow down.

So I’m taking matters into my own hands.

I’m starting here, with this blog.

I’m writing this because I believe in the power of raw, honest connection. If my words can make you feel a little less alone—if they can bring you a moment of relief, of recognition—then maybe I’ve done something right.

But here’s the thing—this isn’t just a blog.

This is my hustle.

I’m not here to beg for money. I’m not here to drop pretty words and hope the universe throws me a lifeline.

I’m here because I need this. Because we need this.

I need a space where I can be real, where I can talk to people who get it—people living life pain for pain. After years of working through my illnesses, answering to bosses who don’t understand what it means to be in constant pain, I need something different.

I want to carve out a life where I’m not just surviving—I’m living.

But that takes time. And patience. And you.

So here’s my offer: I’m going to keep showing up. I’m going to keep pouring my soul into these words, into this space.

All I ask is that you stick with me.

Maybe my words will help you. Maybe they’ll make you laugh, or cry, or feel seen in a way you haven’t in a long time. Maybe we’ll build something together—a community, a refuge, a place where we don’t have to pretend anymore.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. You have no idea what it means to me to share this with you.

I don’t know where this journey will lead, but I know one thing—I don’t want to do it alone.

So, if you want to support this blog, if you want to help me build something that matters—stick around. Share this. Subscribe. Be part of this with me.

Because this right here—this honesty, this connection, this raw, unfiltered truth—is what makes life worth living.

With love,

Sarah