Sometimes the beauty and hope of a new year turns into a rapidly deteriorating storyline.

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I have a long list of ideas for upcoming posts, but my fingers hesitate to string words together with each attempted keystroke. Because not talking about the start of this year feels like delaying an inevitable explanation for where my mind has been wandering the last several months.

The first week of January was relatively kind to my family, but we could all feel a shift on the horizon. A gradual one was anticipated. Instead, life toppled everyone over. And though the full story and series of events are not mine to share, my individual plot twist has been weighing on me.

Another life-threatening allergic reaction.

My first in over three years. A length of time that allows enough confidence and comfort to creep in and convince you the last one, maybe, was the LAST ONE.

Obviously, the vulnerability to anaphylaxis does not simply disappear because a certain number of days, months, or years go by. The possibility is, however, a nice thought to entertain.

Everything went right care wise, thank goodness. My purse had new EpiPens picked up from the pharmacy a week prior. I was not alone. An emergency medical team was available almost immediately. The treatment protocol from ER doctors and nurses worked as intended and I was discharged home eight hours later.

Recovery has gone as well as possible. My doctors were thorough in the aftermath, preventing additional complications. The only remaining physical evidence is a slightly thinner frame. Regaining the lost weight is happening at a slower pace than desired.

Mentally, everything has lingered. Frustration over anaphylaxis happening in the first place, despite taking all my usual precautions. Guilt over causing my family to worry about me during a time when enough pain and sadness existed. The temporary pity party over severe allergies interfering with all aspects of my life is going strong, too.

I know these feelings are normal and expected, despite previously resembling a secret. Sometimes releasing their existence into the world helps fade the amplification.

Another emergency room visit timestamps the arc of this story. Surely not the last. Hopefully the next one is many years down the road.

As always, thank you for being here.

The rhythmic sound of rain eases me to sleep, whether hitting windowpanes at home, dancing across Dandy’s exposed roof, or playing on a calming phone app.

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Gentle rain has long been a lullaby to my sleepy mind. A forecast of overnight showers meant less tossing and turning and more pillowcase wrinkles on my face come morning.

No wonder my years living in Portland, Oregon were some of the most well rested of my life. Aside from a few warm months during summer, my bedroom window was cracked open, letting in a cool breeze as raindrops tapped the glass almost nightly.

The first spring road trip in Dandy was filled with passing quiet storms. Light enough to keep the roof fan open with a rain guard. Hard enough to hear every individual raindrop dance across the slatted roof a few feet above my bed.

Those fifty-five degree nights with light showers sang me to sleep.

Beautifully. Delicately. Soundly.

I never felt the need to supplement rainy night sounds during dry months, after moving back east. Until a few years ago when my ears began to ring constantly. Seemingly out of nowhere.

During the day, the ambient noise around the house and humming out of speakers made the sound less noticeable. But at night, well, it was all I could hear. And restful sleep became a distant memory.

Hearing tests and MRI scans showed all was well. Functionally and structurally. No tumors, either (thank goodness). Eventually, the ringing in my right ear stopped and my left became slightly worse before settling back to a manageable decibel. This prompted repeat testing and scans (all still normal) and an “I don’t know why this is happening” diagnosis.

The sound of fans didn’t help. Neither did a set of suggested exercises. But then one night it rained hard enough to cancel out every other sound in my bedroom. And I finally fell right to sleep. Waking well rested with imprints of proof across my cheeks.

I still hold out hope to one day wake up to both ears void of ringing. Until then, an app on my phone plays the sounds of rain hitting a skylight. On a loop. Not far from my pillow. For the first hour in bed each night.

Not quite as good as Portland’s rainy season or camping in a rain forest, but it will do.

Here’s a short clip from inside Dandy, during a dark and rainy night camping in a forest.

As always, thank you for being here.

When my body has prolonged moments of settling down, usually between autoimmune flares or allergic reactions, it can feel like driving along the edge of a storm.

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We often know when a storm is on the way. The air smells like rain. A familiar ache in your bones. The more obvious ominous clouds rolling across the sky. Seeing a colorful footprint on radar maps.

Experts predict the intensity, with varying accuracy, to help us brace for impact.

Navigating a chronic illness can often feel like experiencing turbulent weather. Some days, or even months, can be full of sunshine and enjoyable conditions. Maybe a treatment protocol is finally working, or a lifestyle change has a big impact on settling symptoms. In some cases, the time of year or season is to thank.

I love these periods of reprieve and try to take full advantage of the good days while also not overdoing, well, everything.

This was easier in my twenties and thirties. As long as my asthma was well managed, my lungs and heart (SVT) mostly stayed happy. An acute respiratory infection might set me back a week or two, but otherwise my health was relatively predictable. Plus, eliminating gluten due to a celiac disease diagnosis significantly decreased my migraines. I only had two other food allergies to worry about, too. Much simpler times.

If you happen to receive my Beautiful Escape newsletter, most of the photos shared were captured during those years.

The shift was slow at first. One new diagnosis at a time. Trading years of stability for months. Eventually it reached a tipping point in 2022 and now I celebrate good days and weeks instead.

I can always see the storm clouds on the horizon, hoping they change course before meeting me. Or pass by quickly, causing as little damage as possible to clean up in the aftermath. Sometimes I find myself cruising parallel to the downpour. Waiting to see if a misstep on my part will alter its path. Raining down on me.

Each day requires calculated decisions. Taking specific medication at specific times. Getting creative with limited food options to avoid allergens. Knowing triggers and creating a safe distance.

Sometimes it is only a matter of time. Like last week’s arrival of spring weather bringing the onset of my annual cluster headaches. Summer will deliver heat intolerance. At least winter’s extreme Raynaud’s flares seem to be over.

Fall is always nice, though.

As always, thank you for being here.

Living on the road for days, weeks, even months on end may be a closed chapter. And that is alright.

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During my twenties and thirties, several days in January were dedicated to blocking out tentative dates for road trips. Weekend getaways. A week here or there. And at least one long drive spanning a few months or an entire season.

The notes app on my phone had a running list of parks, forests, mountain peaks, and small towns to explore. Mostly collected from rest stop brochures, paper maps, brown road signs, strangers at scenic overlooks, and grocery store locals.

A quick glance reveals each list was last updated in 2023. Shortly after optimistically planning a few fall road trips. My mind was brimming with confidence while the rest of my body needed another nap. I was a few months out from an anaphylaxis reaction to a new food allergy and recovery was not going well.

I always knew my food allergies would interfere with spending time on the road. Perhaps keeping me away from true wilderness areas with no cell service. Maybe giving up months on the road for a few weeks instead. Or minimizing the travel radius from my front door.

Small concessions. Gradual shifts. Slowing down.

Stopping altogether? A truly unexpected outcome.

Dandy and I attempted traveling twice last year. One trip went better than the other. Both were a challenge. Turns out having nine severe food allergies and MCAS disrupts travel days from start to finish.

So much food prep. An unrelenting medication schedule. Running into Dandy to eat the second my timer went off. Discovering a new heat intolerance. Getting stuck in traffic at inopportune times. Somehow not having enough cleaning wipes. Glade plugins attempting to steal my ability to breathe. Being allergic to grass.

One hit after another.

In retrospect, the confidence I had leaving my house for the first trip was hilariously high. I spent a full week preparing and felt so ready while releasing Dandy’s parking brake.

Visiting with family I had not seen in far too long was wonderful and worth every hurdle stumbled over.

But the actual act of traveling? Something I once spent more calendar days enjoying than anything else? Miserable. No desire to do this recreationally anytime in the future.

Chapters are meant to end.

I had an extraordinary twenty year run of aggressive travel. Every opportunity to hit the road was grabbed, extended beyond reason, and treasured down to the minute.

What a privilege.

As always, thank you for being here.