About nine years ago, at age 36, I found myself lying on the cold bathroom floor, utterly convinced that I was going to die. My body had betrayed me yet again. I was consumed by pain—physical pain that felt like it was eating me alive from the inside out. I had spent so much of my adulthood battling inflammation, autoimmune diseases, and the endless fatigue that came with them. But that day was different. The pain was so overwhelming that I couldn’t move, couldn’t get up, couldn’t even crawl out of the bathroom.
I remember just lying there, paralyzed, knowing deep down that something was terribly wrong—that I was bleeding internally. And yet, I didn’t call for help. I didn’t try to get to the hospital, even though I knew I should. Part of me thought that maybe it was just better this way. The thought of dying didn’t scare me as much as the thought of living another day in this relentless pain. I was so exhausted—physically and emotionally—so mentally drained from years of suffering.
There was a sense of defeat in that moment. I just laid there, thinking that this would be it. I couldn’t fight anymore. I remember feeling embarrassed, though I’m not sure why. Maybe I thought my family was tired of hearing me complain about how awful I felt all the time, especially since I never physically looked sick. They couldn’t see the toll it was taking on me. They couldn’t feel the weight of every day.
I was in such a dark place. Mentally, emotionally, physically—I felt broken, like I’d been carrying a burden that no one else could understand. But the crazy thing is, I didn’t even realize how deep I was in it. I couldn’t see it then. I couldn’t see how far I had fallen.
I think that moment on the bathroom floor was a turning point in some way—though at the time, it didn’t feel like it. I was so lost in the pain and the exhaustion that I didn’t know how to move forward. But in hindsight, I think it’s when I finally hit rock bottom. I didn’t know it then, but something in me had started to shift, even if I couldn’t feel it.
Maybe this was the moment that I began to recognize I couldn’t keep going like that—stuck, fighting alone. Maybe this is where the real journey began.
So, how did I end up in that state, you might wonder? Well, the truth is, it didn’t happen overnight. Over the course of my late 20s and all of my 30s, I was plagued by more than 20 different symptoms. It felt like I was living in a constant state of surprise, waking up each day not knowing which part of my body would decide to betray me that day. Every day brought something new—sometimes it was joint pain, sometimes it was digestive issues, or a fatigue so deep I couldn’t lift my head. Some days I would wake up and wonder, What sweet hell is my body going to throw at me today?
To manage it, I started my mornings with four ibuprofens just to get through the first few hours. And then, like clockwork, I’d take more throughout the day—every four hours just to function. But it wasn’t enough. It never felt like enough. I had to use nasal spray every night just to be able to sleep, something I’d been doing since my early 20s. I was always stuffed up. And the thing is, I knew it wasn’t normal, but I didn’t know what else to do.
And I know what you’re probably thinking—Why didn’t you go to the doctor? Well, I did. I went several times, in fact. But every time, it was the same story. The same advice. "Just take some over-the-counter pain relievers. Try the nasal spray again. Eat better. Exercise more." It felt like I was getting the same tired script over and over, and none of it was working. Even when I tried to explain that I was already taking two or three ibuprofens at a time, multiple times a day, the doctors just told me to up the dosage. "Take more." It felt so dismissive.
I trusted my doctors. I followed their advice because I wanted to feel better—I just wanted something to work. I wanted to believe there was an answer out there. But despite all my efforts, nothing changed. I had x-rays done on my stomach, and I was told I was just "gassy" and had a big air bubble stuck in my gut. Or sometimes, the diagnosis was just constipation. No one ever gave me real answers or any kind of true guidance. It felt like I was stuck in a loop, constantly trying to find relief, but never getting any closer to the help I needed.
I don’t know why I kept pushing forward like that. Maybe it was because I trusted the process, or maybe because I didn’t know any other way to deal with it. I kept hoping that eventually, the pain would subside, or that the next doctor would finally understand what was wrong. But at some point, I realized I was just surviving—not living—and that was a hard pill to swallow.
Looking back, I can see how much I was suffering. I don’t think I even realized how far gone I was, physically and mentally, until I hit that breaking point on the bathroom floor. But now, at least, I can see how I was doing everything I could to push through it, even if it wasn’t getting me anywhere.
During these years, I had become a mom of 2, running a home daycare and trying to be the best mom and wife I could be. I felt failure a lot because I know I missed a lot of activities with my kids because I didn’t have the energy to do them or most of the time it was because I hurt so fucking bad, I physically just could not go on a bike ride, play outside or go for a walk. It killed me inside knowing my family was looking at my outer appearance wondering how sick I could possibly be.
I was smiling and pretending like everything was okay, but inside, I was crumbling. I wasn’t sure if they could sense it, but I felt like I was letting them down. The guilt weighed so heavy—guilt that I wasn’t the mom they needed me to be, that I wasn’t the partner my husband deserved. I felt like I was letting everyone down, including myself. I wanted to be present. I wanted to be an active, engaged mom who could play with her kids and go on adventures. But instead, I was stuck in this constant cycle of pain and exhaustion, and I couldn’t find a way out.
Looking back on things like our Disney vacations, I still can’t believe I made it through them. Those trips were so hard on me physically; I can only imagine how many ibuprofens and Tylenol I must have taken just to keep going. I know my stomach disrupted them enough and I was fighting to keep it together daily. Even now, I wonder how I managed to push through.
It was like I was watching my life from the sidelines, too tired and too sick to participate fully, but not able to tell anyone how deeply it was affecting me. I don’t know why I couldn’t ask for help or admit to my family just how bad things were. Maybe it was pride, or maybe I was just too afraid of being a burden.
But I felt it—every day. The physical pain, the mental strain, the emotional exhaustion. And all the while, I kept going, because I had to. My family depended on me. And yet, the harder I pushed through it, the more I felt like I was losing myself. I didn’t know how to balance it all anymore. I didn’t know how to be the person I wanted to be when my body wouldn’t let me.
I don’t think I even realized how much I was suffering at the time. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other, thinking maybe tomorrow would be better. But most days, it wasn’t. And the worst part? I felt so alone in it all. I was surrounded by people who loved me, but no one could see how deeply I was hurting.
At this point, I had gained so much weight that I was at my heaviest—back to the weight I was when pregnant with my second child. I couldn’t stand looking in the mirror, and I felt terrible about myself. Around age 34, I decided it was time to get serious about my health. I started working out and eating right. The beginning was incredibly tough, but I pushed through the joint pain. Over the next year, I kept up a routine, running 3-4 times a week, eating healthier, and unfortunately taking way too much ibuprofen just to manage the pain.
Things were starting to improve, but the progress was short-lived. A year into my journey and just 20 pounds from my goal weight, I hit a major plateau. I joined Weight Watchers, hoping it would help, but then the weight started creeping back on. When the Weight Watchers group couldn’t figure it out, I panicked and went to my doctor. I knew I was sticking to my diet and doing everything right. My doctor prescribed phentermine to help with those last 20 pounds. By the end of that year, I was down to just 10 pounds from my goal, but after Christmas, everything fell apart.
That same year, I went through a lot emotionally, keep that in mind as I tell the rest of this story. My body started breaking down again—severe joint pain returned, and my stomach issues, which had improved for a while, came back worse than ever. My ankles were constantly swollen and painful, and my neck pain was so intense I had headaches all the time, despite seeing a chiropractor. It felt like my body was turning against me, all over again. Slowly, I gave up running, the weight started coming back faster, and I was constantly bloated and feeling terrible every day. I went back to the doctor, but my concerns were brushed off.
Fast forward three years, and my symptoms were now all over the place. I’d regained all the weight, and I felt like I was dying, collapsed on my bathroom floor, vomiting profusely, chronic diarrhea, and internal bleeding.
Somehow, my body managed to get it together, and after a few hours on the floor, I was able to get up and make it to the doctor that week. Funny enough, by the next day, it was as if nothing had happened—that’s how unpredictable my symptoms could be. Finally, I was referred to a specialist, and to make a long story a bit shorter, I ended up seeing five different specialists and had two colonoscopies. Each doctor had a different guess, or no answers at all. One gastroenterologist suggested I might have Crohn’s disease, saying he saw some ulcers between my intestines and wanted to “chalk it up to Crohn’s,” prescribing an expensive medication and a follow-up in three months. I walked out and went for a 2nd opinion. My intuition was nudging me hard at this point, even though I didn’t know it at the time.
The next gastroenterologist told me to stop taking ibuprofen completely. I remember thinking, how will I survive without it? But I followed his advice and stopped for a month. After another colonoscopy, the ulcers had disappeared, so at least I learned the ibuprofen was damaging my insides and was likely the cause of the ulcers. He also tested me for celiac disease, which came back negative. Once the test was negative, he shut down any further food issues. I told him everything I read about a gluten allergy made a lot of sense with my many symptoms I felt it held some real value, but he shook his head and said your either allergic or you’re not, sensitivity is not a thing. He just stopped talking about diet and foods altogether at that point. He may have given up, but I didn’t and that was the last time I went to him. I started looking into food sensitivities and how they impact the body. I never realized food could cause so many issues—even without a full-blown allergy. So, I began experimenting, eliminating certain foods from my diet, and sure enough, dairy and gluten turned out to be big problems for me. I even tried an at-home food sensitivity test and discovered that eggs—something I ate almost every day—were a significant trigger for my inflammation and joint pain. I couldn’t believe none of the doctors had considered my diet as a possible factor.
I also saw a rheumatologist who initially seemed determined to solve the puzzle. After countless vials of blood, everything came back normal. His final advice was to lose weight, saying it was just “calories in and calories out.” This was devastating because I’d already told him I’d been running 3-4 times a week and was in the best shape of my adult life, only to have the weight pile back on rapidly as my body started rejecting everything I ate and did.
I remember going to my car in tears, calling my husband and vowing I was done with doctors. No one was listening, and I felt like I’d be stuck in this painful cycle forever.
So, I kept eliminating the three problem foods, and I was finally on the road to recovery. Cutting them out made me feel so much better, and for the next five years, most of my symptoms disappeared—I thought I was healed. Losing weight was still a struggle, though, and something I’m still working on. All this health chaos had turned me into an emotional eater, so that’s been another ongoing battle, but I’ll get to that later in another blog.
Physically, I was doing much better, but it wasn’t easy. I felt angry that I couldn’t enjoy my favorite foods anymore. I’d go weeks without eating them, then test the waters and feel fine, so I’d eat them again—only to end up right back where I started. Cooking became frustrating too; now I had to work around my dietary restrictions, vegetarian family member, and everyone else’s regular diets. Cooking, which I once loved, became a chore, and grocery shopping was even worse. It was exhausting to constantly search for new foods and test gluten-free products, which mostly tasted terrible. Thankfully, more options started popping up, and food sensitivities became more widely acknowledged—even though, deep down, I knew this wasn't "normal" for so many people to be dealing with.
About six years in, though, my stomach issues slowly started coming back. It got to the point where even my husband asked why I was having so many problems again. I wasn’t sure either. By that time, I had been focusing on eating mindfully and appreciating life’s little things. When you feel like you’re dying, you start to look at life differently. I found myself treasuring things I’d once taken for granted—the sunsets, sunrises, nature in general. So, when I saw a Facebook post in Dec. 2021, by Meg Zechel about a healing circle, I was intrigued. She was introducing a type of healing practice in our community, and I knew I wanted to try it. I don’t recall exactly what the post said, but I remember thinking, “This is a sign from God!”. I missed the first 3 circles, but by April 2022, I attended my first healing circle. I had never meditated before, didn’t really believe in it, and honestly had no idea what I was doing. But I was open to trying something new and truly felt I was meant to see her FB post.
My first healing circle was a profound experience. I saw a lot of colors, felt all kinds of physical sensations, both good and bad, and my late grandmother was on my mind when I came out of the meditation. I woke up crying, feeling like I’d felt her presence. Whether she actually visited me or not, I’m not sure, but I was deeply moved, and it felt real to me.
Over the next year, I attended as many healing circles and classes with Meg as I could. And that’s how I ended up falling in love with crystals, which you can read more about on my website if you haven’t already.
My journey has been a long one, and you may be wondering why I’m sharing all this. Here’s why: over the past year and a half, I’ve realized that I didn’t just wake up one day suddenly allergic to these foods. Through this healing journey, I learned that our emotions are at the root of so much dis-ease in our bodies. During my sessions, I discovered that I was still holding on to a lot of childhood trauma, especially resentment and anger toward certain men in my life—men who should have protected me and loved me unconditionally but couldn’t. I realized I had been living in a constant state of fight or flight since a very young child. My body had been storing all this “stuff” I thought I’d gotten over. But I was wrong.
All the things I’d done in the past to “get over it” were just temporary band-aids. And, like a band-aid with tiny holes, my emotions had been slowly leaking out over the years until my body finally ripped it off. That moment on the bathroom floor was a wake-up call. Thirty years of holding onto this “SHIT” finally caught up with me.
Over the past year and a half, I did a lot of deep work, sitting with emotions I’d long buried, cutting cords, and detaching from relationships that no longer served my best interests. I realized I needed to forgive myself—not those who hurt me, but myself. I had allowed my fathers to take my power, and as much as I love them, I had to let go. I had to accept that, no matter how hard I tried, those relationships would never be healthy or balanced. My constant disappointment and anger hurt only me, not them, and looking back, I can see that my body had been trying to tell me this all along.
I vividly remember the healing circle where I finally released that pent-up anger and cut those cords. It was an intensely physical and emotional experience, not only in that moment but in the days that followed. To say it blew me away would be an understatement. I felt a lightness in my heart that I hadn’t even realized was possible. Letting go was life-altering, and I am genuinely a different person than I was a year and a half ago.
One thing I didn’t mention earlier is that, during my worst days, I was carrying so much frustration and anger—not only about my health but also the emotional baggage I was lugging around. I wasn’t the best mom, wife, daughter, or friend. Looking back, I see many times when I was rude, bitter, even hostile. I was an emotional wreck and often a real nightmare to be around. My struggles became my children’s struggles. And my husband—I am so grateful he has my back. He’s seen many different versions of me over the years, and through it all, he’s continued to love me. I feel like the universe knew I’d need someone like him, and I can never thank him enough for showing me what a good partner and father truly looks like.
I've become a much more peaceful, thankful, and happier person, and for the past year, I've even been able to eat gluten again. Dairy, however, is still a challenge. Looking back, I realize that dairy has probably been an issue for me most of my life. There were signs that started even in childhood—like the chronic nasal congestion, acne, and itchy skin—that I should have avoided dairy all along.
While I’ve healed so much and cleared away a lot of stagnant energy through daily meditation and weekly chakra work, I know I've only just begun my journey. I'm continually learning about energy work, crystals, and various healing modalities. As part of my growth, I decided to open my own crystal healing business, embracing vulnerability in the hope of helping others who may be struggling with emotional or physical dis-ease.
My mission is to provide a safe space where people can be open, authentic, and free to let go of whatever they need to. I want to support those who, like me, may feel they’ve tried everything and are seeking a more holistic approach to healing—one that nurtures both the body and mind, helping to revive the spirit and reconnect with one's true self.
Please know, you are not alone. We all have shit, and we all have healing to do and sometimes it takes the right person or tribe to come along and guide you there.
Blessings & Healing,
Jamie Lynn
Disclaimer: This blog is not intended as a recommendation to stop following your doctor’s orders or to discontinue medical care. It is simply my personal story and the healing path that has worked for me. My intention is to offer an additional modality to enhance your well-being.
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