re-entry

It's been almost three years since I've written anything in this space. I'm sitting in front of my computer, trying to arrive at a succinct explanation for my silence. And the truth is, there isn't one. It's complicated. I've been busy. I've been sick. And I've been growing in ways that felt too personal to write about until the journey was more fully formed. But I have to start somewhere, and so I'm doing what I've written about in the past: I'm beginning again.

Because it has been three years, it felt important to reintroduce myself, and to share a little about this quiet life and why I'm here. My name is Misty. I'm 53. I'm a Canadian, living near Victoria, British Columbia on Vancouver Island.

How was this quite life born? In September 2019, I experienced a basilar migraine that shut down my brainstem. I couldn't swallow, had difficulty breathing, and became paralyzed. I could only communicate by blinking my eyes. Essentially, I was locked inside my body. The ambulance crews told my husband that I was having a major stroke, and to get my family to the hospital to say good-bye. My time in the ER was chaotic and confusing, but it was established quite quickly that I hadn't had a stroke. Rather, I was experiencing a rare type of neurological migraine. Four hours later, I walked out of the hospital without any residual effects, aside from a roaring headache.

The days that followed were tender and emotional. What would have happened if I'd been driving, or if I'd been all alone? (I'd always have time to call for help, once I recognized the aura that preceded a basilar migraine.) Would this happen again? (Yes, it would, multiple times, in a variety of settings and circumstances.) Could I have died? (No, but loss of my swallowing reflex could have caused aspiration of fluid into my lungs, which could have caused aspiration pneumonia.) My husband (I refer to him as AH here - short for Amazing Husband) and I walked and talked for hours, trying to process and decompress and integrate the trauma of that day.

And then, a week or two after my medical emergency, on a typical day at work, I was walking into a room, and I heard a voice whisper to me: "You're going to write. And it's going to be a blog. And you're going to call it This Quiet Life." Weird, right? Except, that night when I got home, I did a search and the domain name was available. So I claimed it, and built my website, and I started writing posts.

Early on, writing was easy. I was still experiencing near-daily 'typical' migraines (I lived with them for four years, from 2017 until 2021), and every few months I would go down with a basilar migraine. Lots of writing material was readily available, and writing helped me to process what I was navigating in my life at that time. And then, in May 2021 I started having hot flashes. Menopause had arrived. And with my menopausal transition, my migraines stopped cold. Quite literally, the day of my first hot flash was the day my chronic migraines ended.

One would assume that being freed from near-daily excruciating pain would have been cause for celebration. Instead, I fell down a deep hole. I quite literally didn't know how to do my life without migraines. My whole identity had gotten wrapped up in suffering and the migraine chain that was completely beyond my control. I had difficulty trusting that the relief would continue, and that day after day after day, I would be able to live my life as I wanted. But then, in August that year, I celebrated my birthday - without a migraine. We moved and renovated a space in our new home to move our business into, and in November we celebrated our opening day - without a migraine. In December, I decorated our Christmas tree - without a migraine. I hadn't realized how many special occasions had been coloured by my migraines. But finally, by the end of 2021, I was able to trust that life could begin again without them.

Early in 2022, I was finding my stride again. Starting to exercise, feeling more energy, and wanting to get out in the world. We went on an epic snowshoeing trip to Whistler in early March. It rained every day, but we covered so much ground and enjoyed every moment. We celebrated our release from mask-wearing at work (we'd been mandated to mask at work since the start of the pandemic in April 2020) with an unmasked trip into the city in late April. And one week later, I tested positive for COVID. It was a miserable week, but I made it through. But three weeks later, I ended up in the ER because I couldn't breathe. I felt like I had an elephant on my chest. Post-viral pericarditis was the diagnosis. The sac around my heart was inflamed, and that was the cause of the intense pressure in my chest. I was assured that with medication and rest, I'd recover fully.

But the doctors didn't quite have it right, and the unfortunate reality is that my initial bout of post-COVID pericarditis was the start of a long, downhill spiral into Long COVID. If you know anyone who's been affected by Long COVID, you know the story: fatigue, intolerance to simple activities of daily living, intolerance to exercise, brain fog, body aches, and a sense of malaise that makes even simple tasks difficult. And so, my absence the last three years has largely been because I just couldn't bear to continue writing alongside another long-term illness. I've been working and doing life, but I didn't have the space or capacity for putting my writing out into the world. I've had two additional bouts of pericarditis, the most recent in February of this year. Recovery takes months. But I have a great naturopath who understands the factors that are driving my symptoms, and knows how to support my recovery.

I began journaling when I was down with my second bout of COVID in May 2024, and it's been a powerful tool. My personal writing has allowed me to unpack my menopausal transition and has helped me to understand what it means to step into this midlife season that's been unfurling over the last three years since my migraines ended. I've written my way back to myself, really, this last 18 months. I didn't realize how far off track I'd gotten, or how loose the thread had become. Just last week I finished my first journal and placed it on a shelf. It feels so appropriate that I'm beginning a new journal as I'm returning to writing in this space.

Why am I returning to this quiet life? In May this year, AH and I did a six day walking trip in Tuscany. It sparked something in me, and I have acquired a passion for long walks. I still can't do high intensity exercise, but my body loves to walk and tolerates long distances. And so, I planned a second walk, pilgrimage style, in the Eastern Townships of Quebec for this fall. In the first week of October, I walked 103km over five days on Le Circuit de l'Abbaye. Those days in the Townships have left a potent imprint on my spirit. I feel more able to live in alignment with what I expected my life to look like back when I wrote my first post in the fall of 2019. I finally feel able to return to putting my writing out in public. And that is why I've returned to this space.

For me, this quiet life isn't just a writing space. It's a living space. It's a learning space. It's a growing space. It's a space where resiliency and perseverance are faithful companions. And after these long years of walking in so much hardship, I'm ready for life to begin again. It's a soft launch, with low expectations. But I'm so excited to be back here. Thanks for joining me!