tending what aches
finding a way deeper when there is no way back
I really wished my word for the year was something stronger. Something with a bit more muscle to it, like Heal, Rise, Overcome, or Begin Again.
Instead, this is the word that keeps resonating with me:
Tend.
It sounds minor, but it’s actually incredibly hard to do. It means staying close, paying attention, and refusing to walk away.
When you live with chronic pain, your body starts to feel less like a home and more like a constant problem. It’s just something you’re tired of managing, explaining, and apologizing for, a relentless interruption to the life you actually wanted to live.
To be honest, I don’t always feel “tender” toward myself. Some days I’m just angry. Or embarrassed. Or tired of feeling old and terrified that this is just how things are from now on.
Trauma does that, too. It settles into your body. The past refuses to stay in the past; it shows up as rapid heartbeat, a knotted stomach, a clenched jaw, or a sudden, defensive bracing before you even know what you’re reacting to. I can try to intellectualize it and tell myself “I’m fine,” but my body never believes the lie.
Maybe that’s where tending actually starts: just telling the truth.
God, this hurts.
I’m so tired.
I don’t want to be brave today,
and I don’t want to find a lesson
or “wisdom” in this.
I just want to be held together.
That is a prayer in itself, and probably one of the most honest ones I have left.
I used to think wholeness meant getting back to who I was before everything unraveled: before the diagnosis, the grief, and the ache took root. I don’t believe that anymore. I don’t think there is a way back. But maybe there’s a way deeper.
I don’t mean deeper into the pain; I have no desire to romanticize suffering. Pain just sucks, plain and simple. I mean deeper into mercy, honesty, and the kind of love that doesn’t require me to be functional or impressive to be worthy of care.
That is what tending means to me now. It’s not about fixing myself, shaming myself into healing, or pretending to be grateful for my wounds. It’s simply learning not to abandon the parts of me that hurt.
I think about how Jesus interacted with hurting bodies. He was never bothered by them. He never turned away, and he never asked people to make their pain more presentable before he’d come near. He just came close.
Maybe that’s still what love does. It comes close. It sits on the edge of the bed. It brings a glass of water. It cancels the day’s plans and just breathes slowly with you. Love looks at a brutal day and says, “This is really hard,” without trying to force a positive spin on the end of the sentence.
Some days, tending looks like real rest. Some days it’s swallowing my pride and asking for help. Other days, it’s just doing one tiny, manageable thing and letting that be enough.
And on the hardest days, it’s just remembering a few quiet truths:
I am still here.
God is still here.
And this body
as tired, afraid, and broken
as it feels right now
is still entirely worthy of care.
So today, I’m just going to tend.
Not because I have the answers or know how the healing happens. I don’t.
But simply because love stays.
Your insights which are so beautifully articulated tend to my soul on a daily basis-especially this reflection. Thank you for the constant encouragement
I tend to like wise posts like this.