Posts by Fibromyalgia Support Network

Living with fibromyalgia often means living with a nervous system that feels as though it is constantly on alert. Many fibromates know the feeling well—heightened pain, disrupted sleep, sensory overload, fatigue, and emotional exhaustion that can make even ordinary days feel overwhelming. While there is no single answer to managing fibromyalgia, nature offers a gentle and often overlooked source of comfort and support.

Nature has a remarkable way of helping regulate the nervous system.

Our nervous system is designed to respond to stress and danger, but for many people with fibromyalgia, it can remain stuck in a state of heightened sensitivity. This does not mean the pain is imagined or exaggerated. Rather, the body becomes more reactive, and the nervous system struggles to find calm and balance. When this happens, stress hormones may remain elevated, muscles may tighten, and rest can feel elusive.

Nature provides a quiet antidote to this constant activation.

You do not need to hike mountains or spend hours outdoors to benefit. Sometimes healing begins with very small moments. Sitting on a porch with a cup of tea, feeling the morning breeze against your skin, watching birds at a feeder, or listening to leaves rustle in the trees can send subtle messages of safety to the body.

These experiences may seem simple, but they matter.

Research increasingly suggests that spending time in natural environments can lower stress, reduce muscle tension, calm heart rate, and support emotional well-being. For fibromates, this matters because calming the nervous system can help create conditions where the body feels less threatened and more supported.

Nature invites us to slow down.

Unlike the hurried pace of modern life, the natural world moves differently. Flowers bloom without urgency. Clouds drift without schedules. Gardens do not rush to become beautiful. There is something quietly reassuring about this rhythm, especially for those who often feel pressured to “push through” pain or exhaustion.

Nature reminds us that rest is not laziness.

It is part of life’s design.

Many fibromates discover that nature becomes a companion rather than merely a backdrop. Trees do not judge us for needing to sit down. Lakes do not ask us to perform. A garden does not require perfection. Nature allows us to simply be.

Even when mobility is limited or energy is low, connection with nature remains possible. Open a window and listen to rain. Tend a small houseplant. Watch sunlight move across a room. Sit beneath a tree for ten quiet minutes. These moments may not remove chronic pain, but they can soften the nervous system’s sense of alarm.

June is a beautiful invitation to explore this gentle healing.

Perhaps this month is not about doing more but about noticing more—the scent of lilacs, the warmth of sunlight, the comfort of shade, or the sound of evening birdsong.

Nature does not demand that we be stronger, faster, or more productive.

Instead, it offers something many fibromates deeply need: permission to breathe, soften, and return—if only for a little while—to a place of inner calm.

By Irene Roth/Blog Editor

June has a personality all of its own.

It does not rush onto the calendar demanding attention. Instead, it arrives gently, carrying with it longer days, birdsong at dawn, gardens stretching toward the sun, and the quiet reassurance that life continues to unfold in its own time.

For those of us living with fibromyalgia, June can stir mixed emotions.

There is beauty in the season, but sometimes pressure too. Warmer weather and brighter days can bring expectations—social gatherings, outdoor projects, travel plans, and the feeling that we should somehow be doing more simply because summer is near. Yet fibromyalgia does not follow seasonal schedules. Pain, fatigue, sleep struggles, and flares may still accompany us, even when the world around us appears energetic and carefree.

Perhaps this month offers us something different.

Our June theme, Nature and Healing, invites us to reconsider what healing might look like.

Healing is not always about becoming symptom-free or returning to who we once were. Sometimes healing is quieter and more personal. It may be learning how to live with greater gentleness toward ourselves. It may be finding moments of peace in difficult seasons or discovering new ways to nurture body, mind, and spirit.

Nature often becomes an unexpected companion in this process.

We do not need mountain hikes or ambitious adventures to experience its gifts. Healing through nature can be wonderfully simple. It may be sitting beneath a tree and feeling a breeze on our skin. It may be watching clouds drift overhead, listening to rainfall against the window, tending a few flowers, or noticing the comforting rhythm of birds visiting the yard.

Nature asks very little of us.

It does not measure productivity or judge our limitations. A garden does not question why we need to rest. Trees do not ask us to explain our fatigue. The natural world simply invites us to be present.

For many fibromates, this kind of presence can feel restorative.

Nature reminds us that life moves through seasons. Some seasons bloom with energy and possibility. Others call us inward toward stillness, reflection, and recovery. Neither season is wrong. Both belong.

Perhaps this is one of nature’s quiet lessons for us—that healing rarely happens all at once. Like gardens, healing unfolds gradually, often beneath the surface before we can fully see its growth.

Our fibromates community understands this gentle unfolding. Here, we create space for honesty, encouragement, and shared understanding. We celebrate one another’s victories, hold space for difficult days, and remind each other that healing is not a competition or a straight path.

As we move through June together, may we remain open to the healing found in small moments and natural beauty. Thank you for continuing to share your voices, reflections, and companionship. You help make this community a place of warmth and belonging.

May this month offer you pockets of peace, moments of rest, and the gentle companionship of nature along the way.

Irene Roth, Blog Editor

There are days when stillness feels impossible.

Your body aches, your thoughts race, and rest doesn’t feel restful at all. You lie down, hoping for relief, but discomfort lingers—sometimes louder in the quiet than in the movement. For those living with fibromyalgia, stillness is not always peaceful. It can feel like a confrontation with everything that hurts.

So how do we find stillness when our bodies won’t cooperate?

The first step is to gently redefine what stillness actually means. Stillness is not the absence of sensation. It is not a perfectly quiet body or a pain-free moment. Stillness is something softer than that. It is an inner posture—a willingness to stop fighting, even when the body is unsettled.

This can be incredibly difficult.

We are so used to trying to fix, to soothe, to escape discomfort. We shift positions, distract ourselves, or push through the moment. And sometimes those things are necessary. But there is also a quiet invitation beneath all of that effort: what would it feel like to simply be with yourself, even here?

This doesn’t mean accepting pain in a passive or hopeless way. It means meeting the moment with a little less resistance. It means saying, even silently, this is where I am right now, and I can soften into it just a little.

Stillness, in this sense, becomes less about control and more about presence.

It may begin with something very small. Noticing your breath—not changing it, just noticing it. Feeling the weight of your body supported by the chair or bed beneath you. Letting your shoulders drop by even a fraction. These are subtle shifts, but they matter.

You might also find that stillness doesn’t require complete quiet. Sometimes, a gentle anchor helps—a soft piece of music, the hum of a fan, the rhythm of rain outside your window. Stillness can exist alongside sound. It is less about silence and more about a sense of settling.

There is also permission here—to move if you need to. Stillness is not rigid. If your body asks you to stretch, to shift, to sit up or lie down, that is not a failure of stillness. It is a form of listening. True stillness includes responsiveness.

Perhaps the most important part of this practice is compassion.

On the days when your body won’t cooperate, it is easy to become frustrated or even critical of yourself. You may feel like you are doing something wrong, like you should be able to rest more easily. But your experience is not a flaw—it is a reality. And meeting that reality with kindness changes everything.

Stillness is not something you achieve. It is something you allow, in small, imperfect moments.

It might last only a few seconds at first. That’s okay. Over time, those seconds can begin to stretch. Not because the pain disappears, but because your relationship to it shifts.

You begin to create space within the discomfort. And in that space, there is a different kind of quiet—not the quiet of a perfectly calm body, but the quiet of not struggling against yourself.

And sometimes, that is enough.