The Healing Curve: What Illness Taught Me About Rest, Receiving, and Returning to Self

What began as innocent enthusiasm for foraging, healing, and herbal experimentation quickly turned into one of the most painful physical experiences of my life. I was immersed in nature, picking cleavers, sipping dandelion tea, juicing cilantro, feeling excited to be a student of Mother Earth once again. But like all eager students, I made a beginner’s mistake — too much of a good thing, too fast, with little rest and no binders to support my detox, causing imbalances in my body.

The result? My body crashed.

Intense chills. Bone-deep aches. A pounding head. A fever that blurred time. I couldn’t move without pain. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t even get up to drink water. For several days, I was bedridden — and yet, strangely, I was being awakened.

As my husband lovingly tended to our children, something deeper began stirring inside me. In my stillness, Spirit spoke. And the teachings came.

Satori 1 - Radical Acceptance of Pain

I thought of my father — in his final days of agony, how he clenched his fists, cried out in frustration. For the first time, I felt his pain viscerally. And with that, came forgiveness, compassion, a bridge between our souls.

The same wave carried me to my best friend, who passed from liver cancer. The pain I endured was not in vain — it became a portal to deeper empathy, a shared experience that connected me to their suffering, and their courage. I thanked Spirit for giving me the gift of compassion through embodiment.

Satori 2: The Return of the Inner Child

As I stared into the quietness, I realized something astonishing. I never knew how to rest. Not truly. Not wholly.

As a child, I was always on the go — school six days a week, waking up before sunrise, collapsing into sleep at night. No naps. No space to simply be. That frantic pace stayed in my bones for decades.

Even in adulthood, my “rest” came with doing — making tea, writing, prepping herbal blends, organizing. But now, I had no choice. My body demanded surrender.

And so, for the first time in my life, I gave my inner child what she never had: permission to do nothing. To just exist without guilt. In my silence, I felt her soften. I heard her sigh. I wrapped her in warmth.

This, I realized, was healing not just from illness — but from generations of over-functioning, self-neglect, and performance for love.

Satori 3: Self-Love in All Forms

As the fever broke, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had lost nearly 8 pounds. My cheeks were hollow, my veins pronounced. I looked at my reflection and winced—ashamed, repulsed. And then, Spirit whispered: “Remember how you saw your friend, the girl with anorexia in Singapore? You didn’t judge her. You saw her smile. Her soul. Her softness.”

Why, then, couldn’t I offer that same compassion to myself? In that moment, I reclaimed my reflection. I reclaimed my own beauty, even in vulnerability. I reclaimed gentleness for the wounded parts of me that still needed holding. I made a vow to myself: To love myself in every shape, season, and state. To hold my own hands as gently as I hold another’s.

Satori 4: The True Meaning of Rest

Perhaps the greatest lesson of all: rest is sacred. Not a reward. Not a privilege. Not laziness. It is medicine. It is nourishment. It is the space in which healing begins.

This experience brought me home to myself. It showed me that my path as an herbalist, as a mother, as a healer, must first root in rest, rhythm, and deep trust. I now know to work with herbs slowly, to honor ancient wisdom, and to bridge Western and Eastern teachings with reverence and balance.

But more than anything, I now understand this:

Even illness, even pain, can be a doorway back to the soul.

Even when we fall, we rise softer.

Even when we shrink, we grow wider inside.

To those walking this green path—learn from my story. Too much of a good thing is still too much. Let your learning be gentle. Let your body lead the way. Integrate wisdom from both Eastern and Western traditions. Give your body permission to say no, to slow down, to ask for support. There is no shame in illness—only insight.

If you are in pain—physical or emotional—do not rush through it. Rest. Witness. Receive. There is gold in the stillness, if we are willing to stop searching and simply feel.

Ask yourself:

• When was the last time I allowed myself to truly rest?

• What does my inner child still long for?

• Where am I still trying to earn worth through doing?

And if you find yourself judging your body, your pace, or your healing process—please don’t. Be soft. Be slow. Be sacred. Your healing is not a race, it is a return.

May this story remind you: even in illness, even in the mess, you are guided. You are deeply loved. And you are always, always enough.

With so much love,

Solarys