Rituals That Hold Me Together: Finding Stability in an Unpredictable Body

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve depended on maintaining a sense of routine. My parents quickly learned that if they wanted to bring me along for anything spontaneous—a last-minute dinner, an evening with friends—they always had to prepare me with clear, defined ways to maintain my schedule. Otherwise, my childlike self would visibly shut down in a way my loved ones would later refer to as “hitting my wall”—a term still used by my inner circle today to indicate when I’ve been pushed beyond my emotional or physical limits. Needless to say, routine was my safety net, the thing that made my world feel predictable and manageable.

That need for structure hasn’t changed. If anything, living with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome has made it even more essential. My body doesn’t always cooperate with my plans, and I never quite know what to expect from one day to the next. Some mornings, I wake up feeling strong, energetic, and capable; others, I’m hurting before I can even get out of bed. Regardless of how I feel physically, my routines remain, tethering me in a way that keeps me steady when everything else is uncertain.

My mornings are my favorite part of my day. That first sip of coffee, the weight of Jude curling up beside me on the couch, bullet journaling before the day begins—these simple rituals ground me. They remind me that even if my body feels fragile, I still have the power to create spaces of comfort and peace for myself.

Movement is another essential piece of my routine, though it can look vastly different depending on the day. Running gives me a sense of momentum, a reminder that I can keep moving forward even when things feel stuck. Yoga teaches me patience and presence, an ongoing lesson in listening to my body rather than fighting against it. My best days happen when I can move freely; other days, I know rest is my best choice. I’m still reminding myself that honoring my body’s needs—whether that means a run or an afternoon curled up with a book—is a form of self-respect.

Then there’s the creative side of my routine: reading, collaging, writing. These practices keep me connected to myself when my body needs stillness. When pain or fatigue limits what I can do physically, creativity gives me another way to engage with the world, as well as a way to take note and process exactly where I stand internally when dealing with these obstacles. It reminds me that I am more than my symptoms, more than what my body can or cannot do on any given day.

I’m continually growing to see how flexible my routines can be, always evolving with me and my body’s particular needs. They aren’t about control—they’re about care. They’re the rituals that help me feel steady, the practices that remind me who I am even when life feels unpredictable.

For anyone else navigating chronic illness, I see you. I know how frustrating it can be to feel like your body is working against you. But I also know the power of small rituals—the morning coffee, the deep breath, the journal pages filled with thoughts. Routine, when built with gentleness, can be a source of strength. A way to keep showing up for yourself, even on the hardest days.