Storm on the Horizon

On Top of the World

Well, my friends… shall we dive in?

This photo was taken in September 2021, after climbing 3,159 feet of elevation with one of my kiddos. I remember how strong I felt. How healthy. How grounded in my own body. I remember feeling proud — not just of the hike, but of the life I was living. I didn’t know it then, but that moment was the calm before a storm I never saw coming.

My Current Activities:

My Current Supplement Stack:

So how did I go from feeling like a total bad ass to swallowing supplements four times a day, drinking coffee from both ends, and flushing my sinuses like it was a part-time job? I’m glad you asked. Because this is where the story really begins.

Six months after that photo, everything shattered. We got a phone call — the kind that rearranges your insides. Our oldest son had been hit by a car while riding his motorcycle. He was at Harborview, the trauma hospital where the worst cases go. If you'd like to read the full story, you can find it here: https://flashorflameinfo.wixsite.com/tristansjourney.

That single moment set off a chain reaction I could never have imagined: months of rehabilitation, a legal battle, multiple moves, and emotions so heavy they felt like they lived in my bones. I’m not minimizing any of it — I’m simply trying to stay focused on the part of the story that leads to where I am now.

By mid‑2023, the dust had finally settled. Our family was safe again. Healing. Laughing. Living. But my body… my body was quietly falling apart. I was exhausted. My seborrhea was flaring worse than it ever had. My hair was thinning. I was gaining weight despite staying active. My memory was slipping. My concentration was shot. I couldn’t sleep. My legs wouldn’t stop moving at night. My muscles ached. It felt like my body was waving a white flag. I went to my primary care doctor and asked if Long COVID could be the cause. Her response stunned me: “You’re just depressed.” She handed me a prescription and sent me home.

I knew I wasn’t depressed. Traumatized? Absolutely. Angry? Yes. But to suggest that all of these symptoms were simply depression felt dismissive and small. Still, I filled the prescription — because anxiety had been living in my chest since the night of the accident.

Fast‑forward a year: the medication didn’t touch any of the symptoms I’d described. Not one. So, I turned to “Dr. Google” and found that menopause might be involved. I found a menopause specialist and tried bioidentical hormones and progesterone. Progesterone made my sleep worse. The hormone patch gave me a lesion on my tongue. And somewhere in the middle of all that, a saliva cortisol test revealed my levels were sky‑high — literally off the charts. Honestly, after everything we’d been through, it didn’t surprise me. But the pieces still didn’t fit.

Months later, I went back to my PCP for my annual checkup and I told her everything. She listened but dismissed the saliva test and ordered a 24‑hour urine collection/steroid/blood draw combo instead. Those results came back “normal,” even though nothing about my body felt normal. I left that appointment more confused, more frustrated, and more alone than ever.

Maybe you’ve felt this too — going to a doctor for help, only to be brushed aside. Feeling like a pinball bouncing from one specialist to another, trying to find answers while your body keeps whispering that something is wrong.

Don’t lose hope, my friends. There’s more to this story, and I’ll share it in the next post.