Finding Strength in Everyday Triumphs
Chapter 3 of the Empowered Healing Series
Link to Chapter 2: https://calmcorecozylayers.wordpress.com/2025/03/18/the-unseen-heroes-navigating-systemic-sclerosis-with-the-strength-of-caregivers/
Image generated using AI to reflect the theme: Finding Strength in Everyday Triumphs
So, in my last post, I talked a bit about caregivers—you know, the people who are always there, quietly catching us when things fall apart. They’re the steady hands behind the scenes, and I’m still wrapping my head around just how much that kind of support means.
But here’s something else I’ve been thinking about lately: healing doesn’t always look how you expect. It’s not always some big, dramatic milestone. A lot of the time, it’s… smaller. Quieter.
Like—okay—yesterday I made it through the afternoon without that awful wave of fatigue crashing in. That might not sound like much, but for me, it felt huge. Or the other day, I laughed—like, really laughed—at something silly, and for a second I forgot about the weight I’ve been carrying.
It’s weird, how these tiny things can hit you. You realize you’re still here, still showing up for yourself, even when everything else feels like it’s out of your hands. Those little wins? They aren’t random. They come from somewhere deep.
Some part of me still knows how to fight. Gently, maybe. Quietly. But it’s still a fight. And it still counts.
Here’s the thing I keep coming back to—these little moments? They add up. Even the ones that seem pointless or kind of silly. They’re proof that I’m still in it. Still showing up. Still trying, in my own way.
Some days, the biggest win is drinking a full glass of water without forgetting. Or moving my body, just a little, even if it’s just a stretch on the couch. And sometimes, it’s just getting through the day without totally falling apart. That counts. I’ve decided that has to count.
And when I notice those small wins—really notice them—I feel like I get a bit of control back. Not over everything, but enough to keep going. That’s what matters.
It’s never been about doing it all perfectly. It’s just one weird, wobbly step at a time. Some steps are hard. Some feel ridiculous. But they’re all part of it.
The School Water Bottle and Thermos Tiffin Showdown
Now, speaking of small but mighty challenges, let’s talk about something that has become my daily strength test—one that requires strategy, patience, and sometimes, sheer brute force.
Let’s talk about real strength training, the kind I never signed up for but somehow face every single day in the form of my son’s school water bottle and thermos tiffin.
For reasons beyond my comprehension, my child has the arm strength of a world-class weightlifter when it comes to closing these things. Every morning, my son twists the lid of his water bottle with the intensity of a scientist sealing a top-secret formula. (And yes, he triple-checks it to make sure I didn’t “loosely” close it—because apparently, I’m the prime suspect in potential water-bottle disasters.) His grip strength? Unmatched. That bottle is sealed so tightly, I’m pretty sure it could survive the pressures of deep-sea exploration or even a journey to outer space. And yet, when he’s at school, he pops these lids open effortlessly, as if they’re made of butter. But when they come back home? That’s when my battle begins.
Now, I’m not totally helpless—I do have a bottle opener device. In theory, this should give me the upper hand. In reality? Some days, even that is no match for my son’s superhuman wrist strength. I place the bottle under the opener, adjust the grip, and twist. Sometimes it works instantly, and I feel like a genius. Other times, the device strains, my arms start shaking, and I begin to question whether I’m up against a regular water bottle or an industrial-grade vault.
Inevitably, there comes a moment when I give up on the device and resort to sheer willpower. I take a deep breath, brace the bottle between my knees for extra leverage, and summon every ounce of energy in my body. After five solid minutes of combat—attempts with a rubber grip, running the lid under hot water, and at least one dramatic sigh—I hear that tiny, victorious pop. The lid finally gives in!
I stand there, exhausted but triumphant, feeling like I had just conquered Mount Everest. My hands ache, my shoulders are sore, but victory is mine.
Then, as I’m catching my breath, my son strolls in, glances at me struggling with his bottle, and casually says, “Oh, I didn’t even close it that tight.”
…Sure, buddy. Sure.
The Never-Ending Quest for the Perfect Sleeping Position
Of course, water bottles aren’t my only daily challenge. If there’s one thing I’ve learned living with systemic sclerosis and GERD, it’s that finding a comfortable sleeping position is practically an extreme sport.
If you’ve ever played a game of musical chairs, you have a pretty good idea of what my nighttime routine looks like. Except in my case, I’m the only contestant, the music never stops, and instead of dancing around chairs, I’m shuffling between my reclining chair and my bed in an endless quest for comfort.
It all starts with The Chair—my trusty recliner, which has become my go-to for managing myself. Lying flat is basically an open invitation for my acid reflux to stage a rebellion, so I settle into my slightly upright throne, convincing myself,
“This is the night I’ll sleep here till morning.”
I wrap myself in a cozy blanket, find a decent position, and drift off feeling mildly victorious.
And then… midnight strikes.
Like clockwork, my body wakes up with a very specific complaint:
“Hey, this is NOT a bed.”
My hips start feeling stiff, my back protests, and suddenly, the chair that felt like a warm embrace at bedtime now feels like I’m trying to nap in an airport terminal.
At this point, I know it’s time for the migration.
I groggily peel myself out of the chair and shuffle toward the bedroom like a sleep-deprived zombie. I arrange pillows like an interior designer with a very specific aesthetic—one under my knees, one between my arms, another to keep me from rolling too flat. By the time I’m done, my bed looks less like a place for sleeping and more like a carefully structured pillow fortress.
And just when I think I’ve finally nailed it—my body perfectly angled, my reflux under control, my joints not screaming—I realize…
I forgot my water.
Now, I have two choices:
- Ignore it and risk waking up parched, regretting every decision I’ve ever made.
- Get up, grab the water, and start the entire pillow-adjusting process from scratch.
Spoiler: I always end up picking Option 2. Then I spend the next five minutes wrestling with pillows like I’m building some makeshift sleep fortress—half engineer, half very tired person just trying to survive the night.
And the wild part? Somehow, even with all the shifting and flopping around, I still manage a decent 6–7 hours. It’s not glamorous. It’s definitely not Instagram-worthy. But hey, it gets the job done.
When you’re dealing with GERD and systemic sclerosis, getting that kind of sleep feels like winning a prize. Like, genuinely. Sure, it might involve strange contortions, middle-of-the-night reconfigurations, and the occasional dramatic sigh—but when it works, it works.
And honestly, I’ve come to appreciate those weird little wins. The water bottle I finally managed to open without asking for help. The cup of coffee I didn’t spill. The heating pad I actually found on the first try. These moments don’t look like much from the outside, but they matter. A lot.
Because resilience? It’s not always loud or shiny. Sometimes it’s just quietly outsmarting your own body and saying, “Okay, I’ve got this. At least for today.”
So here’s to the odd victories, the late-night pillow acrobatics, and the hope that maybe—just once—I’ll get everything set up right the first time and drift off without a single readjustment. Fingers crossed, but no promises.
🌟 Ready for the next layer?
👉 Read Chapter 4:
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