What Changed and What Remains

Hello, wild ones. It has been such a long while since we’ve nestled into each other’s thoughts. Life (especially lately) has been…interesting, to say the least. I have been dealing with health issues since May of 2025. On January 2nd, 2026, the results of a biopsy and my diagnosis came in. I’m going to share that with you here as well as what I’ve been up to since and what life looks like now. As always, thank you for your presence. What a gift you are.

A song that speaks beauty. Please give it a listen as you read.

On December 30th, 2025, I went in for a biopsy to rule out or confirm what my doctor suspected.

I didn’t feel sick.

In fact, I didn’t have any symptoms at all. I was still moving through my days as usual, still working full-time, still living life on my terms and assuming that whatever was happening would remain abstract - something happening on paper, not in my body.

On January 2nd, 2026, the results came in. My doctor was right.

Diagnosis: Autoimmune hepatitis.

(Please know that this is not the contagious kind. It is my own body treating my liver as if it is foreign)

I could no longer be in denial that this was actually happening. I wasn’t Melissa any longer. I became Melissa with an autoimmune disease. Not a title I ever wanted. While there was relief in finally knowing what was going on with my body, there was sorrow in knowing what was going on with my body.

For about a week after the diagnosis, nothing changed physically. My body felt the same.

Then, suddenly, everything changed.

Exactly one week after getting my test results, I could feel my body betraying me. A crisis began in my muscles and joints as my liver enzymes escalated. Severe systemic inflammation and pain unexpectedly took over in a way that I was not prepared for. My husband had to lift me as I didn’t have the strength to do it on my own. I could not stand up on my own. I could not sit up from a lying position on my own. I could barely wash myself, walk or hold a spoon. As I moaned in agony, my independence had fleeted beyond my control.

It got worse before it got better.

Small milestones of improvement came as slow as molasses. A little less pain here. A little more strength there. And, eventually, a little more trust that my body wasn’t completely shattered and broken. It was just responding to something happening far beneath the surface.

Today, I am thankfully doing much better. The pain has subsided and I can do things on my own again. Medication and prayer works wonders.

This whole experience has changed me. It has changed the way that I think about life. How quickly things can turn, how little warning we sometimes get and the seemingly small things that we take for granted.

There is clarity in the valley.

My days are now filled with slowness, gentleness, rest and attention. Not as a temporary adjustment, but as a new way of being. I want to breathe in life as slowly and completely as possible. I want to praise the small things. I want to nurture myself like never before. I want to truly live.

I’ve found my way back to art. I believe so strongly in art being a healer and being good for the soul. I’ve been making things that take time. I no longer have it in me to rush or force the process. My energy is now used to create precious things, one careful motion at a time. And of course I give some of them names and stories.

It all started with Yonyon. She is the result of working slowly enough to notice what feels good again. Of letting my hands lead instead of expectations. And of creating something that doesn’t ask to be perfect. Making her, and others like her, has brought me so much joy. She has reminded me that small things can hold big meaning. And as strange as it may seem, these little needle-felted beings have a way of easing my stress and worry. They allow me to focus solely on the good.

Slow, thoughtful reflections. Moments from my studio. Small rituals. Beauty in the mundane. And whatever else feels good.

My spirit is not broken. My immune system has been mistakenly attacking my liver. There is no cure, but there is treatment. And with treatment, there is hope. The hope of stability and the hope of living a full life, even if it looks a little different than I once imagined.

I’m just happy to still be here, doing the things that I love. And I’m grateful to have you all here with me.

-Melissa, The Sleepy Wildflower

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