A Season of Shedding

Illness, rest, and the quiet growth that comes from honoring life’s pauses

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Wendi Kehn/Hellbloom Haven

Feb 12, 2026

A Season of Shedding

Hello lovely souls,
It’s been about three weeks since I’ve shared anything here, and it feels really good to be back, and I am truly so grateful to be sitting down to write again finally. The 2 weeks off weren’t planned, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed, which I find beautiful.

Over the past few weeks, life has asked me to slow down and reflect in ways I didn’t expect. What started as stress and uncertainty slowly unfolded into something much deeper. There have been lots of big changes at home, shifts in routine, old coping habits falling away, and then illness that forced me to rest whether I wanted to or not. Change can be hard for me to deal with; the unknown stresses me out sometimes, and feeling vulnerable on top of it just adds another heavy layer. My body didn’t leave much room for pushing through, so I stopped trying and did what my body asked of me, which was just be, heal, sleep, nourish, and shed what is no longer serving me, which is quite coincidental since we are in the last few weeks of the year of the snake.

I started off with massive amounts of stress, the house has more guests, I was quitting smoking weed which has been one of my biggest coping tools, fears from the past resurfaced, then the flu, bronchitis, and a sinus infection happened and I literally had no choice but to just allow myself the time I needed to recoup, and now I am back and so so glad.

The Weight I Didn’t Realize I Was Carrying

Before I got sick, I didn’t fully realize how much I had been holding.

There have been small changes stacking up quietly, more people in the house, new routines, learning how to share space again, mixing literal cats and dogs in a tiny house, navigating co-parenting under one roof while rebuilding my business, and my sense of independence. Nothing was necessarily wrong, but everything required energy. Emotional energy. Mental energy. The kind that slowly adds up until one day you realize you’re running on fumes.

At the same time, I decided to quit smoking weed, something that I’ve been trying to do for quite a while but wasn’t ready to do yet, for many many years it had been one of my main coping tools for years. It helped me regulate, soften stress, and quiet my mind when life felt overwhelming. Letting it go felt right, but it also meant stepping into everything without that familiar buffer. Suddenly I was feeling things more clearly, more directly, without anything to take the edge off. It was raw in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Oddly enough, getting sick almost felt like a strange kind of blessing in disguise. Because once the flu and bronchitis hit, there wasn’t even an option to fall back on old habits. My body simply wouldn’t allow it. I couldn’t smoke even if I wanted to. So I rested. I healed. I let the hardest part pass, the appetite changes, the sluggish digestion, the restless sleep, and vivid dreams/nightmares. Three weeks later now, I realize I have quietly moved through the very part I’d been most afraid of. What felt impossible at first had already begun to loosen its grip.

Looking back now, I can see this season didn’t start with the illness. It’s been building all year. This past year has been one of deep self-discovery for me, letting go, rebuilding after loss, setting boundaries, shedding what no longer fits, and slowly becoming more honest about who I am and what I need, not just from myself, but from others as well. Old patterns, old stories, old ways of coping have been falling away piece by piece. In many ways, this whole year has felt like a long, gentle shedding.

So when my body finally said enough, it wasn’t random or unfair. It felt like the last layer. Like my system asking for one final pause to integrate everything I’d already been releasing. The sickness didn’t create the exhaustion; it revealed it. It simply gave me permission to stop pretending I could keep pushing through the way I always had.

What I Noticed When I Finally Stopped

Of course, none of this slowing down was graceful at first.

It wasn’t a peaceful retreat or some intentional, mindful break where I gently chose to rest. I didn’t light candles or journal or plan a reset. I got sick, really sick. Fevers, chills, coughing fits that wouldn’t stop, sinus pressure that made my whole head ache. Nights when I barely slept, days when food didn’t sound good, and even getting out of bed felt like too much. For that first week especially, I wasn’t taking time off, I was just trying to survive the day.

I couldn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate enough to create. I couldn’t think clearly enough to answer emails or write or do anything meaningful. My brain felt foggy, my body felt heavy, and my energy disappeared completely. My world shrank down to the absolute basics: drink water, take medicine, sleep when I could, breathe, make it through the next hour. That was it. Everything else, productivity, plans, expectations, timelines, just fell away because they had to. There simply wasn’t space for anything more.

As frustrating as that was, it was also humbling. Illness has a way of stripping life down to what’s essential. When you don’t feel well, you realize very quickly what actually matters in life and what doesn’t. All of the things I normally stress about suddenly felt far away and unimportant. The only thing that mattered was healing and trying to breathe.

Once I stopped fighting that reality, once I stopped trying to push through or hurry my body along, something unexpected happened. The world didn’t fall apart.

The house didn’t feel chaotic like I had feared. The extra people weren’t creating stress the way I’d worried they would; they were helping. Someone else cooked. Someone else cleaned. Responsibilities I usually carried quietly on my own were suddenly shared without me even asking. There was more laughter than tension, more cooperation than conflict. It wasn’t the overwhelm I had imagined. It felt supportive and allowed me to rest and heal.

My kids were happy they had family and extra people here to hang out with and play with. They are truly happy, and for me, that’s pure gold, worth more than anything. They are laughing more, settling into the changes faster than I did. My ex and I are co-parenting peacefully, communicating easily, and figuring things out together instead of against each other. For something I had worried about so much, it was surprisingly calm. All those scenarios I had built up in my mind, the friction, the stress, the what if this doesn’t work, never really materialized. Most of it had only existed in my thoughts.

Lying there day after day, with nothing to do but rest and observe, I started to see how much of my stress had been anticipation. Old fears from the past sneaking into the present. Stories I told myself about how hard things might be. But when I actually looked around, there wasn’t any danger. There wasn’t chaos. There was just life, a little messy, and a little crowded, but steady and safe.

Being sick stripped away my ability to control anything. I couldn’t hustle my way through it. I couldn’t fix or manage or overthink. All I could do was let go and let the days unfold without forcing them. Strangely, that stillness gave me more clarity than months of trying ever had. The more I rested, the more everything else seemed to settle too, like life had been asking me to loosen my grip all along.

Learning to Honor the Waves

By the second week, I wasn’t better.

The flu had turned into bronchitis and a sinus infection, and I honestly felt worse. I was exhausted, coughing constantly, barely sleeping, and running on almost no food. My body felt heavy and weak. Even small things took too much energy.

I couldn’t work. I couldn’t write. I couldn’t really do anything at all.

Most days I was just stuck in bed.

Not resting peacefully, just stuck. Too sick to function, too uncomfortable to sleep well. The nights were long and full of strange, vivid dreams. My appetite disappeared. My digestion was off. Everything felt slow and foggy. I kept thinking I should be getting better, but I wasn’t. I was just there, frustrated, sick, and alone with myself and thoughts.

When you’re stuck like that, there’s nowhere to hide from yourself.

There’s no distraction, no busyness, no coping tools. Just you and your thoughts.

So I started thinking about everything.

My life. My past. Old fears. Old stories. The ways I’ve learned to survive. The ways I’ve been too hard on myself. I realized how often I measure my worth by what I accomplish, how easily I feel like I’m failing if I’m not constantly doing something useful.

Lying there day after day, I had to face the fact that caring for myself isn’t failure.

Resting isn’t letting people down.

Taking time to heal doesn’t mean I’m falling behind.

My business wasn’t disappearing. My kids weren’t suffering. The world wasn’t collapsing because I wasn’t productive for a couple of weeks.
Sometimes we forget the world keeps turning without us, and realizing that is both humbling and freeing.

Nothing bad happened when I stopped.

If anything, things kept working without me forcing them.

Eventually, I did have to get medication. Rest alone wasn’t enough. That was humbling, too, admitting I needed help instead of trying to tough it out. Now, in this third week, I’m still healing. My voice is still half gone, either a whisper or suddenly loud like my volume control broke. My energy comes in waves. I’m not fully back yet.

But something has shifted.

I’m softer with myself.

Less rushed. Less afraid of the pause.

I’m starting to see that maybe this whole season wasn’t an interruption at all.

Maybe it was just the shedding.

Letting go of old habits. Old coping mechanisms. Old pressure to always push through.

Healing isn’t always dramatic or impressive.

Sometimes it just looks like stopping and trusting that life will still be there when you’re ready to stand back up.

Honoring the Pause

I used to be someone who pushed through everything.

If something was hard, I worked harder.
If I was tired, I ignored it.
If life felt overwhelming, I tightened my grip and tried to control more.

Rest felt like weakness. Slowing down felt like failure.

But the more I sit with this season, the more I realize, that was who I was. Not who I’m becoming.

Somewhere along the way, I got used to living in survival mode. Used to bracing for problems before they happened. Used to coping instead of healing. And when you live like that long enough, it starts to feel normal. You don’t question it. You just think, “This is how I am.”

But maybe it isn’t.

Maybe it’s just what we learned to do to get through.

There’s a difference between surviving and living. Between coping and actually caring for yourself. Between pushing through and listening.

This pause showed me that I don’t have to default to the old ways anymore.

Nothing fell apart when I stopped; funnily enough, it gave my business room to breathe as well, and now that I am back at it and looking everything over, I am seeing that people did not forget I existed, I am still getting views, and people are still finding my posts, ads, and creative works.

It didn’t all fall apart when I couldn’t work, or when I couldn’t show up online, or when I needed to rest. Life kept moving. My kids were okay. My home was okay. My business was still there waiting for me.

The only thing that changed was me.

I softened. I trusted more. I stopped assuming everything was about to collapse.

And I started to see that maybe I’m stronger than I thought.

Strong enough to rest.
Strong enough to let go of habits that don’t serve me.
Strong enough to change.

I think we can get complacent sometimes, comfortable with the way we’ve always handled things, even when those ways hurt us. We tell ourselves it’s just our personality, just our history, just how life is.

But growth asks something different of us.

It asks us to shed.

To question the old stories.
To take off the lenses we’ve been looking through for years.
To realize we’re capable of healing, not just enduring.

This season didn’t feel like losing momentum.

It felt like becoming, and maybe honoring the pause is part of that.

Maybe slowing down is how we finally learn who we really are.

A Gentle Wish for You

I haven’t been keeping up with the news these last couple of weeks.

Not because I don’t care, but because I needed space to heal.

Between quitting a 20 year habit, flu, bronchitis, and a sinus infection, my body was already overwhelmed. Adding more stress, more noise, more heaviness wasn’t going to help me recover. So I stepped back, tuned out outside noise, and let myself rest.

But that doesn’t mean my heart isn’t with everyone.

A lot is happening right now, here in Minnesota and all over the United States and world beyond. Real struggles. Real pain. Real change unfolding. And everyone moving through it has been in my prayers.

These weeks reminded me that we can’t keep showing up for the world if we never take care of ourselves.

We can’t fight when we’re exhausted.
We can’t help anyone if we’re running on empty.
We can’t heal anything if we don’t first heal our own bodies.

Rest isn’t disengagement.

Sometimes it’s how we gather our strength so we can come back clearer and steadier.

So wherever you are right now, healing, grieving, rebuilding, speaking out, quitting something that no longer serves you, or simply trying to get through the day, I hope you’re gentle with yourself.

I hope you listen when your body asks you to slow down.
I hope you take the break without guilt.
I hope you remember that caring for yourself is not selfish.

It’s necessary.

I’m still healing. Still easing back into things. Still taking it one day at a time.

And if you’re walking away from old habits or substances too, I see you. That’s healing work as well, and I am proud of you and me.

I’m wishing you health, rest, and softness.

Thank you for being here.

Wendi Kehn

If you’re looking for support on your own healing journey, I offer peer sessions, companion care, intuitive guidance, and creative tools through Hellbloom Haven.