Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

This morning my kids were arguing, my heart was racing, and my body was glitching like a laptop running too many tabs. I’ve been fighting this flare up for three days now…

Welcome to what I call a dysautonomic storm—when your nervous system forgets how to human.

You can’t see it from the outside. There’s no rash, no cast, no dramatic collapse (okay well some days there is.) But inside, everything is a dumpster fire.

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What Is a Dysautonomic Storm?

Imagine if your body suddenly decided it was being chased by a bear… but you were just making toast.

Your heart rate spikes, your blood pressure crashes, and your brain screams “emergency!”—while you’re still in pajamas trying to keep your tea from sloshing.
That’s what happens when the autonomic nervous system malfunctions. Mine does it regularly. No warning. No off switch. Just pure chaos, on repeat.

Dysautonomia isn’t just a diagnosis—it’s an experience. It’s your body overriding logic and comfort to throw you into survival mode… even if you’re just trying to get your kids ready for the day.

And the worst part? People think you’re overreacting. That it’s anxiety. That it’s “just stress.” But you know your body, and this is something else entirely.

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What It Feels Like Inside the Storm

I can feel my heartbeat in my teeth.
My vision starts to shimmer, and my legs go jelly-soft.
I try to focus, but my brain feels like it’s buffering on dial-up.

I’m nauseous. Dizzy. Shaky.
Panicked—but not emotionally panicked. Just… body panic.
No reason. No warning. No escape hatch. Just symptoms on loop.

And the worst part? I look “fine.” People assume I’m anxious or tired. But this isn’t mental. This is neurological.
And it’s exhausting.

Sometimes I feel like I’m floating above my body, watching it short-circuit in real time. I want to fix it. I want to push through. But when I do, I crash harder. And that’s the terrifying truth: trying to act “normal” makes everything worse.

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Parenting Through the Flare

I love my daughters more than anything. But when they’re fighting and my body is screaming, I feel like I’m breaking in two.

I don’t want them to feel responsible. I want them to be kids.
But I also need peace to survive the flare.

It’s a line I walk every single day—how to protect their joy without sacrificing my health.

Some days, that means I give them a little note that says, “No Spoons. Mama needs a quiet half hour.” Other days, I just cry silently while they watch cartoons because I can’t even find the words.

And through it all, I carry the guilt. The fear they’ll grow up too fast. The ache of not being the mom I pictured—but still being the mom they love.

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What I Wish People Understood About Chronic Illness

I don’t need advice. I need space. Quiet. Trust.
I need people to believe me when I say, “My body is not okay.”

I don’t always know what will help. But I know what hurts—
Being expected to perform. To explain. To smile through a system collapse.

This isn’t laziness.
This is survival.

Living with dysautonomia means I’m constantly troubleshooting a body that won’t follow the rules. I don’t need fixing—I need understanding.

And I need the freedom to exist as I am—flawed, fluctuating, and still worthy of respect.

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If You’re in the Storm Too…

If you’re in the middle of your own storm—hold on.

You’re not broken. You’re weathering something big in a body that doesn’t always cooperate.
Your strength isn’t in pushing through—it’s in honoring what you need to feel safe.

And if you love someone with a chronic illness—thank you.
Thank you for asking how to help. For sending the text. For offering the quiet.
The smallest kindness echoes louder than you know.

You don’t have to fix us. You just have to stay.

I’ll be okay. Not because it’s easy.
But because I’m learning to honor the storm without blaming myself for the weather.

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If you or someone you love lives with invisible illness, drop a 💛 in the comments or share this post with someone who needs to hear: you’re not alone.