I Went to a Renaissance Faire and Came Back With a Soul Upgrade

For anyone living with chronic illness, disability, or grieving what you can no longer do—this is what it looks like to choose joy, even when your body disagrees.

Opening Day! We got there early and the line was still this long.

Hey friend,

I have to tell you about something wild. I went to the Renaissance Faire a few weekends ago. Its taken me this long to wrap my head around the layers of this experience. You know me, I need to reflect on my experiences.

It took three days to recover, and I’m still kind of vibrating from the bumps and twists that were some of the worst things I could do to my back... but it was worth every ounce of it. Though I plan on making a few adjustments for next time.

Because for the first time in years, I felt like I was part of life again.

---

---

You know how most of my days look. I spend a lot of time in bed, most of the time actually—thanks to the unholy alliance of hEDS, MS, autism, ADHD, and my old buddy dysautonomia with her trifecta of nausea, dizziness and sudden drops in blood pressure requiring me to lie down or feel like death until I do.

Between the nerve glitches, joint drama, and sensory sensitivity (light, sound and touch), it’s like living inside a malfunctioning carnival ride. Heat? A threat. Crowds? A gamble. Getting dressed and out the door? A logistical miracle in itself.

But this time, I said yes.

And part of why that yes felt so risky is because of everything I can’t do anymore.

• Dance — no spinning or gliding, not even a slow sway without my joints protesting.

• Practice martial arts — those days are long gone.

• Climb hills or trails — even walking through the house feels like navigating a funhouse.

• Get lost in nature like I used to.

• Drive myself anywhere — which kills my independence more than I like to admit.

• Give Cathy the legendary neck rubs she used to love.

• Swing on a playground set — my body revolts against the motion.

• Trust my bladder, my bowels, or my stamina — basic body functions are now a daily gamble.

• What used to be twelve-hour days of energy and focus have shrunk to three or four functional hours before I’m forced horizontal again.

So yeah, leaving the house at all feels like gearing up for battle most people never see. Every part of me whispered, "stay safe, stay home." But Cathy looked at me and said, "We’ll figure it out. If it gets too much, we’ll leave." And something inside me decided… screw it. I’m going.

The gates I almost didn’t cross—felt like stepping back into life.

And the moment I entered? It felt like someone plugged me back into the world.

The Courage to Go

I won’t sugarcoat it. I almost bailed. I thought about how humiliating it would feel to leave early, how I’d probably crash before lunch, how Cathy would spend more time worrying about me than enjoying herself. Every part of me screamed, "Why bother? Stay safe. Stay home."

But then another voice whispered back: "You need this."

I let that voice win. I clung to it like a lifeline. As I mentioned, Cathy’s calm, steady, “We’ll leave if we have to” made it easier to believe in myself again, even if just for a day.

Cathy, my own personal MacGuyver, making sure joy made it onto the agenda.

The Contrast

Usually, my world shrinks to four walls, the hum of a fan, freqent visits from Lily (our year old Cavapoo) and the soft glow of my laptop. My ‘adventures’ involve staying hydrated, reading a lot and serving my clients while coaching from bed. That day? I was in a swirl of color, laughter, movement. People dressed as knights, pirates, royalty—whole crowds saying yes to play, to joy, to being extra.

Most days: four walls. That day: a living, breathing storybook.

I realized how much I’d been starving for that. Not just fun, but connection. A sense of me too. Of being seen, not as a patient, but as a person.

The Mask and the Mess

Was it easy? Hell no. I smiled through moments where my body was screaming. I nodded along while parts of me wilted. Some shops were impossible to enter. Some spaces reminded me that the world doesn’t always make room for people like me.

Some corners weren’t built for me—but I still carved out joy.

I felt it. The ache of being on the edge of the fun. The ache of trying to hold it together so Cathy wouldn’t have to carry both of us emotionally.

But I also felt proud: I was there. I showed up. I existed loudly in a place built for fun, and joy.

The Body Knows

Every bounce on the scooter was a jolt straight to my spine. Every uphill slope tested muscles I forgot I had. I lost count of the times my body told me, “This was a terrible idea.” Wondering if this was the moment I'd have to say 'when.'

A bumpy ride, but I steered my way through magic.

But the magic was louder. People didn’t see a guy on a scooter—they saw another Faire goer, ready to play. A priest in full black cassock stopped us in his best English accent, asking if we needed directions, and I couldn’t resist slipping into character for a bit of back and forth.

A stocky Celtic warrior spotted me rolling by and hollered, “Your steed needs a dragon’s head!”—then launched into a full sales pitch about how to attach it to be ready for battle.

My body struggled, but my spirit soared, like a child taking it all in with wonder.

---

---

My Mom Would Have Loved This

There was this moment… I caught myself thinking, "I have to text Mom a picture." And then it hit me—she’s gone, for several years now. The ache was sharp, and it lingered.

A soft moment in the middle of the chaos—felt like Mom was right there.

So I just sat there, closed my eyes, let the breeze hit my face, and whispered, "Hey Mom… you'd love it here. I wish I could tell you about it and hear your loud, enthusiastic reaction." Imagining that helped make her presence a little more real.

I swear I could hear her laugh in my mind.

Mom loved dressing in loud colors.

---

Enjoying this story?
If it made you laugh, cry, or feel a little more human, you can toss a few coins in my tip jar to help fuel future reflections.

---

Aftermath and Afterglow

By the time we hit the early afternoon, my body was waving the white flag. I turned to Cathy and told her, "I think I’m about saturated," and just like she promised, she didn’t question it. She smiled gently and said, “Then we leave, simple as that.”

The walk back to the car felt long. I reclined my seat, closed my eyes, and let myself unravel. The car became my recovery cocoon, even though the road home felt like it was designed by sadists. Every construction zone rattled my back even more, and every bump pulled me a little further from the magic and a little closer to collapse.

The bridge leading to the exit crossed a lotus pond. There’s a saying in Zen Buddhism, “No mud, no lotus.” A perfect mantra for today.

When we got home, I crashed. Hard. The next few days my body protested in every way it knew how—back screaming, body felt very sick (like the flu without the puking), fatigue thick and unrelenting. I had to cancel appointments, which was exactly what I needed. If I'd tried pushing through it, recovery would have taken longer.

I was upset about how one outing had caused so much pain and misery. Cathy reminded me “You need to consider just how overloading the experience was—even though you enjoyed it. It was A LOT. Between the heat, sounds, crowds, four hours in the car, three hours sitting on the scooter and jostling your back with every bump… you put yourself through a lot in one day."

I didn’t crash because I failed—I crashed because I lived. I chose joy, even when it cost me something. Of course we'll plan differently next time to help reduce overwhelm.

I was exhausted but alive—a souvenir more valuable than anything I could've bought there.

What I’m Taking With Me

• Play is medicine.

• Joy is worth the crash sometimes.

• Showing up imperfectly still counts.

• I’m allowed to do what I enjoy outside the home, even if it costs me a few days of recovery.

• Next time, I’m wearing the kilt.

• And yeah… maybe a dragon head for the scooter.

---

Want help making room for joy in your own life? I offer 1:1 Power Hour sessions where we cut through the overwhelm and carve out a path forward—practical, personal, and always grounded in real life.

---

Closing Reflection

If you’ve been hiding from life because it’s messy, exhausting, and your body’s a traitor—I get it. Me too.

Some days I still hate how hard it is, how unfair it feels, how much smaller my world can get. I hate the jealousy that creeps in when I see others moving freely, the guilt when I have to cancel again, the ache of feeling forgotten. But I’m learning… joy is still in there, waiting. Quiet, stubborn, and mine to reclaim.

But let me tell you: sometimes it’s worth suiting up anyway. Sometimes you gamble on fun and walk away with your soul a little brighter, your heart a little fuller.

We don’t have to bounce back. We just have to show up.

What’s your version of play—the thing you’d risk exhaustion for just to feel alive again?

Write me back. Tell me. Let’s swap stories.

I’ll be back—with a kilt and probably more questionable life choices.