Why Am I Explaining Again?

 

A Stranger at the Hearth

One winter evening, a man invited a satyr into his home.

Outside, the air was bitterly cold. Inside, a small fire crackled in a rough stone hearth, and a pot of soup hung over the flames. The man sat down on a wooden stool and held his hands toward the warmth.

Then he lifted his hands to his mouth and blew on them.

The satyr watched with interest.

"Why do you do that?" he asked.

"To warm my hands," the man replied.

The satyr nodded. It seemed an odd thing, but perhaps humans had curious ways.

Later, the soup was ready. The man ladled some into a wooden bowl. He raised a spoonful to his lips, then blew across it before taking a bite.

The satyr frowned.

"And why do you do that now?"

"To cool the soup," said the man.

The satyr stood.

"I will stay no longer with someone who blows both hot and cold from the same mouth."

And with that, he quietly left the cottage.

When The Story Starts Again

At first, the satyr's decision feels almost comical. He mistakes ordinary human experience for contradiction.

The same breath can warm cold hands and cool hot soup. The action is identical. The purpose depends entirely on the situation.

The man wasn't inconsistent.

The satyr simply couldn't imagine a reality different from his own.

It's an old misunderstanding.

And somehow...

it still happens.

The Same Explanation Tomorrow

If you live with fibromyalgia, chronic illness, or another invisible disability, you may know this feeling well.

One day, you cancel lunch because your body simply won't cooperate.

The following week, you manage to spend an hour with a friend.

Someone notices.

"I thought you weren't feeling well."

You explain.

A few weeks later, you rest all afternoon after grocery shopping.

"But yesterday you seemed fine."

You explain again.

Months pass.

Someone asks why you still need extra time. Why you park closer. Why you leave early. Why you can't commit. Why you need a quieter room. Why some days are different from others.

You explain again.

Not because your life has changed.

Because their understanding has quietly faded.

Living with an unpredictable body often means your explanations expire long before your experience does.

The Pattern They Cannot See

From the outside, your life can appear contradictory. You decline one invitation but accept another.

You walk around the botanical garden one morning, yet need the entire afternoon to recover.

You cook dinner on Tuesday and eat cereal on Wednesday.

Without living inside your body, these moments can look inconsistent.

Inside your body, however, they are remarkably consistent. You are constantly adjusting. Measuring energy. Watching symptoms. Choosing today's "yes" because you already know tomorrow may require a "no."

Your decisions aren't random. They're responsive.

The satyr saw two identical breaths and assumed contradiction.

He couldn't see the changing conditions that made each breath perfectly reasonable.

Bodies That Live By Context

Our nervous systems work much the same way.

For many people with fibromyalgia and other chronic conditions, capacity isn't fixed. Pain fluctuates. Energy fluctuates. Sensory tolerance fluctuates.

Even healthy nervous systems constantly adapt to changing circumstances. Chronic illness simply makes those adjustments more visible—and often more necessary.

That's why pacing can look confusing to someone else.

It isn't inconsistency. It's regulation.

A nervous system doesn't ask, "What did I do yesterday?"

It asks, "What resources do I have right now?"

The answer changes. Sometimes every hour.

Explaining that reality over and over can become almost as exhausting as living it.

You Don't Owe A Perfect Translation

After enough repetitions, something subtle begins to happen.

You start rehearsing explanations before anyone asks. You shorten your answers. You apologize for needing accommodations that aren't inconveniences but necessities.

Sometimes you avoid mentioning your limits altogether because you simply don't have the energy to educate another person.

That response makes sense. Translation takes work.

Especially when you're translating an experience another person has never lived.

But there comes a gentle moment when another possibility appears.

Perhaps your job isn't to make your life perfectly understandable. Perhaps your job is simply to live it honestly.

Some people will understand immediately. Some will understand slowly. 

Some may never fully understand at all.

Like the satyr, they may mistake adaptation for contradiction.

That misunderstanding belongs to them.

Not to you.

The Breath That Never Changed

The man never changed his story. Only the circumstances around it.

Perhaps that's the quiet wisdom this old fable leaves with us.

The same body can need different things on different days. The same person can say yes today and no tomorrow. The same life can look different from the outside than it feels from within.

None of that makes it inconsistent.

It makes it alive.

And maybe you don't need to begin the explanation again every time someone forgets.

Maybe it is enough to remember that your life already makes perfect sense...

to the person who has lived it all along.