The aforementioned ambulance ride from a McDonald’s restroom in Belfair to the ER in Silverdale culminated in a very unyielding, very humbling diagnosis: Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS).

An IBS flare is one of the most leveling experiences a person can endure. The intestinal pain can send you to your knees. As someone who has gone into labor three times, I can tell you: these “poop-chute” contractions are on par with the worst waves of transition labor.

My honey is always ready to anchor me. During a flare, he quietly stands behind me, wraps his arms around my distended middle, and sways with me—much like an expectant father comforts a laboring partner. He does this with love, patience, and care, even though the “delivery” I’m facing brings no smiles or tears of wonder. He’s a keeper.

Some flares are a “BOGO” special. Not only am I racked with intestinal stabbing, but I’m also on the verge of vomiting. At that point, all dignity flies out the window. I am centered entirely on survival.

For context: I am the partner who refuses to allow my body to produce any unflattering noise. My honey is the gassiest human being on the planet, yet I will still hold back a fart until it actually hurts. I would rather die the painful death of being stung by hundreds of wasps on a zipline. You know the news story—it haunts me. Imagine: you’re on a dream vacation, strapped into a rig, enthralled by the landscape, only to careen headlong into a swarm. Death by a thousand stings.

And yet! I would genuinely rather face the swarm than pass gas in front of another human being. Perhaps I’m being dramatic, but the Universe clearly has a wicked sense of irony. It looked at my obsession with “dignity” and said, “Bet. Here—cope with this, sweetheart.”

Why the oversharing? Because as I write this, I am working my way through a flare-up. I am allowing myself to be vulnerable, honest, and human. I’m sharing this to remind myself—and anyone else reading—that your body is the ultimate scorekeeper.

Your physical form tracks your thoughts, beliefs, and the emotions that precede them. We are soul-beings first, inhabiting a human form second. Sometimes, that form has a very loud way of telling us to slow down and listen.

As I lie here in recovery, I am listening. I honored my body and postponed a dinner date with friends where an earlier version of me would have pushed through the pain and performed. I am reminding myself that I am worthy to take up space, ask for help, and, most importantly, accept the love and grace of those who support me.