Hammock Time: Mind Over Matter—Until It’s the Mind That Matters

If I’ve learned anything on this journey—this wild, soul-shaking, road-worn pilgrimage I somehow talked myself into—it’s this:

Pain is mind over matter.

Until it’s not.

Yesterday, I mildly twisted my ankle.

No dramatic fall, no heroic rescue scene—just a sharp little reminder that even the strongest legs sometimes need a break. So today, I listened. I’m taking a rest day. Letting my body catch up to my will. And wouldn’t you know it—rest came with a surprise I didn’t know I needed.

I’ve been placed in the gentle, snorting custody of an 11-week-old English bulldog puppy named Georgia Pie.

Yes. Georgia Pie. As Southern and sweet as her name suggests. She belongs to my neighbor in the RV next to my little cabin site, and today they said, “She’s all yours if you want some company.”

And I said yes without hesitation.

Because here’s the truth—three years ago, I lost my girl, Brooklyn. My own bulldog. My family. My heartbeat in a wrinkly little body. Losing her left a mark that no amount of time has quite erased. So to have this tiny, wiggly, soulful pup plop into my lap on a day I was forced to slow down…

It didn’t just feel like rest. It felt like grace.

Like love circling back in a new body, just when I needed it.

Georgia Pie waddles like she owns the world. Sighs like a tired little philosopher and naps like it’s a competitive sport. She doesn’t know it, but she’s helping me heal something deeper than just a swollen ankle.

See, physical pain is usually loud and easy to spot. A blister you can bandage. A sunburn you thought was “just wind” until you start peeling like regret. (And yes, I still forget sunscreen. Learn from me.)

But emotional pain? That’s trickier. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t scab over where you can see it. It lingers. It waits. It surprises you when you’re trying to just buy a sandwich or listen to a song without crying.

Grief is one of the deepest of those emotional aches. It hides in plain sight. It changes you. And it travels with you, mile after mile.

Heartbreak is its own language—spoken in echoes, silence, and could’ve-beens.

Heartache is more slippery. It’s the slow burn of what never was, the ache of what never even had a name.

Menopause—oh, she’s the plot twist nobody warned you about. It’s hot flashes, identity shifts, and random tears over lizards crossing the road. (Yes, that happened. No, I won’t apologize.)

And then there’s the quiet grief of becoming an empty nester. You raise them to soar. You pray for their independence. Then they’re gone—and you’re so proud it hurts. And you’re so lonely it echoes.

Which brings me to the truth I keep rediscovering:

The only way past pain… is through it.

You have to walk with it. Sit beside it.

Let it unravel you. Let it teach you.

Let it change the way you carry yourself, not because you’re weak—but because you’re wiser now.

There’s no shortcut. No fast-forward button. You limp through it if you must, but you keep moving.

Because this journey? It’s not just about endurance. It’s about presence.

It’s about letting a little bulldog curl up beside your brokenness and remind you that rest is sacred. That love comes back around in surprising forms. That healing shows up with snorts and soulful eyes and tiny feet.

So yes—pain is mind over matter.

Until it’s the mind. The memory. The grief. The growth. The unraveling and the rebuilding. The invisible ache that doesn’t show up on scans but shows up in your breath.

And still—I walk.

Because I’ve learned something I hope you remember:

You’ve survived 100% of your worst days.

And today, while my ankle heals and my heart quietly hums a lullaby named Brooklyn,

I’m being reminded—by Georgia Pie and the pause I didn’t want but needed— that surviving isn’t just about pushing through.

It’s also about letting love in when it shows up.

Even if it’s wearing jowls.