Rainbow

What healing looks like after the body stops bracing for a storm

For those of you who are new here, Beyond the Rx was born out of my attempt to heal myself from a chronic condition—Meniere’s disease—which, at its height, caused spontaneous vertigo attacks multiple times a day accompanied by a number of unsavory symptoms and consequences including severe hearing loss.

I launched this Substack in March 2025, when I went to Montenegro to try dry fasting, which I heard could cure whatever ailed me. Dry fasting involves not eating or drinking (anything) for nine straight days, in my case, three times in a row— no casual wellness experiment, so you can accurately infer my state of mind at the time.

Let me put it to you straight. Unable to live a normal life anymore, I wanted to recover and was ready to try anything to succeed.

Nine and a half months later, I have big news: I did it! I’m well. Pretty well, anyway. No more Meniere’s. Haven’t had an attack since early November. What do you think of that?!

I’ll tell you what I think…

Strike up the band! Bring out the streamers! Cue the mariachi band! Isabel Rose is standing on solid ground, ladies and gentlemen, and her hearing aid is in the back of the closet somewhere collecting dust.

Will I relapse? I guess I could but I’m not putting that idea into the universe. Besides, it isn’t where my head, or body, is these days.

Because I figured something out over the last two months that I think is key to my success.

I’ve begun to honestly trust that I’m okay—and the important word in that sentence isn’t okay. It’s trust.

Because once you’ve attained the potential for physical health, doesn’t mean you can stay there. Not unless trust enters the equation.

Trust is what blossoms when the body finally feels safe. And safety is what healing is all about.

Now, what, exactly, do I mean by safety?

Well, there’s physical safety—your body is no longer being blindsided by sudden symptoms that cause pain or sudden collapse.

There’s environmental safety—the world around you stops feeling hostile, unpredictable, filled with hidden threats.

There’s psychological safety—your own thoughts stop being a constant form of sabotage.

And then there’s relationship safety—you don’t feel judged by people in your orbit; love is flowing rather than skepticism or feelings of alienation. You feel companioned; accepted.

When even one of those forms of safety is missing, the body stays on high alert. Danger feels imminent, even when it isn’t. True relaxation is impossible. Calm, even, feels premature.

That mistrust isn’t sheer pessimism. It’s earned. You don’t mistrust because you’re negative. You mistrust because you’ve been blind-sided too many times by too many assailants (environmental toxins, food allergens, stress, even people). The body remembers because it’s smart and wants you to be okay.

Every time I entered a new space, all my cells lined up with guns ready just in case something toxic was waiting inside to get me.

But eventually, your beliefs evolve because your experiences change.

You get into an Uber that reeks of air freshener—and nothing happens.

You eat in a restaurant and notice a few grains of salt in a sauce—and the walls don’t start spinning.

I’m not talking about any dramatic moments. No bells go off. No insights arrive fully formed.

But your body takes note. It starts to register safety again—not as an idea, but as a pattern.

Muscles begin to release. Not just the obvious ones, but the small, unnamed ones you didn’t realize you were clenching.

Breathing deepens. Sleep stops fragmenting. Digestion resumes.

This new-found trust doesn’t arrive immediately, but once it’s there long enough (say, two and a half months), you can trust it. And your body can too.

This much seems clear from my newfound steady horizon. For a long, long time, I wasn’t living in my body. I was monitoring it.

Health protocols may have opened the doors to wellness. Obviously, one—or many, in combination—of the treatments I threw at myself, worked. And there is no end to the gratitude I have for my doctors and healers.

But true wellness—the kind that lasts—is what takes places after you begin to realize that your metaphorical house is safe. You can put your bags down, sit on the couch, and stop listening for footsteps in the hall.

And if that sounds small, it isn’t. It’s the difference between surviving in your body and finally—quietly—being home in it.

There’s a song by Kacey Musgraves that captures this feeling perfectly.

In case you don’t feel like watching a video or you’re unfamiliar with this stunning song, check out the lyrics.

When it rains, it pours
But you didn’t even notice it ain’t rainin’ anymore
It’s hard to breathe when all you know is
The struggle of stayin’ above the risin’ water line

Well, the sky has finally opened
The rain and wind stopped blowin’
But you’re stuck out in the same ol’ storm again
You hold tight to your umbrella
Well, darlin’, I’m just tryin’ to tell ya
That there’s always been a rainbow hangin’ over your head.

It’ll all be alright…

The second verse is even better. If you don’t know the song, I give it two thumbs up.

Thanks, Kacey. You nailed it.

And for my fellow travelers along health’s highway, if I could regain my health, hopefully you can, too. Because if there’s a rainbow over my head, my friends, the sky is large. And I’m sure it’s there for some of you, too.

Anyone else have any triumphs to share? Or need some encouragement. Let’s get the conversation going.