In 1926, Virginia Woolf wrote her strange little essay, On Being Ill.

She asked why illness—as common as love or death—had been left out of literature.

Why were novels overflowing with romance and grief, but not with the dull ache of a fever or the chaos of a stomach revolt? She called illness a “tremendous spiritual change,” something that rearranges how we see the world.

Nearly a century later, I can confirm: she was right.

I’ve lived my whole adult life in a body that refuses to behave. Crohn’s disease has been my longest companion, joined over time by surgeries, rectal spasms, lichen sclerosis, vulvar Crohn’s, vulvar cancer, a hysterectomy, gallbladder removal, arthritis, a frozen shoulder, skin flare-ups, PMDD, dysphoria, and a nervous system stuck in fight-or-flight mode. My body has never been silent.

But here’s where I part ways with Woolf. She mourned the lack of language. I built my own.

To survive the PMDD years—when dysphoria made me feel like I didn’t belong in my own body—I gave those voices names. My body became a village.

The Gut was always the chaotic Port. The intestines and valves became the Three Stooges—Larry, Moe, Curly, and, of course, Shemp (my rectum), forever twisting, clogging, and pratfalling into chaos. The Bones became the Guards, stiff and cranky but still holding up the walls. The Skin became the Watcher, shrieking at rashes, bug bites, random hairs, and hot flushes like the whole village was burning down. The Emotions formed a troupe of actors, flooding the square with tears and melodrama. And in her tower sat the Princess—scarred but still glowing after vulvar Crohn’s, cancer, lichen sclerosis, and all the wars she had endured. She demands love, oils, and candlelight, but she has earned every bit of her velvet.

And beneath them all is the Temple of Heart & Soul. For years, it sat steady but faint, a quiet hum beneath the chaos. It wasn’t until I met my husband that it began to pulse strongly. His love didn’t erase the Stooges or silence the Watcher, but it amplified the glow of the whole Village. It gave the Princess her crown back. It steadied the Guards. It softened the Troupe. The Temple became more than survival—it became joy, alive with a rhythm that carries us both.

In the beginning, it was my children’s love that kept the lights on. They powered me through Crohn’s flares, surgeries, and the darkest PMDD years. Later, my husband’s love deepened the glow, not replacing theirs but joining it. Now the Temple pulses with all of it—my love for my children, my husband’s love for me, and the self-love I’ve fought to find.

And that’s another place I diverge from Woolf: I don’t stay in bed staring at ceiling shadows. Motion is lotion. I walk. I move. I find solace in the forest, most mornings, where daylight filters through the trees. Every step calms the Troupe, cools the Watcher, and even wrangles the Stooges into order for a while. Illness doesn’t just rearrange my world—it pushes me forward through it.

Woolf was right that illness is a tremendous spiritual change. But she missed the other half of it: illness demands creativity. When language fails, we invent new metaphors. When survival feels impossible, we find humor. And when the lights threaten to go out, love keeps them glowing.

So I built the Body Village.

My body is not just a battlefield. It is a village. Messy, noisy, scarred, absurd, miraculous. The Stooges still stumble, the Guards still creak, the Watcher still screams, the Troupe still floods, and the Princess still demands joy.

But through it all, the Temple of Heart & Soul keeps glowing— fueled by my children’s love, my husband’s love, and the clarity I now carry in menopause.

The lights will never go out.

I used to write just to survive—to quiet the voices, to give shape to the pain, to keep myself from drowning. Now I can’t stop writing. The love, the wisdom, the humor, the words—they flow out of me like the pulse of the Temple itself, steady and strong.

And if you’re looking for me, you’ll find me walking in the forest in the morning light, carrying this whole village inside me.

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