Board Work Behind the Scenes: Why I Still Volunteer Post-Homeschooling

 

When my youngest graduated in 2023, I thought I might finally slow down. After all, I had homeschooled both of my children for 17 years—an entire season of life poured into lesson plans, read-alouds, math tears, field trips, co-op days, and everything in between.

But just as I was preparing to hang up my “homeschool mom” hat, the board I served on was going through a season of transition and desperately needed support. Our group had exploded during and after COVID, as many families turned to homeschooling - some out of necessity, others by choice. We suddenly found ourselves fielding the same 500 questions every single day. Families were overwhelmed. New homeschoolers were searching for support, resources, and reassurance. So, we took action.

We built a handbook, a months-long project that involved writing, editing, fact-checking, and collaborating. I also designed and launched our group’s website, allowing interested families to easily access information and connect with us. It was a massive project, especially considering I was also recovering from two spinal surgeries in the same year. But I kept going. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

Today, I still head up our homeschool co-op, which ranges from 200 to 300 student participants and their parents. Co-op isn’t just a casual drop-in gathering. It takes meticulous planning, scheduling, coordination, and communication. And like the rest of the board, I’m a volunteer. None of us is paid for our time, and yet we give hours every week to make this group function. Because we know how much it matters.

Our co-op, like most, relies on participating parents to volunteer in some capacity. Whether it’s teaching a class, cleaning up after an event, or helping supervise activities, it takes everyone. But someone has to organize all that. Someone has to answer emails, arrange classes, manage waitlists, update the website, oversee the budget, and ensure that everyone feels seen, heard, and supported. That “someone” is the board. That’s where I come in.

So even though my kids have “graduated” from this world, I’ve stayed. I’m in the in-between season now—no longer an active homeschool mom, not quite an empty nester emotionally, but still deeply connected to this community. And I stay because I love it. I love the families. I love seeing the kids smile at co-op, exploring new subjects, laughing with their friends, and proudly showing off their projects. They’re always a little sad when co-op ends... and honestly, that motivates me to start planning the next one.

But more than that, I stay because I remember what it felt like to be new and overwhelmed. I was once the mom with two young kids and no idea what I was doing. Back in 2006, homeschooling wasn’t a trendy choice. It wasn’t mainstream. It certainly wasn’t supported. I got plenty of scoffs and side-eyes:

• “Why would you want to homeschool?”
• “Are you even qualified to teach your kids?”
• “Isn’t that kind of... weird?”

People would quiz my children with random trivia, trying to trip them up as if their ability to answer would prove my worth. Others would say, “I could never be around my kids that much.” *Insert eye roll here.*

But I kept going, and I eventually found a community. That community helped shape our homeschool journey. It gave us field trips, friends, support, and strength. It gave me the courage to keep showing up. And now, I want to be that same source of support for today’s families.

So, how long will I keep doing this? I don’t know. I’ll serve until I’m no longer needed, or until God nudges me in a new direction. But until then, I’ll continue to give what I can, when I can.

Because the truth is, the parents need support just as much as the kids do.

And if I can help even one mom breathe a little easier, feel a little more capable, or smile a little bigger—I’ll gladly stay behind the scenes, doing what I love.

Held Together by String and a Prayer: Where Pain from hEDS Really Comes From

Most people don’t think twice about walking across a room, bending to load the dishwasher, or carrying a basket of laundry. But when you live with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS), even the most ordinary tasks can feel like trying to hold your body together with string and a prayer.

This is the life I’ve known for years. A life of invisible battles and constant adaptations. And while I’ve gotten used to hearing “but you don’t look sick,” the pain I carry isn’t just in my joints...it’s layered, complex, and deeply misunderstood.

So, where does the pain from hEDS really come from? The answer is… everywhere.

💥 1. Joint Instability

In hEDS, connective tissue is too stretchy and fragile. Ligaments can’t hold joints tightly in place, so things move—sometimes just enough to cause that deep ache, and sometimes enough to dislocate completely. I’ve had days where something slipped out just walking across the kitchen, and other times from rolling over in bed. These aren’t dramatic injuries. They’re just... life with hEDS.

💪 2. Muscle Overuse

Because my joints are unstable, my muscles have to do the work of keeping them in place. That constant effort leads to muscle tension and fatigue...like my body’s always trying to “brace for impact.” It’s exhausting in a way that sleep alone can’t fix.

One place I feel this most intensely is in my back. From the moment I get out of bed, it starts building.

The best way I can describe it is this:

It feels like the burn you get at the gym when lifting weights and your muscles start to scream at you.

Now imagine that burning never stops.

That’s what my back feels like all day long. It’s a dull roar in the morning, but by evening, it’s an unbearable fire.

No matter how I sit, stand, lie down, or stretch, it never truly goes away. It’s like my back muscles are stuck in “workout mode” without rest or relief. 

🔁 3. Repetitive Microtrauma

Even small, daily movements can cause ongoing wear-and-tear injuries. Picking something up off the floor, opening a jar, or folding laundry can lead to days of soreness or swelling. There’s no “safe” movement, just less damaging ones.

This is what happened when I tore my TFCC (triangular fibrocartilage complex) in my wrist.

All I did was water my plants...repetitively, using a watering can. It didn’t feel like a big deal at the time. But the next day, I couldn’t twist a doorknob, button my pants, or turn the key in my ignition without excruciating pain.

I spent six months in physical therapy, trying everything. Eventually, I had to be persistent and push for exploratory surgery. It turned out that I had, in fact, torn my TFCC.

Fast forward ten years, and it happened again, but this time in my other wrist.

I was simply making the bed, lifting the corner of the mattress to tuck the sheets. My wrist dislocated, and the pain was instantly familiar. We were living in a new town, and I had to see a different doctor. I told them, “It feels just like last time...I think it’s a TFCC tear.”

But again, they insisted on six months of therapy first. I kept speaking up. And in the end?

I was right. Another torn TFCC. Another surgery.

Now I have to be extremely careful with how I use my wrists. I’m hyper-aware of how I lift things, twist, or bear weight. I’ve learned to pre-think every action...my brain is always working ahead of my body. There’s no autopilot. Every “doing” requires planning. Because with hEDS, repetitive movements don’t just tire us, they break us. 

⚡ 4. Nerve Involvement

When joints slip or tissues swell, nerves often get caught in the middle. I’ve experienced everything from burning and tingling to electric-shock pain. It’s unpredictable and cruel, and it can come out of nowhere.

My worst nerve pain began after riding a roller coaster with a sudden backward launch. I felt a “stinger” in my neck that didn’t go away. MRI results showed bulging discs, congenital spinal stenosis, and severe narrowing around my spinal cord and nerves.

As a military spouse, I was treated at a naval hospital. I underwent a laminoplasty, but the surgery had to be aborted mid-procedure due to a leaking dura and my body’s inability to respond to anesthesia. After six months of recovery, I had a second surgery, an ACDF, which finally brought relief.

Still, I’ve never regained feeling in the tips of my right thumb and index finger. Nerve damage from hEDS doesn’t always heal - sometimes, we’re just left with what’s lost.

🔥 5. Central Sensitization

When you live with chronic pain, your body starts to learn it, too well.

Over time, the constant input of pain signals rewires your nervous system, creating a condition called central sensitization. It’s like your brain’s alarm system is permanently stuck in the “ON” position. Even when there’s no real danger, the body interprets normal sensations as threats.

Loud noises might make you jump. A light touch can feel like sandpaper. Gentle pressure feels like fire. You’re not weak or broken; your nervous system has just become too good at being on alert.

For me, there are days when I feel like I’m wearing my shoulders as earrings...they’re so tight and tense, like my body’s physically bracing for something to go wrong. And other days, the hair on my arms and legs stands up, like I’ve got the chills from a fever… except I don’t have a fever. I’m not even cold.

It’s just my nervous system misfiring.

It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never lived it. It’s not “anxiety.” It’s not “just stress.” It’s a full-body hijack that I can’t talk my way out of.

When it hits like that, there are only two things that seem to help:

🛁 A hot bath to settle my nerves from the outside in

🛏️ Or going straight to bed, hoping that sleep will hit the reset button

And usually, thankfully, by morning, my body has calmed. But it’s always there beneath the surface, waiting. And when you live with hEDS, you don’t just manage joint pain...you manage a nervous system in survival mode, every single day.

😴 6. Fatigue & Sleep Disruption

Pain messes with sleep, and poor sleep makes pain worse. Add in muscle fatigue, emotional exhaustion, and the constant mental load of managing symptoms, and it becomes a never-ending cycle. There are days I feel like I’ve run a marathon just from doing the dishes and answering emails.

I live in a body that asks a lot of me. Some days I can rise to meet the challenge. Other days, I need grace, rest, and a soft blanket.

But I’m learning to tell the truth about my pain...not to seek pity, but to offer perspective. If you’re living with hEDS, I hope you feel seen. And if you’re someone trying to understand a loved one with chronic pain, I hope this helps connect a few dots.

We are not fragile; we are resilient in ways most people will never fully understand.

And yes, sometimes, we really are just held together by string and a prayer.

What It’s Like Living with hEDS (That You Might Not See)

Most people don’t think twice about walking across a room, bending to load the dishwasher, or carrying a basket of laundry. But when you live with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS) — even the most ordinary tasks can feel like trying to hold your body together with string and a prayer.

And yet, from the outside, most people wouldn’t even know I’m in pain. That’s the part they don’t see.

---

It Started at Birth

My journey with hEDS started long before I knew what it was. I was born with clubbed feet and had to wear a Denis-Browne bar as a baby and toddler — a metal bar that attached to special shoes to correct the way my feet turned in. Even after treatment, I'm still pigeon-toed. I’ve always been knock-kneed and have had hip issues for as long as I can remember.

Looking back, it all makes sense now. But as a child, I just knew I was always a little different.

---

Childhood Clues and Missed Diagnoses

Growing up, I was constantly injured. I rolled my ankles regularly — it seemed like every weekend I had a new sprain. Running the mile for P.E. was torture. I even had a doctor’s note excusing me, but one teacher made me run it anyway. I finished, with a sprained ankle, and then passed out from heat stroke. I was left in the nurse’s office until the end of the day.

(The famous "W-sit")

At the time, no one thought to ask why I kept getting hurt or why I struggled so much physically. I just got used to being the kid who needed to sit out or wear a brace.

---

The Car Accident That Changed Everything

When I was 18, I was rear-ended in a car accident. It wasn’t major, but afterward, I began waking up every day with a stiff, aching back. I went through physical therapy and saw a chiropractor, but the pain never really went away. I chalked it up to the accident and assumed it was just part of life now.

---

Motherhood: A Joy and a Wake-Up Call

At 23, I had my first child, and my body didn’t recover the way I thought it would. I experienced intense groin pain every time I stood or walked, but I didn’t say much. I figured that was normal after childbirth.

Five and a half years later, I got pregnant again. At just 20 weeks, I could barely roll out of bed. The pubic pain returned with a vengeance. At the time, we lived on a remote island in Alaska with no OBs — only general practitioners. They told me it was just “round ligament pain,” but I knew better. I saw a chiropractor three times a week who tried to adjust my pelvis. I made it through that pregnancy and delivery, but it was miserable. That was when I knew: two kids is enough.

Later, after moving to Alabama, I finally saw a proper OB who listened. She diagnosed me with Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction (SPD) — a condition that made total sense, considering how hEDS affects ligaments and soft tissue. I wasn’t crazy. My pain had a name.

---

Injuries That Didn’t Make Sense

Years later, I hurt my wrist watering plants with a watering can. That tiny, repetitive motion led to a pain I couldn’t shake. I wore a brace. I did six months of physical therapy. Nothing helped.

Eventually, I insisted on exploratory surgery. The doctor was skeptical. He said, “This kind of injury only happens to baseball players who slide into home plate.” But when I woke up, I was in a full arm cast — I had torn my TFCC (triangular fibrocartilage complex) after all.

Ten years later, I tore the same cartilage in the other wrist — this time just making my bed. The doctor didn’t believe me at first, until I explained what had happened to my right wrist. I had surgery again, and again — the tear was real.