Weathering Life
by Sara Houlihan MA, BSN, RN, BMT-CN
As an oncology nurse with 28 years of experience, I was born to care for others. I’ve served people facing life-threatening diagnoses and stood beside families while our team delivered life-saving stem cell transplants. The work was both aggressive and nuanced—a blend of art and science, grit and grace.
In 2020, in the thick of COVID-19, I developed diffuse tendinopathy (also known as tendonitis, a condition in which the tissue connecting muscle to bone becomes inflamed throughout one’s body) and six confirmed tendon tears, triggered by an antibiotic I took. (A rare but real side effect that can occur in 0.14% to 0.4% of the population prescribed these antibiotics.) It was not how I imagined spending a global pandemic—as a lifelong caregiver, benched by my own body. I went from working as a nurse leader in a large metropolitan academic medical center to being a patient, bedridden.
I needed to be helping others. That deep empathy—my innate urge to care—was likely part of what made me so vulnerable, with years of unprocessed trauma having settled in my tissues. My pain was cellular. Pain was a danger signal for me for so much of my life. As a compassionate empath, my body was definitely “keeping the score.”
Pain had been a long-time companion of mine. I had two open-heart surgeries before I was 5 years old. Since age 13, I’ve danced with it daily. Over the years, I collected diagnoses like fibromyalgia, rheumatoid arthritis, cardiomicrovascular disease, recurrent pericarditis, depression, and anxiety.
During my three-year recovery, my family—both chosen and blood—helped me bathe, eat, and move. They lay beside me in bed. They took me to specialists and searched relentlessly for relief. I was on multiple opioids, antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds— a personal pharmacopoeia.
I had access to the best care in a big Midwestern city, and yet…there were days I didn’t want to wake up. Days when I felt utterly useless. Days when the only way out of pain seemed like escape.
But I was brave enough to speak these thoughts out loud. I shared them with my tribe—the people who never gave up on me. And I remembered: I have always done hard things.
That’s when I turned toward plant medicine. A dear friend—my personal Ganjier (a certified cannabis expert)—guided me. I began exploring cannabis and microdosing. I sat in sweat lodges. I immersed myself in Blue Zones and the science of longevity. I pulled out the art supplies I had been saving for “someday.” I painted. I used the Curable app. I started cognitive behavioral therapy—shout-out to Ellie.
It was a marathon. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual.
Although I still grieve not being able to serve others during the height of COVID, I now see that healing myself had to come first.
And thanks to my SELF, my family, art, and cannabis—not only am I alive—I am thriving. I am serving again, leading with compassion and operating from an abundance mindset.
I’m back, baby. I’m the definition of vivacious (as my forever boyfriend loves to say). I have experienced community healing and spiritual purification at an Ojibwe sweat lodge, enjoyed rigorous hikes in Joshua Tree National Park, soaked in Bulgarian hotsprings, stood in awe of Gustav Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze in the Secession Building of Vienna, stayed out on a “school night” listening to live music at a local bar with dear friends, kayaked with manatees, and I am just getting started.
This journey hasn’t been linear.
It hasn’t always been beautiful.
But it has been healing.
Someday, I’ll tell you the whole story—like how I lost a job offer after testing positive for THC, even though I live in a state where it’s legal both medically and recreationally. And how I eventually found the right workplace—one aligned with progressive cannabis policies and an understanding of healing in all its forms.
But for now, I hope my story gives you hope. I hope it reminds you that healing is possible. That pain can be transformed and transforming.
My recipe for healing? Love. Art. Rest. Music. Movement. Longevity research. Intuition. Plant medicine. Compassion.
Yours might look different. That’s okay. For now, I simply say thank you—to art, cannabis, and family—for helping me heal.
Peace and love.
