Sometimes the smallest change lands hardest.

A raindrop fell from a passing cloud and looked down at the enormous sea below.

This was not encouraging.

Compared with an ocean, one drop of water is barely worth mentioning. The little drop apparently reached the same conclusion. It complained about being small, useless, and completely insignificant. There was an entire sea down there. What possible difference could one more drop make?

Then it missed the sea.

Instead, the raindrop landed inside an oyster.

The oyster closed around it, and what had seemed too small to matter became the beginning of something entirely unexpected. Over time, the irritation was covered layer after layer until a pearl formed.

Eventually, oyster harvesters came to the reef. It was an ordinary working day until one man opened an oyster and found the pearl inside.

So much for insignificant. Apparently, size does matter. Just not always in the way we think.

My Nervous System Got the Memo

Autumn usually doesn’t arrive with trumpets. It sneaks in.

One morning is a little cooler. The afternoon light changes. Darkness comes earlier than it did a few weeks ago. Humidity shifts. A weather system moves through. You reach for something with sleeves and realize you haven’t done that in months.

These are not enormous events.

And yet sometimes I wake up feeling as though somebody broke into my body during the night and changed all the settings.

Ah. Apparently my nervous system has received the autumn memo.

People with fibromyalgia talk about weather a lot. Cold fronts. Heat. Humidity. Rain. Sudden temperature changes. Barometric pressure. There are people who can apparently detect an incoming storm with one knee and a shoulder blade, which seems terribly inefficient when phones now come with weather apps.

The research isn’t quite as tidy as our aching body parts would like it to be. Fibromyalgia is associated with differences in how temperature and other sensory information can be processed, but studies of everyday weather have not found one single pattern that applies to everyone.

Some people do worse in cold weather. Some suffer more in heat. Some notice humidity. Some say pressure changes affect them. Others could probably sleep through a hurricane without their fibromyalgia offering an opinion on the matter.

Bodies are inconveniently individual.

Autumn Changes More Than Temperature

This is one reason I don’t think we can reduce autumn to the number on a thermometer.

A season changes several things at once. The mornings become cooler. The difference between daytime and nighttime temperatures may widen. Daylight changes. Sleep patterns can shift. We start doing different things at different times of day. We wear heavier clothing. We open windows. We spend more time outdoors because outdoors has finally stopped behaving like an industrial oven.

Any one of those changes might be small. Together, they can be quite a lot for a nervous system that already has a tendency to notice things.

This is where the raindrop makes sense to me. The drop itself wasn’t enormous. It simply landed somewhere that responded strongly to it. That is a useful way to think about sensitivity. The size of the trigger does not necessarily predict the size of the response.

Anyone with fibromyalgia has probably learned this through completely ridiculous circumstances. A bad night’s sleep can wreck the next day. An unexpectedly chilly room can make muscles tighten. A routine change that wouldn’t have registered twenty years ago can now leave the body sending strongly worded correspondence.

None of this means every ache in October belongs to the weather. It does mean our bodies live in the same world we do.

Fortunately, I Like Autumn

And here is where I refuse to hand fibromyalgia the keys to the entire season. I love autumn. I have always loved swishing through fallen leaves. Not delicately walking over them. Swishing. Deliberately dragging my feet through a pile because I want that wonderful shush-shush-shush sound. There is absolutely no practical reason for doing this, which may be part of its charm.

I like sweaters too, although living in Arizona means sweater season can sometimes be measured in minutes. We may get a week or two when wearing one makes sense before the weather remembers where we live and starts threatening ninety degrees again. Still, I take my opportunities where I find them.

Autumn also means heartier food. Soup begins sounding like dinner rather than evidence that something has gone terribly wrong with the air-conditioning. Things can simmer. The house can smell like dinner for several hours before dinner actually happens.

And there are walks with Willie. Summer walks can feel less like recreation and more like volunteering for cremation. When autumn finally takes some of the hostility out of the air, going outside becomes pleasant again. Willie can sniff every shrub as though conducting a criminal investigation, and I can stand there without wondering whether my shoes are melting.

That matters too.

Sensitivity Doesn’t Only Notice Pain

When you live with fibromyalgia, it becomes very easy to think of sensitivity as the enemy. The sound is too loud. The room is too warm. The waistband suddenly feels like industrial equipment. Somebody changed the thermostat two degrees and apparently civilization has ended.

But sensitivity isn’t capable of noticing only unpleasant things. It notices cool air after a brutal summer. It notices the smell of something cooking. It notices the softer afternoon light. It notices leaves underfoot and the first morning when a sweater feels good.

The same nervous system that sometimes reacts far too loudly to small changes is still attached to a person who can enjoy small things. I don’t want to lose that part.

Small Things Still Count

The raindrop thought small meant meaningless. It was wrong. A small temperature shift can matter. So can a little less sleep. A change in routine can matter. An hour less daylight can matter.

But a walk can matter too. A good bowl of something hot can matter. A cool morning can matter. A dog trotting beside you can matter.

Fibromyalgia may notice autumn before I do. Some years it may announce the season with stiffness, fatigue, strange aches, or the general feeling that somebody rearranged my internal wiring while I slept.

Fine.

The leaves are still there. My sweater is waiting. Something hearty can go on the stove. Willie needs his walk. Apparently my nervous system received the autumn memo. Fortunately, so did I.

Reflection Question: 🍂 What small thing tells you autumn has arrived?