Let’s just get this out of the way up front: some days, the words do not flow. Not for lack of discipline, or laziness, or a shortage of ideas. Some days, it’s not about willpower, motivation, or the right playlist. It’s not even about inspiration. Some days, the only thing that stands between me and my story is pain—the kind that pulses behind my right eye, the one I’m already blind in, making my whole head ache and forcing me to slow down whether I want to or not.

If you’re new here, I’m Krys Hindman—writer, horse lover, and someone who’s spent a lifetime figuring out how to keep moving forward, even when the road gets rough. I’m about three-quarters of the way through my memoir, Hoofprints and Tire Tracks, and until recently, I was chugging along at a pretty good pace. Most of the posts I’ve shared here so far have been about my writing rituals, tips, the quirky ways I get words on the page with my disability, and how I find my rhythm on the good days. Today, though, is about the not-so-good days—the days when writing feels impossible, and what I want you to know if you’re there too.

The “Invisible” Hurdles

One of the hardest parts about living—and writing—with a disability is that so many of the battles I face are invisible. From the outside, people might see my wheelchair or know I have Arthrogryposis, but what they don’t see are the countless little struggles happening beneath the surface: the aches in my joints, the mental gymnastics it takes to adapt, or the pain that no one else can see, radiating from my blind right eye.

Take this week, for example. My right eye, which is already blind, has been acting up again. Glaucoma and an implanted valve mean that pressure can flare without warning, and when it does, the pain is a deep, throbbing ache that never quite lets up. To anyone else, I might look the same as usual, but inside, it feels like my body is waving a giant red flag, telling me to stop.

What makes these hurdles so frustrating is how hidden they are. No one else can see the pressure building or the way a migraine threatens to unravel my whole day. There’s no visible cast, no bandages, no warning sign for friends or readers that “Krys is out of commission today.” Sometimes, I barely look sick at all. But the pain is real, and it can make even the simplest things—reading, writing, or just focusing on a conversation—feel impossible.

On days like this, I have to put everything on hold. It’s not because I’m unmotivated, and it’s not that I’ve run out of things to say. It’s just that sometimes, the biggest obstacles aren’t the ones anyone can see. They’re the ones I wrestle with alone, quietly, until my body decides to give me a break.

So if you’re facing your own invisible hurdles right now, please know you’re not alone. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is simply honor what your body needs, even when the rest of the world can’t see why you have to step back.

The Guilt of Not Writing

Here’s the thing no one tells you about being a writer with a disability: sometimes, the guilt can be just as bad as the pain. We live in a culture that worships productivity. “Hustle,” they say. “Write every day,” they say. If you’re not posting, producing, promoting, or publishing, you must not want it enough.

Let me be the first to call that out for what it is: nonsense.

If you’re struggling with chronic pain, illness, or any kind of disability, you already know that “showing up” sometimes means something very different for us. Sometimes, showing up means resting. Sometimes, it means taking your meds and listening to your body, even when your brain is buzzing with plot twists and chapter titles.

I know there are people out there who say, “Push through!” And yes, sometimes you can. I have absolutely written through discomfort, written through exhaustion, written through the kind of brain fog that makes me forget my own character’s name. But sometimes, pain wins. Sometimes, your body throws down a hard “nope,” and that’s not a moral failing. That’s not laziness or lack of ambition. That’s just real life.

The Memoir and the Pause

Hoofprints and Tire Tracks is the most personal thing I’ve ever written. It’s the story of growing up with a disability, my lifelong love affair with horses, the wild ride of learning to live on my own terms. For the most part, writing this book has been a source of healing for me—a way to stitch together all the pieces of who I am and offer them, hopefully, as a light to someone else.

But these last few days, the writing has stalled. Not because I hit a plot hole or lost faith in my story, but because my body tapped out. I haven’t been able to work on my memoir, and—full disclosure—I haven’t wanted to do much of anything but rest. And you know what? That’s okay.

There’s a myth in creative circles that if you love something enough, you’ll always find a way. I used to believe that, and sometimes I still do—on the good days. But sometimes, the bravest thing you can do as a writer is admit that you can’t. Sometimes the most loving thing you can do for yourself and your story is to let the words wait.

What I Want You To Know

If you’re a writer or creator of any kind and you’re reading this from a place of pain, fatigue, or chronic illness, let me say this as clearly as I can: You are not failing. You are not less of a writer—or less creative, or less dedicated—because you needed to rest. Your story will still be there, patiently waiting for you to come back to it.

Deadlines are real. Goals are important. But so are you. Your health—mental, physical, and emotional—matters far more than any book launch, word count, or blog post ever could. The world needs your story, but it also needs you to stick around to tell it—fully, honestly, and with your whole heart.

If you need to take a break—take it. If you need to step away from the computer, close your notebook, or silence that little inner drill sergeant for a while, go ahead. If you miss a self-imposed deadline, that doesn’t mean you aren’t committed. It just means you’re human.

So please—give yourself permission to rest. Let your story wait. You haven’t failed; you’re simply listening to what your body and spirit need. And when you’re ready, the words—and your readers—will be waiting.

Getting Back On the Horse (Literally and Figuratively)

If you’ve read any of my blog posts, you know that horses are my touchstone. They have taught me more about patience, resilience, and listening to my own body than any self-help book ever could.

When a horse is hurting, you don’t push harder—you let them rest. You find out what they need. You give them space. Sometimes, healing takes time, and no amount of wishing or willpower can speed it up. It’s the same for us.

I know I’ll get back to writing soon. I know that in a day or two, or maybe a week, I’ll be back in my groove, turning my pain into prose and my memories into something worth sharing. But I’m not going to rush it. I’m not going to guilt myself for being a few days late or missing a blog post. My story will still be here when I’m ready.

A Note on Community

One thing I’ve learned as a disabled writer is the power of community—both online and off. Sometimes, the best medicine is just hearing someone else say, “Me too.” If you’re struggling right now, reach out. There’s no shame in saying, “Today is a hard day.” There’s power in vulnerability. There’s magic in connection.

That’s part of why I’m writing this post—not to make excuses for myself, but to make space for anyone else who needs to hear it. You’re not alone in this. We are all just doing our best, one day at a time.

Permission to Pause

So here’s my permission slip, for you and for myself: It’s okay to pause. It’s okay to rest. It’s okay to let the story wait.

Your worth isn’t measured in word counts or blog stats or daily streaks. Your story matters, but so does your health.

I’m still here. I’m still a writer, even on the days when I don’t write a single word. I hope you remember that you are too.

More blog posts are coming. More chapters are coming. I’m not going anywhere—I’m just taking a little detour, listening to my body, and practicing what I preach.

If you need the same, take it. The world will wait.

— Krys