Payton Foeller’s Story
“When I gave up on chasing treatments and started doing what I could do—painting again, doing yard work, teaching yoga—something shifted.”
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1. Before Illness / Early Illness
Chronic headaches, asthma, allergies since childhood
Diagnosed with ulcerative colitis in highschool
Stress and anxiety were constant; panic attacks since grade school
Felt best physically during pregnancy
2. Initial Decline
Back pain began after second birth (VBAC delivery)
Fatigue and neurological symptoms spiked after weaning third baby
Daily functioning declined: couldn’t walk stairs, needed help dressing
Emotional and physical collapse after witnessing friends' suffering
3. Major Crash
Panic attacks, emotional flooding, sleep deprivation
“Function then crash” survival loop for months
Collapsed around the holidays; symptoms intensified through spring
4. Seeking Help
Tried doctors, therapists, holistic options—nothing stuck
Applied to Mayo Clinic and was accepted
Diagnosed with AERD and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (Central Sensitization)
Experienced relief in being understood, even before improvement began
5. Therapy & Emotional Recovery
Began traditional talk therapy, then transitioned to Brainspotting
Childhood memories remained foggy, but trauma began to integrate
Learned emotional literacy and body-based coping tools
6. Mindbody Work & Faith Integration
Discovered TMS and Dr. John Sarno’s work
Realized pain was neuroplastic, not structural
Began integrating mindfulness, movement, and faith-based healing
Formed Mending with Mindfulness to help others bridge this gap
7. Now
Fatigue no longer controls daily life
Capable of gardening, parenting, play, teaching yoga
Still experiences pain, but with clarity and peace
Emotional resilience in moments that would have caused shame spirals before
8. Reflection
“Healing sometimes means giving up on trying to heal.”
Embracing life, rest, creativity, and curiosity helped pain fade
Recovery is ongoing, nonlinear, and deeply personal—but possible
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Chronic stress and internalized anxiety
Suppressed emotions and unresolved trauma
Nervous system dysregulation
Perfectionism and hypervigilance
Postpartum depletion and hormonal shifts
Childhood emotional neglect or shutdown
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Ulcerative Colitis (early adulthood)
AERD (Aspirin-Exacerbated Respiratory Disease: asthma + allergies)
Adult ADHD (diagnosed during healing process)
Panic disorder / generalized anxiety
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (Central Sensitization diagnosis)
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These are therapies I believe made a lasting difference:
Brainspotting therapy
Nervous system education (Polyvagal Theory, Dr. Huberman, etc.)
Mindbody work (Dr. John Sarno / TMS framework)
Somatic practices and trauma-informed yoga
Creative expression (painting, gardening, writing)
Restoring connection to self through faith and mindfulness
Low-dose naltrexone (LDN) (helped somewhat, not a gamechanger)
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Symptoms of dysregulation and stress since childhood
Escalated after 2nd child (~6 years ago)
Major crash occurred after 3rd child was weaned (~2-3 years ago)
Healing began in earnest ~1.5 years ago and continues today
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Payton’s Website: https://www.mendingwithmindfulness.com/
My Recovery Story
Growing up, I always dealt with headaches. Not just the kind that annoy you for a few hours—the kind that would steal entire days. Tylenol and Benadryl became my go-to combo, but even that didn’t always touch them. I tried everything: birth control, beta blockers, supplements, diet changes. Before the headaches took over, they had already decided I had ulcerative colitis. Stress and anxiety were so prevalent that early signs of ulcers showed up too. Fun stuff.
Then I got pregnant - and weirdly, things calmed down. Pregnancy was the best I ever felt. It was like my body responded to the distraction, and for a while, all my autoimmune issues simmered down. After a few rough postpartums and two more pregnancies, we were inching closer to the present. I’m skipping a lot of details, but maybe we’ll circle back to them someday.
The real spiral began after the delivery of my second baby, a little girl, when the back pain started creeping in. But it wasn’t until after weaning my third - our baby boy - that the crash came. Slowly at first, then all at once. My limbs felt like lead. My chest heavy. Air felt thick like mud. I was barely moving, barely functioning.
For about a year, I brushed it off, explained it away: “I’m just tired.” “I’m not sleeping well.” “It’s probably my diet.” But deep down, I knew something bigger was happening. Some days I needed help getting up the stairs. Some days I needed help getting dressed. Once, I needed my husband to cut my meat for me because I didn’t have the strength to lift a knife and eat.
“I was barely sleeping. If we had plans, I’d fake my way through them, then crash for days.”
The unraveling
Around that time, some close friends were walking through unimaginable suffering. Their grief stirred up memories I hadn’t faced, and it was like my nervous system shattered. Panic attacks returned. I was barely sleeping. If we had plans, I’d fake my way through them, then crash for days.
Different people knew different pieces of the story. But when you're in it, you don’t see the whole thing. All I knew was that others had it worse—so I told myself to be okay. Then I’d excuse myself to the bathroom, have a panic attack on the floor, pull it together, and get back to “normal.” Time and place, you know?
By the holidays, I collapsed. By spring, symptoms were relentless. So we did what we always do: tried everything. Again. Doctors, therapists, and holistic practitioners. Nothing stuck. One beautiful and brilliant friend suggested applying to Mayo Clinic, and somehow—first try—I got in.
Mayo was validating in many ways. They diagnosed me with AERD (Aspirin-Exacerbated Respiratory Disease): severe allergies, asthma, and an aspirin allergy. But what I desperately wanted answers for was the fatigue and back pain—the kind that makes your body feel like it’s made of stone.
After every scan and every test, the answer came: Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, now better understood as Central Sensitization Syndrome (a disorder of the nervous system where the brain and body stay stuck in a state of hypersensitivity and pain). A diagnosis of the nervous system, not the immune system. It explained everything and nothing at once. Still, the name alone was a relief. It meant I wasn’t insane. I wasn’t alone.
“My body slowly turned down the volume. Not because I found the cure, but because I stopped living like I needed one.”
The slow climb out
That same season, I started therapy—first with someone who helped me feel safe, then later with a neuroscience-informed therapist who introduced me to Brainspotting. It helped me access parts of myself I didn’t even know were shut down. Most of my childhood was a fog. Too much to remember. Too much to sort. Brainspotting helped, even without a tidy story to tell.
I learned the phrases: “Practice self-care. Be authentic. Notice your thoughts.” I understood them intellectually. But my body isn’t intellectual—it’s intuitive. You can know all the things and still feel stuck. You can know you should be grateful and still feel numb. You can know you’re loved and still want to disappear.
What no one tells you is that healing often starts when you finally stop trying to heal. When I gave up on chasing treatments and started doing what I could do—painting again, doing yard work, teaching yoga—something shifted. My body slowly turned down the volume. Not because I found the cure, but because I stopped living like I needed one.
There wasn’t a single moment when it all clicked. If there was, maybe it was the moment I realized that was okay. That “arriving” was never the goal.
Somewhere along the way, someone mentioned Dr. John Sarno and the concept of mind-body pain. I couldn’t tell you who or when, but I’m so glad they did. His work—and the work of others in that world—gave me language for what I knew deep down: that my pain wasn’t imagined, but learned. My body wasn’t broken—it was protecting me.
“...one day you’ll lie in bed and smile—for no reason. You’ll rest without guilt. You’ll grieve your survival mode and forgive yourself for it. You’ll remember that you were never broken—you were just protecting yourself the best way you knew how.”
Rebuilding from the inside
Mending with Mindfulness was born out of that process. It grew from my first conversation with my therapist about mindfulness, where I rolled my eyes and said, “What do you mean just notice my thoughts?” Everything in my world had always felt morally weighted. Right or wrong. Good or evil. But through scripture, friendship, and a lot of unlearning, I began to understand that “taking every thought captive” didn’t mean judging them—it meant noticing them without letting them define me.
Now, I’m doing the things I want to do. I kneel in the garden, climb stairs, and play with my kids. I still get back pain. But the fatigue isn’t scary anymore. It doesn’t control me. It’s just... there sometimes. And I know what it is.
The other day, I almost pulled out in front of a car whose blinker was still on from a previous turn. They honked. I yelled back (maybe too sassily). But then I noticed: I didn’t spiral. I didn’t feel shame for days. Old me would have replayed that moment for weeks, telling myself I was careless, foolish. But I moved on.
If you’re in the thick of it right now—collapsed on the couch, wondering if it will ever get better—I want you to know: it won’t make sense. It won’t feel productive. Do it anyway. Be sarcastic. Be doubtful. Just do the next step. And be patient. It’s going to work.
I love this quote from Dr. Huberman:
“Doing hard stuff requires distress tolerance. Building distress tolerance requires doing hard stuff. It only gets easier by way of recognition. You think, ‘I’ve been here before. I recognize this state.’ Eventually, you seek it as a form of curiosity... That’s how you make hard things feel easy. That’s what it means when people say, ‘It’s all in your head,’ or, ‘It’s about the journey, not the destination.’”
Exactly that.
You won’t arrive all at once. But one day you’ll lie in bed and smile—for no reason. You’ll rest without guilt. You’ll grieve your survival mode and forgive yourself for it. You’ll remember that you were never broken—you were just protecting yourself the best way you knew how.
You did what you had to do.
Now you get to do what you choose to do.
And that is healing.
