hypermobility – Simple Southern Mommy

No, seriously — all of that happened.

People have been telling me for years:
“You should write a book.”
And maybe one day I will.
But if I’m honest? I think I hate writing.
What I do love is storytelling — the kind that’s messy, unbelievable, and holy in its own wild way.

I’m basically undefeated at Two Truths and a Lie, and not because I’m clever.
It’s because my truths sound fake, and my lies can’t keep up.

A Few Things That Still Stop the Room:

🚗 I hit myself with our own car.
Just once — but that was enough.
Harley, our sweet but chaotic Labrador, bolted, and I jumped out to chase him…
completely forgetting the car was still in reverse.
As I stepped out, the door slammed into my knee, knocking me flat.
The car crept across the road into the neighbor’s driveway.
Harley? Climbed into the driver’s seat like he owned it.
Me? I got back up — with a broken knee — and climbed back in to secure the car and check on our boys.

👶 I delivered a baby by accident.
Not mine.
Just me and a neighbor in crisis. No warning. No time.
By the grace of God — and extremely outdated EMT training from two decades ago — I caught that baby steady.
Also: probably way too much TLC, Call the Midwife, and “this might come in handy one day” medical TV.
Turns out, it actually did.

🛒 I ran my foot over with a cart of banquet tables.
Deeply on-brand.

🏍️ I ran over my own ankle with an ATV.
Because I thought speed = height.
I went flying. The ATV kept going and ran me over for good measure.

🏥 My GP sent me to the ER for a kidney stone.
That’s when they discovered it had retrograded — gone back into my kidney.
My urologist blinked and said, “I’ve heard of that. Never seen it.”
Welcome to life with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.

🫃 During my hysterectomy, they found my uterus fused to my bladder.
That surgery became a medical write-up.
Because my body doesn’t follow the rules — it writes new ones.

It’s Ehlers-Danlos Awareness Month.
And y’all, this is what EDS looks like.

Dislocations.
Fatigue.
“Mystery” symptoms for years.
Being told you’re dramatic or anxious.
Hearing “I don’t know how to help you anymore” from your doctor.

I was 39 when I was finally diagnosed.
Thirty-nine years of being undiagnosed — and misjudged.

I was told to lose weight, that it would help my pain.
So I lost 111 pounds — and the pain? Got worse.
Because the problem wasn’t my size.
It was the glue in my body — that genetic connective tissue — breaking down quietly, constantly.

EDS isn’t fixed by a diet.
It needs truth, treatment, and tenderness.

Now?
I’m fighting for proactive care for our son — Small Fry — who shows all the early signs.
And this mama isn’t waiting 20 more years for someone to believe him.