Hay Happens and Hay's Happen

What the NFC Diagnosis Taught Me About Healing

I was lying in bed thinking about all the people who go to the doctor with mystery symptoms. 
“I’m super tired all the time.” Or “I get a stomachache after every meal.” Or “I look like I’m pregnant after I eat.” Or “I have these itchy dots all over my knees and elbows.” Pick your poison. We walk in with our lists of symptoms that are real enough to disrupt our lives, but vague enough to make you feel unsure how to explain them. You sit there hoping the doctor will look at you and say, “Yes, I know what this is. Here is what is going on, and here is what we are going to do.” Not because you want something to be wrong necessarily, but because you are exhausted trying to figure it out on your own. 

A diagnosis can feel like relief, even when it does not actually make you feel better.

Sometimes the doctor gives you a label. “Ah, yes, you have XYZ! Let’s get you on a course of this or that.” Sometimes they order the test. Sometimes they prescribe the reflux medication, the antibiotic, the hormone, the steroid, the antidepressant, or whatever seems to fit the symptoms in front of them. And sometimes, praise God, that is exactly what you need. You leave with the diagnosis, the prescription, and the tiny bit of comfort of having a name for what you feel.Then you go home.

And you still feel awful.

The meds give you side effects. The symptoms do not improve. Maybe something new starts happening, and you do not know if you are supposed to call, wait, stop the medication, keep taking it, or just deal with it until the next appointment. There is no easy way to text the doctor and say, “Hey, this is not working,” or “Actually, I feel worse,” or “Is this normal?” So you wait. You deal. You accept the label and try to move on with your life. But now you do not just have symptoms. You have symptoms, side effects, and a diagnosis that did not fix anything.

You get tired of living with a label that does not help you feel better.

Then you start over. Another doctor. Another perspective. Another specialist. Another test. Another idea. This new doctor thinks it might be mold. That one thinks autoimmune. Someone else says heavy metals, hormones, gut health, nervous system, thyroid, adrenal fatigue, histamine, cortisol, parasites, or whatever the current thing is. And listen, sometimes they are right. Sometimes the missing piece really does matter. Sometimes the right test, the right doctor, or the right medication changes everything. 

Too often, you end up with more information and the same body.

Dr. Google to the rescue. You type in one symptom, and suddenly you have six possible diseases, three patient forums, a supplement protocol, and a woman on a message board who sounds exactly like you. For a minute, it feels comforting because someone else gets it. Then it gets terrifying because now you have ten more things to worry about. Now it’s really complicated. But wait…

Now we have AI.

AI can be amazing. I am not going to pretend it has not helped me, because it has. It has helped connect some dots, ask better questions, and walk into appointments with a clearer sense of what I am trying to communicate. But AI can also become Google on steroids. It can give you every possible explanation because it has read the studies, the articles, the patient boards, the blogs, the protocols, and probably a few things written by people who should not be giving advice in the first place. And it gives it to you in a very organized form. You feel heard!

And when you have not felt heard for a long time, that can feel powerful. But more information is not always the same thing as healing.

I have spent plenty of time (what felt like a full-time job) asking, “What do I have?” I have chased labels. I have sat in doctor’s offices. I have had tests. I have tried medications. I have searched symptoms. I have asked AI more questions than I probably want to admit. And some of it helped. I am grateful for the parts that helped. But I also reached a point where I needed more because I wanted my life back. 

Conventional medicine gives you the label. Functional medicine gives you the root cause. Google gives you the deep rabbit hole, and AI gives you the supercharged rabbit hole. And all of them can help. Truly. But all of them can also leave you more confused than when you started. 

In my head, I call this the NFC diagnosis: No Freaking Clue.

When you feel like you’re getting the NFC diagnosis, it often still comes with a stack of labels. Labels can be helpful, but they can also create the impression that a mystery has been solved when it hasn’t. Yes, I know I’m dysregulated, dysbiotic, and discombobulated. But I had names for my symptoms long before I had answers. And there is a difference between having a label and having a path forward.

But the NFC moment is not the end of the road. Maybe it is the moment we take some agency back.

When nobody knows what is wrong, we can start to feel powerless. We wait for the next appointment, the next test, the next protocol, or the next person who might finally tell us what is happening. And sometimes we need all of that. But while we are waiting, the basics still matter. I am not saying, “I know better than every doctor.” More like, okay, nobody has a clear answer yet, so what can I do while I wait? What can I support? What can I stop doing that might be making my body work harder?

And I need to say this clearly: this is not about ignoring real illness.

Thank God for medicine. Thank God for scopes, scans, labs, antibiotics, inhalers, hormones, surgeries, specialists, and medications that save lives and change lives. Some things need medical treatment. Some things need urgent care. Some things are not solved by protein, sunlight, walking, prayer, or better sleep.

But for those of us living in the gray area, maybe the next question is not another wild theory. Maybe it is, “What kind of environment is my body living in every single day? Am I living in a way that supports healing, or am I asking my body to recover while I keep doing the same things that wore it down?”

So yes, don’t give up. In the meantime, eat real food. Get morning light. Walk. Build muscle. Sleep. Stop under-eating. Stop letting every symptom send you into a downward spiral. Connect with people. Pray. Breathe. Create rhythm. Give your body time. None of that sounds as impressive as a rare diagnosis or a complicated protocol. It does not sell as well. It can even feel disappointing when what you really wanted was one answer that explained everything.

I have to believe the body wants to heal when it can. Not always perfectly or in a linear fashion. Not always quickly. Not always without medicine. At the end of the day, it is our bodies, so we begin again with the basics we kept skipping over while we were searching for something more complicated.

Maybe the NFC diagnosis is not the moment we give up. Maybe it is the moment we stop waiting for someone else to give us hope. And while we wait, we do what we were called to do all along: steward the body God gave us.

I am over-the-moon proud of Tatum.

This week, she is volunteering at VBS, and her job is not just to help in a classroom or pass out snacks. She is a buddy for one special little boy. She shadows him through the morning, helps him move from one activity to the next, watches for what he needs, encourages him, redirects him when things feel overwhelming, and makes sure he feels safe and included. (he is in a wheelchair)

And today, even though there was an adult with her, Tatum really stepped up. The adult was new to the role, so Tatum took the lead in the sweetest, most natural way. She listened, paid attention, learned what helped him feel comfortable, and then just loved him through the morning.

And this is not just me seeing her through mom eyes. Charis, who leads the Sunday special needs ministry where Tatum serves, told her that she is the most mature 13-year-old she has ever worked with …more mature than most adults. And honestly, I believe it. Because when Tatum is in this space, something in her just rises up. She becomes calm, capable, confident, and completely focused on the child in front of her.

When she came home, she was excited and exhausted in that very best way.

I only got this one picture because, of course, she did not want me taking her picture. But I had to capture it anyway.

I love so many things about Tatum, but one of my favorites is her heart for kids who need a little extra help being seen, understood, and included. She does not act scared of differences. She does not pull back. She leans in.

And today, I saw her becoming exactly who God made her to be.

Smart. Capable. Compassionate. Fun. Tender. Strong.

I love you, Tot.

Tatum had pickleball camp all week,

so we ended the week the only reasonable way: with a room makeover.

Not a full HGTV situation, but close enough for a 13-year-old girl who now has enough products to require real estate. (and there are many).

Yes, she is officially at the stage where a “beauty routine” is no longer one bottle and done. It’s cleanser, moisturizer, sprays, lotions, hair things, lip things, and then a few more things after that. Then maybe she’s done. But probably not. So we finally got her a vanity to hold all the many, many 13-year-old products.

The reviews for this vanity said things like, “Easy to build! My dad did it!” Which, honestly, should have been our warning. Dad worked from home that day, which basically meant Dad worked from Tatum’s bedroom. But before he did, Cooper had no idea why Dad’s home. So he does what he usually does: Torments him with the stare. The stare and the toy. Play wit me?

The box arrived, the pieces came out, the instructions appeared, and suddenly Doug’s whole day had a very different assignment.

To be fair, Tatum did build the chair herself. Completely herself. I was so proud of her. Then she immediately sat in it, spun around and around, and basically made herself nauseous. So, you know, independence with consequences.

Meanwhile, Cooper had absolutely no idea what was happening. So, again, Cooper kept bringing toys. The pineapple. The rings.

Whatever he could find. Then he would stare at us like, “I have presented the offering. Why is no one responding?” Poor guy was completely confused by this whole work-from-home-but-also-build-furniture situation.

While Dad worked on the vanity, Tatum reworked her dresser. Her room is not just a room. It is a whole little world. Every tiny figurine has a story. Every stuffed animal has a place. Every random treasure means something. She gave me a full tour of who lives where, who does what, and why each little character belongs in its spot. That is Tatum.

And honestly, I love that about her. She wants a vanity with lights and shelves for her skincare, but she also still creates tiny worlds with little animals, cars, squishies, and stuffed friends. She is becoming older, but she has not lost that magical part of herself that sees stories everywhere.

My favorite part of the day was not even the finished vanity. Although Dad was doing GREAT!

It was sitting on the couch with her while Dad worked, our feet touching. That is one of Tatum’s love languages. Not always big hugs or dramatic affection. Sometimes just a foot touching mine.

By the end of the day, the vanity was built, the products were organized, the room looked beautiful, and Tatum had a new space that felt a little more grown up.

Cooper still did not understand why no one had thrown the pineapple enough times, but he survived. He now listened as Tatum gives us a tour of the contents/placement of the routine products.

It looks so nice now that we have put the pics back up.

It was such a good summer day. Room makeover, Dad building furniture…ALL DAY. (MY HHH is such a hero), Cooper delivering toys, Tatum spinning herself sick in her new chair, and me sitting there realizing again that these ordinary days are the ones I want to remember most.

“Excuse me. I noticed my mommy went into that room without me. I would like the record to show that I am deeply disappointed by this decision.”

Then he sits there dramatically, staring at the door, staring at Dad, staring back at the door, making absolutely sure everyone understands he has been wronged.

And….Those eyes!

“I am a sweet, innocent baby who has never done anything wrong in my entire life. Also, I am currently judging every choice you have made today.”

And then there’s the under-the-bed routine, which is honestly genius. He doesn’t hide because he’s scared. He hides because he knows you’ll come looking for him.

“Oh no, where’s Coopy?”

Meanwhile Coopy:

“Excellent. The operation is proceeding exactly as planned.”

The thing that makes him so adorable is that he’s not just attached to you; he wants to be included in whatever is happening, especially if mommy goes somewhere (ANYWHERE), he wants to know. If someone closes a door, he immediately assumes there must be a very important meeting occurring that requires his supervision.

And Coopy has this very specific little family ritual: he only truly comes alive with Dad when mommy’s in the room. If I come home, he doesn’t just greet me NOPE. He runs to tell Dad that I’m home, then brings Dad the toy like, “She’s here! The audience has arrived! Let the show begin!”

He doesn’t really play with me the same way. Dad is the play guy. But apparently, I am the required witness. Coopy needs both of us in our assigned roles: Dad as the official toy-thrower, me as the emotional support audience.

It’s the funniest thing. He’s not just playing; he’s performing. And if I’m not there, the whole production shuts down. That’s Coopy: part dog,

…part tiny family entertainer, part drama king who needs his people exactly where they belong.

Yes, that is our Coopy. My constant companion.

Time for us to do math and Latin. BUT FIRST…

It happened.

Tatum wanted a bite of my odd conglomeration for breakfast yesterday, so she begged to have the same thing the next day. This vs. the protein pancakes, watermelon and egg. It’s really good and she wants it everyday. What have I done? Yes, I know. It’s rice, avo, blueberries, chicken and olive oil all over it. It’s actually very tasty. REALLY.

While we did Math, the birds napped. Simultaneously.

And there was peace before Latin.

Then:
Sum Nauta; Nauta Sum. Agricola Sum. Es Agricola. Et Agricola et Nauta.

We started to argue over who was a sailor or farmer. Multiple personality issues here. You had to be there. LOL.

It really couldn’t get better.

But then it did.

You see, we went to Target and all heck broke loose. We laughed so much we almost got kicked out of the store. I felt like I was back in time with my friends at the mall circa 1981.

Tatum insisted we buy the SAME shirts too. It doesn’t get better than this. It was a photo sesh.

Pose darn it. Stop making me laugh you.

We accidentally went up to a guy in a red shirt and realized he didn’t work there. I told him you are not allowed to wear red if you shop at Target. It’s TOO CONFUSING!

Well we had side aches so it def was time to head home and eat lunch. Coopy was glued to the set.

Yes, he is a bit addicted to the screen.

Anyhoo, it was just another day in paradise at the Hay home. More to come. I can’t take it!

Learning to stay grounded when answers are still unclear

There is a strange tension in healing. Sometimes we need to pay close attention. We need to notice patterns, listen to symptoms, and make wise changes. But sometimes paying too much attention sends us down a rabbit hole of self-focus, overanalysis, and research mode. I am trying to learn the difference between listening to my body and obsessing over it.

Food is one of the places where this gets complicated.

When symptoms are mysterious, even familiar meals can start to feel complicated. I am not questioning food itself. Food is still nourishment. What I start questioning are the ingredients: the dairy, the whey, the cream, the fiber, the fat source, the things I have added back because they helped me survive one season but may not be helping me heal in this one.

And that is the part I am trying not to let take over. I do not want to ignore my body. But I also do not want every meal to become another piece of the puzzle.

Anyone who has lived with lingering, confusing symptoms may understand this. Digestive distress. Stool changes. Inexplicable fatigue. Pain that moves around. A nervous system that seems to overreact to ordinary things. At some point, even a familiar meal can start to get picked apart. Not because food is the enemy, but because you are trying to understand whether something in it might be contributing to the bigger picture. It is exhausting. Trying to figure that out can become a full-time job all by itself.

Is there dairy in that? What about gluten? Was it too much fat? Too little fat? Too much fiber? Not enough fiber? Is this histamine? Is it the timing? Is it the food at all?

Healing can become myopic. It is not wrong to ask questions. Sometimes questions help us find patterns we genuinely need to see. But when every meal becomes difficult, and every symptom leads to more questions, it can create a vicious cycle. You start wondering what you missed, what you should change, what you should remove, or what you should try next. Before long, eating becomes tangled up with the exhausting work of trying to figure it all out.

I do not want to solve a puzzle by creating more puzzle pieces.

There comes a point when you are not sick enough to be in crisis, but not well enough to stop wondering. You feel like you are doing all the right things: Eating, sleeping, showing up, trying to live normally, and then your body does something confusing and life-stealing again. And suddenly, a normal meal becomes something you start trying to decode.

There was a long stretch….and I mean a long stretch…when I would have gone searching for the next answer. A new doctor. A new test. A new supplement protocol. A new theory. I have done all of that. I have spent the money, taken the labs, followed the plans, bought the bottles, tracked the symptoms, and hoped the next answer would finally explain everything.

I wish it were that simple.

I wish someone could say, “It was the dairy. Stop that, and you’ll feel better.” Or, “It was the cream. Remove that, and the itching will disappear.” Sometimes there are pieces of truth in those discoveries. Sometimes a change really does help. But for me, it has rarely been one clean answer with one clean solution.

And at some point, the search for the culprit became a job of its own.

That is the part I am trying to step away from.

Of course, I will still make wise adjustments. I may try a short elimination. I may remove something that seems worth testing. I may add something gentle if it makes sense. But I am no longer willing to live as if the next magic bullet is always one new doctor, lab result, supplement, or protocol away.

There is a kind of hope that comes with anything new. A new plan can feel like a fresh start, and a new doctor can feel like the person who will finally see what everyone else missed. A new protocol can feel like a way out, and sometimes new help really does help.

But the newness of something is not the same as healing. This year, I want to heal in the quieter way God keeps bringing me back to: the basics of eating, sleeping, resting, moving gently, praying, and participating in life.

And yet, I still have to listen, and that is the real tension. I am learning that I can be curious and peaceful at the same time.

Maybe this is not really about food or the mysterious symptoms after all. Maybe it is about the way we live with anything unresolved.

Most of us have places in our lives where we are tempted to keep searching, keep fixing, keep analyzing, keep trying to find the one missing piece that will finally make everything make sense. Especially now, with so much information coming at us all the time. Health can become that place. So can parenting. Marriage. Work. Faith. Grief. Identity. The future.

Yes, many times, we do need to pay attention and make changes. We do need to listen closely enough to notice what is no longer working. But we also need to be careful not to let the search become our new home. 

For anyone else living with something unresolved, maybe the goal is not to stop asking questions. Maybe the goal is to ask them from a more grounded place. To stay curious without becoming consumed. To make wise changes without making your whole life about fixing yourself. To keep showing up to your actual life even while you are still waiting for answers. That means having faith in the process and letting God take the wheel of results. 

I still want healing. Of course I want a breakthrough. Some days, it’s all I can do to hold on to God for that hope. But I will not lose who I am while I’m looking for more answers.  

So for now, I am practicing this: listen without spiraling. Make the wise change slowly and deliberately, not out of panic. I’m not perfect at this. It’s a work in progress. God has a way of gently grounding me when I get off on an extreme path.

My body is not my enemy. And this puzzle, however frustrating, does not get to become the place where my soul abides.

In every way that matters. And bonus? It was Bluebell’s Birthday!

Our house celebrated exactly the way you’d expect us to.

Going to the bird spa to get nails, beak and wings upleveled.

A dramatic bird retrieval involving a net because Rio decided personal freedom mattered 

Of course Coopy joining us.

We celebrated Tot later with some LOVE earrings, a watch to tell her ALL THE TIME how much I love her, and a few knick knacks.

Wild, loud, funny, tender love.

The kind that turns a little girl into your Tot forever.