Advocating for My Health: The Zyrtec Washout Challenge

One thing I've learned throughout this health journey is that getting answers often requires patience, persistence, and sometimes a willingness to be uncomfortable for a little while.

As I prepare for my upcoming allergy testing appointment, I've entered what allergists call a "washout period." For those who haven't experienced it, this means stopping antihistamines, including Zyrtec, before testing so the results can accurately reflect how my body responds to potential allergens.

On paper, it sounds simple.

In reality, it's another reminder that medical testing isn't always convenient.

For quite some time, Zyrtec has helped manage many of the symptoms I've been experiencing. Stepping away from that support, even temporarily, means allowing symptoms to return so the testing can provide the clearest possible picture. It's not particularly enjoyable, but it's necessary.  There was vomiting & dry heaves which left an upset stomach making refueling and rehydrating a challenge.  There is also fatigue - physical, emotional, and mental.

What strikes me is how perfectly this fits into the larger lesson I've been learning over the past several months: advocating for your health often requires short-term sacrifices in pursuit of long-term answers.

There are no shortcuts.

Just as I've been coordinating between my primary care physician, allergist, dentist, and workplace accommodation process, this washout period is another step in gathering information. It's another piece of the puzzle. Another opportunity to understand what's really happening instead of simply treating symptoms and hoping for the best.

The experience has also reinforced something I've written about before: uncertainty can be exhausting.

When symptoms return, it's tempting to question whether you're making progress. It's tempting to want immediate solutions. But sometimes progress looks less like feeling better today and more like obtaining the information needed to make better decisions tomorrow.

That's where endurance comes in again.

Endurance isn't only showing up for appointments. It's following testing requirements even when they're inconvenient. It's trusting the process when you would rather skip ahead to the answers. It's recognizing that temporary discomfort sometimes serves a greater purpose.  It is being honest with family and friends about how you're feeling whether it's telling my husband that I need bland foods or sharing with my Crossfit coach that I'm not 100% but I want to participate in class & move.

As I've entered this washout period, I've found myself reminded that advocating for my health isn't about demanding immediate certainty. It's about taking the next step, one step at a time, even when the finish line isn't yet visible.

I don't know what the allergy testing will reveal.

I don't know what recommendations will come afterward.

What I do know is that accurate information matters. And sometimes obtaining that information requires walking through an uncomfortable season first.

For now, the goal remains the same: keep moving forward, keep asking questions, keep working with my medical team, and keep trusting that each step brings me closer to clarity.

Because advocating for our health isn't just about seeking answers.

Sometimes it's about doing what is necessary to find them.

Scripture Reflection

"Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." — Galatians 6:9

This washout period may be temporary, but the answers it helps uncover could have a lasting impact. For now, I'm focusing on the next step and trusting the process.

Resources:

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YouVersion - Scriptures

Advocating for My Health in the Middle of Uncertainty

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from living in the space between concern and resolution. I'm living it firsthand.

When you're dealing with health concerns, there usually isn't one appointment that suddenly provides all the answers. Instead, there are consultations, testing, follow-up appointments, referrals to specialists, and conversations about possible treatment options. One provider may have one perspective, while another sees something different. Sometimes a test answers a question only to raise several more.

What I've learned over the past several months is that managing a workplace accommodation can feel like a second full-time job.

One of the most challenging parts has been trying to coordinate information among multiple healthcare providers. Right now, I'm working with my primary care physician, an allergist whom I'll see in August, and my dentist, who recently completed a 360 scan after noticing concerning areas on routine x-rays.

Then there is the accommodation process itself. I've already had two case managers. The first sent a letter to my primary care physician asking her to reconsider the medical certification she had originally completed supporting permanent remote work. I didn't receive a copy of that letter and didn't even know it existed until my second case manager mentioned it. During the same conversation, I was told that "the department" wanted me to return to hybrid work, not even at my regular office, but at an alternative location where my teammates don't work.

The challenge is that the timeline of medical care and the timeline of workplace expectations don't always align.

The reality of many health situations is that the process is rarely linear. We all want certainty. We want a diagnosis, a treatment plan, and a clear path forward. Instead, we're often waiting for the next appointment, the next test, or the next conversation.

Yet workplace decisions are often expected before that process is complete.

When there is pressure to return to a hybrid environment before testing has concluded, before specialists have weighed in, and before potential treatment options have even been discussed, it creates a difficult tension. I want to be cooperative. I want to do my job well. At the same time, I think it's reasonable to want a clearer understanding of what's happening with my health before making decisions that could impact it further.

Living in that tension takes endurance.

Advocating for accommodations is important. Documentation matters. Communication matters. Following up with providers matters.

What I've struggled with is not letting the process consume all of my mental energy.

It's easy to replay conversations in your head. To wonder whether your concerns are being taken seriously. To analyze every email. To worry about the next meeting and what might be said.

I've spent more nights than I'd like to admit lying awake, running through scenarios and conversations that haven't even happened yet.

The problem is that endless worrying rarely produces clarity.

I'm learning there is a difference between advocating and obsessing.

Advocating means taking the next appropriate step.

Obsessing means carrying the entire unresolved situation every waking moment—and sometimes during the hours when you should be sleeping.

I'm still learning that difference.

When I hear the word endurance, my mind immediately goes to CrossFit. Endurance isn't standing still. It isn't passive. It's continuing to move forward when you're tired and when the finish line isn't yet visible.

I've started to realize that the same thing applies here.

Endurance is showing up for another appointment when you're tired of repeating your story.

It's completing another round of testing when you hoped the previous round would provide answers.

It's gathering paperwork, responding to emails, and coordinating communication between providers.

It's remaining professional even when you're frustrated.

It's continuing to do your job while carrying uncertainties that most people can't see.

One lesson I keep coming back to is that uncertainty doesn't have to steal every moment of peace.

I still don't have all the answers.

Not every test has been completed.

Not every appointment has happened.

Not every possible treatment option has been discussed.

The outcome of my accommodation request remains uncertain.

And yet life continues.

There are still moments of joy. There are still friends, family, prayer, workouts, laughter, and reasons to be grateful. There are still reminders that life is bigger than this challenge.

That doesn't mean ignoring legitimate concerns. It simply means refusing to let uncertainty become the only story being told.

If this experience has taught me anything, it's that endurance often looks much smaller than we imagine.

Sometimes it isn't a dramatic act of courage.

Sometimes it's just attending the next appointment.

Completing the next form.

Sending the next email.

Having the next conversation.

Trusting that answers will come, even if they arrive more slowly than we'd like.

This week, my focus is simple. I'm reaching out to all of my providers and trying to coordinate a consistent message for my accommodation case. My hope is that they can clearly communicate that returning to a hybrid work environment should not be required until the remaining testing, appointments, and discussions have been completed and an informed treatment plan can be established.

I'm also meeting with my manager and hoping to gain his support, along with that of my medical team, to continue working remotely while we work through the remaining testing and determine the best path forward.

For now, I'm trying to focus on the next step instead of the entire staircase.

The testing will eventually be completed.

The conversations will eventually happen.

The path forward will become clearer.

Until then, endurance will have to be enough.

Resources:

YouVersion Bible App - Scripture Image

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When It All Started Connecting: Decluttering, GLP-1, and a Healthier Home

Lately, I’ve been noticing a pattern—and I don’t think it’s a coincidence.

What started as a few separate things in my life has slowly started weaving together into one bigger lesson. Cleaning out boxes. Paying attention to how my environment makes me feel. Learning how to eat differently on this GLP-1 journey.

At first, they didn’t seem connected at all.

But now? I can’t unsee it.

It started while Jon was hiking Philmont. While he was out carrying only what he needed across miles of trail, I was at home surrounded by… cardboard boxes. So many boxes. The kind that sit for years, quietly collecting dust, holding “important things” that never get touched.

I didn’t throw anything out that wasn’t mine. That wasn’t the goal.

But I did start replacing those old cardboard boxes with sealed totes. One by one. Slowly.

And in the process, I found myself cleaning some of the dustiest areas of our home.

Here’s the part that stopped me in my tracks:
I didn’t get sick.

That felt significant.

Because just weeks before, being in the office for less than an hour would leave me dealing with drainage, sneezing, coughing, and that foggy, can’t-focus feeling I’ve come to recognize all too well. And yet at home, doing actual physical work—stirring up dust, breaking down boxes—I was completely fine.

If you’ve been following along on Santini Serenity, you already know why that stood out to me.

Our environments matter.

Not just in obvious ways, but in subtle ones too—what we store things in, how long we keep them, what’s sitting unseen in corners of our homes. Cardboard vs. sealed storage suddenly didn’t feel like just an organizing preference—it felt like part of a bigger picture.

And at the same time all of this was happening, I’ve been walking through my GLP-1 journey.

Another area where I’ve had to slow way down.

Eating isn’t automatic anymore. I can’t rush through meals like I used to. I have to pause, pay attention, and actually ask myself if I’m still hungry. Sometimes I stop mid-bite and realize… I’m done.

That’s new for me.

But here’s what’s interesting:
It feels a lot like what’s happening in my home.

Less excess.
More awareness.
More intentional choices.

Whether it’s what I’m storing in my house or what I’m putting into my body, I’m realizing how much of life I used to run on autopilot.

And I think that’s what this season is really about.

Not perfection. Not extremes.
Just learning to pause and reset.

This verse keeps coming back to me:

“Better one handful with tranquility than two handfuls with toil and chasing after the wind.”
— Ecclesiastes 4:6

One handful.

Not overflowing closets.
Not overfilled plates.
Not pushing past limits just because that’s what I’ve always done.

Just… enough.

Enough space to breathe in my home.
Enough awareness to listen to my body.
Enough peace to not feel like I have to carry everything at once.

It’s funny how it all came together—cardboard boxes, air quality, eating habits, and a hiking trip in New Mexico. But somehow, they all pointed me to the same truth:

Less really can be more.

More peace.
More clarity.
More health.

And I’m still learning. Slowly.

But for the first time in a long time, that pace feels exactly right. 

Learning to Slow Down (and Actually Listen to My Body)

Lately, I’ve been realizing something I didn’t expect when I started this GLP-1 journey.

It’s not just about eating less.
It’s about learning to slow down.

For so long, I didn’t think much about how I was eating—just that I was busy, moving fast, and grabbing food when I could. Meals were rushed, distracted, or sometimes just automatic. And honestly, I don’t know that I was ever really paying attention to what my body needed… or when it had already had enough.

Now? I don’t really have a choice.

Everything has slowed down.

My appetite is different. My cues are different. And sometimes I have to pause mid-meal and ask myself, “Am I actually still hungry, or am I just eating because this is what I’ve always done?”

That pause is new for me.

And if I’m being honest, it’s not always comfortable.

Because slowing down doesn’t just apply to food—it spills over into everything. My pace, my habits, even my thoughts. It’s like I’m being gently forced into a reset… learning to fuel my body without overfilling it, and learning that “enough” is actually enough.

This verse keeps coming to mind in the middle of it all:

“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.”
— 1 Corinthians 10:31

I’ve read it before, but I don’t think I’ve ever applied it this literally.

Eating with intention.
Pausing with purpose.
Being mindful instead of mindless.

This season feels less like a diet and more like an invitation—to be present, to care for my body differently, and to stop pushing past the signals I used to ignore.

I’m also realizing that “fueling my body” doesn’t mean restricting or obsessing. It means finding balance. It means choosing foods that nourish me, but also respecting when my body says, “that’s enough.”

And sometimes? It means putting the fork down even when there’s still food on the plate.

That’s a shift.

But it’s a good one.

Just like with the other things I’ve been working through on Santini Serenity—whether it’s creating a healthier home environment or decluttering physical space—this feels like another layer of the same lesson:

Less excess. More awareness. More intention.

I’m not rushing through this.
I’m not chasing perfection.

I’m just learning… slowly.

And honestly? That might be exactly what my body needed all along.

Resources:

Scripture: YouVersion Bible App

A huge "thank you" to Coach Amber at Steadfast for timely posts on under fueling and her continued suggestions of higher protein meals.  Also, thank you to the coaches who worked with me to extra scale recent workouts when I showed up instead of canceling because I wanted to move but needed less volume or other adjustments.

Trading Cardboard for Clarity (While He Was Hiking Philmont)

While Jon was out hiking the rugged trails of Philmont in New Mexico—carrying only what he needed on his back—I found myself on a very different kind of trek here at home.

Mine involved cardboard boxes.

You know the ones… stacked in closets, tucked into corners, quietly collecting dust and “important things” we haven’t touched in years. With him gone, I decided it was the perfect time to start cleaning and organizing—but with one important boundary: I didn’t throw out any of Jon’s stuff.

This wasn’t about purging. It was about stewarding our space better.

So instead of tossing things, I focused on replacing all those worn, dusty cardboard boxes with sealed totes. It seemed like a small shift, but as I worked, I realized it was actually a pretty meaningful one.

Cardboard, especially older boxes, holds moisture, dust, and who-knows-what-else. It breaks down over time and becomes a perfect hiding place for allergens. From a “sick building” perspective—the kind I’ve written about here on Santini Serenity—it’s kind of the perfect storm.

And yet, here’s what stood out to me:

Even while I was cleaning some of the dustiest areas of the house, I didn’t get sick.

That felt significant.

Since the end of May, I’ve been working remotely because of allergy and sinus issues I was experiencing at the Kinnear office on my hybrid days. It wouldn’t take long—often less than an hour—before the symptoms would hit: drainage, sneezing, coughing, and this overwhelming inability to focus, even when I was just sitting at my desk doing normal office work.

But at home, it was a completely different story.

I was doing physical work—unpacking boxes, breaking them down, stirring up dust in places that hadn’t been touched in a while—and still, nothing. No flare-ups. No fog. No spiral of symptoms.

That contrast was hard to ignore, especially in light of everything I’ve been sharing about sick building environments on Santini Serenity.

It made me realize that this isn’t just about how I feel—it’s about what I’m exposed to.

And in the middle of all that cleaning and swapping out cardboard for totes, I could sense it:

There was a noticeable shift.

As I swapped out box after box, the space started to feel lighter—not just physically, but mentally too. Clear bins replaced crumbling cardboard. Stacks became systems. Hidden messes became visible and manageable.

And in the middle of it, this verse came to mind:

“For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.”
— 1 Corinthians 14:33

It’s such a simple truth, but it landed differently in that moment.

Disorder isn’t just inconvenient—it can quietly steal peace. And while clutter might not seem like a big deal, it can contribute to both mental overwhelm and physical discomfort when it affects the health of our home environment.

This ties right back to what I’ve been exploring on the blog:
Our buildings—our homes—have an impact on our well-being. And sometimes the issue isn’t just hidden toxins or air systems… but the everyday materials and habits we overlook.

For me, this was a reminder that:

• what we store matters
• how we store it matters
• and what we allow to accumulate can affect more than just appearances

While Jon was out carrying only the essentials across miles of trail, I was learning my own version of that lesson at home.

Less cardboard. More intention.
Less hidden dust. More breathable space.
Less chaos. More peace.

And maybe that’s part of creating a healthier home—not just fixing what’s obviously broken, but slowly replacing what no longer serves us… one box at a time.

Resources:

Scripture:  YouVersion Bible App

Note that I did box up some of my own items to donate and that upon returning from Philmont, Jon cleared out 20+ polo shirts from his closet.  We donate our items to Good Life Ministries who has a convenient 24/7 accessible donation center in Plain City on West Avenue near the Shell Station.  

Holding Pain and Joy Together: Centering Prayer, Letting Go, and Finding Clarity in Uncertain Times

In these past few reflections—wrestling with Centering Prayer, learning to let go in the midst of uncertainty, and finding clarity again (even something as tangible as cleaner air and a clearer mind)—a quiet thread has been emerging.

It’s the thread of release.

Of letting go, not once, but over and over again. Of discovering that peace isn’t found by escaping life’s challenges, but by learning how to remain present within them.

It’s in that space that these words from Br. David Steindl-Rast feel especially meaningful:

“If we shut our hearts to the pain of the world our celebrations become superficial. If we let that pain overwhelm our hope, we are lost in the dark. Tears in which pain and joy flow together do justice to life in its fullness.”

There was honesty in Learning to Let Go: Wrestling with Centering Prayer—the kind of honesty that admits how difficult it is to sit still, to release control, and to surrender the constant movement of thoughts. That wrestling is not a failure of prayer; it is part of it. When we enter into silence, we don’t just find stillness—we encounter everything we’ve been carrying beneath the surface. Anxiety, distraction, resistance, even unrecognized grief begins to rise. Letting go becomes less of a single decision and more of a returning, again and again, to a willingness to release.

In Centering Prayer in Real Life, that inner practice met the unpredictability of everyday life—workplace concerns, uncertainty, the tension of not knowing what comes next. This is where the balance Br. David describes becomes real. It would be easy to shut down, to push through and pretend everything is fine, but that kind of denial thins out our joy until it becomes superficial. It would also be easy to let uncertainty take over completely, draining hope and leaving only heaviness. Instead, there has been a quieter, more courageous path—staying open. Allowing concern to exist without letting it define everything. Returning to prayer not as escape, but as re-centering.

Then came Clarity, Air Quality, and Getting My Brain Back, where there is a palpable sense of relief. Anyone who has experienced mental fog or environmental strain understands how profound it is when clarity returns. It feels like grace—unexpected, undeserved, but deeply welcomed. Yet even this clarity ties back into the same unfolding journey. It wasn’t forced into being; it emerged alongside release. As something shifted physically, something also softened internally. Space opened.

Looking across these moments together, it becomes clear that life is not one thing or another. It is not struggle or peace, uncertainty or clarity, pain or joy. It is both. Centering Prayer gently teaches us to sit within that tension without trying to resolve it too quickly. Thoughts come and go. Emotions rise and fall. Moments of frustration sit beside moments of stillness. And if we allow it, something deeper begins to take shape.

This is where the quote finds its fullest expression—tears where pain and joy flow together. The frustration of distraction sits alongside the quiet return to presence. The weight of uncertainty coexists with a steady, underlying hope. The fog of overwhelm gives way, at times, to clarity that feels like a gift. None of these cancel the others out. Together, they form a fuller picture of what it means to be alive.

What has been unfolding across these reflections isn’t just a practice of prayer, but a way of living. It is the courage to stay present instead of numbing out, to let go without knowing the outcome, to receive moments of clarity without trying to control them, and to hold both struggle and peace without needing immediate resolution. It is not polished or perfect, but it is real.

And maybe that is exactly where we are meant to be—in lives that aren’t simplified into easy categories, but are held gently in their complexity. Lives where hope is not the absence of difficulty, but the presence of something steady beneath it. Lives where even our tears can carry both sorrow and gratitude at once.

Resources:

Br. David Steindl-Rast Quote from grateful.org

Scripture Image - YouVersion

Update: Clarity, Air Quality, and Getting My Brain Back

I wanted to share an update following my recent posts about what I believed might be Sick Building Syndrome and the impact it’s been having on my health and work.

After environmental testing, the EHS (Environmental Health & Safety) results came back indicating that air quality levels were within acceptable ranges. While that was reassuring from a compliance standpoint, it didn’t fully explain how I had been feeling.

What has made a difference, though, is time and distance.

I’ve now been working remotely for about three weeks—and the change has been dramatic.

Physically, I feel fantastic. The lingering fatigue and mental fog I had been struggling with have essentially lifted. Mentally, it’s like a switch flipped: my focus, energy, and clarity have all returned in full force.

What’s been most telling is the shift in my work itself.

I’ve been diving into Splunk again, and not just maintaining things—but improving them in ways I simply wasn’t capable of while I was feeling off. I’m making meaningful updates to dashboards and reports, revisiting logic, refining visualizations, and uncovering opportunities I hadn’t even considered before. It’s a level of creativity and productivity that had been noticeably absent—and I didn’t fully realize how much until it came back.

Whether the root cause was environmental, physiological, or some combination, the takeaway for me is clear: how we feel directly shapes how we think, and how we perform. When something is off, even subtly, it can have a bigger impact than we realize.

For now, I’m focused on maintaining this momentum, staying attentive to what my body is telling me, and continuing to build on the progress I’ve been able to make since stepping away.

More to come as I keep observing and learning.

Resources:

YouVersion: Scripture Image

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