Living with fibromyalgia is like having a body that’s perpetually mad at you. Some days, it’s a dull ache in every joint; others, it’s a sharp scream from my muscles that makes moving feel impossible. I’m 45, a mom of two, and a hiking nut—or I was, until the pain started winning. I’d tried everything: painkillers that left me foggy, hot baths that barely scratched the surface, even acupuncture that felt more like a placebo than a fix. My husband, Tom, hated seeing me sidelined—our weekend treks up Colorado’s trails were our thing, and I was stuck on the couch instead.
My physical therapist, Jen, kept nudging me toward infrared saunas. “It’s not a cure, Emily, but it might ease you up,” she’d say, her voice all calm confidence. I’d heard of them—vague spa vibes—but wasn’t sold. Heat for pain? Sounded too simple. Still, after a brutal flare-up last spring—couldn’t even lift a laundry basket—I gave in. Jen pointed me to a wellness spot downtown Denver with a far-infrared setup, and I booked a session, half-expecting to waste 30 bucks.
That first time, I was a bundle of nerves. The room was small, wooden, with these glowing panels—no steam, just a dry warmth at 135°F. I sat on a towel, water bottle clutched like a lifeline, wearing an old tank top and shorts. The heat crept in slow—not the scalding blast I’d feared, but this deep, sinking warmth that felt like it was thawing me out. Ten minutes in, I was sweating hard—my shirt stuck to me—but my hips, usually stiff as rusty hinges, started to loosen. By 25 minutes, I felt my back unclench, like someone had turned down the volume on the pain.
Stepping out, I was dripping, legs shaky, but my joints? They moved. Not perfect—fibro doesn’t vanish—but I climbed the stairs to my car without wincing. That night, I slept better than I had in months, and the next day, I wasn’t a zombie. Tom raised an eyebrow over coffee—“You’re humming again,” he said. I hadn’t even noticed.
I started going three times a week—20–30 minutes each, post-PT stretches. Jen was right: it wasn’t a cure, but it was relief. The heat sank into my muscles, easing that constant ache, and the sweat felt like I was shedding some of the heaviness. After a month, I could lift groceries without paying for it later. Tom saw it—he’d catch me pacing the kitchen, not slumped on the couch. “You’re back,” he’d say, grinning.
Six months in, I pushed it further—talked Tom into building a little sauna nook in our garage. We rigged it with a far-infrared panel, a bench, and a towel rack—my “pain cave,” he calls it. I’d sit in there with a podcast, water bottle in hand, letting the warmth work its magic. It’s not fancy—sometimes the kids barge in, asking for snacks—but it’s mine. Last summer, we trekked Pike’s Peak—our first big hike in years. I was slow, sure, but I made it, no flare-up after. Tom snapped a photo of me at the top, sweaty and grinning, and I framed it—proof I wasn’t done yet.
It’s not perfect days every day—fibro’s a stubborn beast—but the sauna’s my lifeline. I’m not foggy from pills, and I’m moving again, not just surviving. Those trails with Tom? They’re ours again. That dry heat’s my quiet rebellion against a body that wants to quit—I’m not letting it win.