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Fibromyalgia is one of the most misunderstood chronic pain conditions in the world. People often ask what fibromyalgia actually feels like, but finding the words to describe constant nerve pain, muscle aches, rib pain, fatigue, and hypersensitive skin is incredibly difficult. In my memoir
Beneath the Radar
, I share my personal experience living with severe fibromyalgia and how it affects my body, energy, and daily life. This page describes the reality of chronic pain, from the deep aching in my ribs to the overwhelming exhaustion that comes with fibromyalgia flare-ups.

I've been asked by many the question. " What does fibromyalgia feels like?" I've struggled to find the words to describe it for a while. I thought if I wrote it as if I am doing a description for a book. So here's my detailed description of what fibromyalgia feels like to me.

It starts in the ribs.
Not dramatically. Not with a snap or a collapse. It begins like a hand closing slowly around my chest, deliberate and unhurried, as if testing how much pressure I can tolerate before I react. A tightening band wraps beneath my breasts and draws inward, notch by notch, until breathing itself feels like something I have to consider.
The muscles between each rib feel bruised from the inside, like someone has pressed their thumbs deep into the tender seams of my skeleton and left them there. Every inhale stretches tissue that already feels torn. Every exhale settles into a dull, grinding throb. There is no clean edge to it. No sharp line I can point to and say, there, that’s the problem. It is heavy and embedded, as if the pain has moved into the architecture of my chest and claimed it as permanent residence.
There is no neutral position. Sitting upright tightens the invisible band. Slouching compresses it. Lying on my side feels like my own weight is crushing bone against bone. Lying on my back feels like something solid and immovable has been placed on my sternum and told not to move.
And yet the ribs are only the epicenter.
The ache spreads outward, quiet but insistent. My shoulders feel as though I have carried something too heavy for too long. My neck pulses with a thick, stubborn soreness that makes every turn deliberate. My hips throb as if I’ve walked miles over uneven ground, even on days when I’ve barely crossed a room. My thighs hum with a deep muscular fatigue that does not belong to exertion. My arms ache like I’ve been clenching my fists in my sleep.
The soles of my feet burn.
They radiate pain as though I have spent hours walking on unforgiving concrete, as though I have wandered for miles without rest, even if all I have done is stand at the kitchen counter. Each step can feel like pressing down onto bruises I cannot see. The arches throb. The heels sting. It feels as if the ground itself is harder for me than it is for anyone else.
On flare days, the baseline pain does not leave. It intensifies, layers itself, multiplies. What was once a deep ache becomes a full-bodied assault. My entire body feels as if it has been beaten with something blunt and merciless. Not enough to break bones. Just enough to leave everything swollen, tender, offended. As if I have been the piñata at a party no one warned me about, struck over and over while smiling through it.
And then there is the skin.
The fragility of it surprises even me.
A cold breeze brushing against my arms can sting. Not dramatically, not enough to make me cry out, but enough to make me tense, enough to make my body react like it has been scratched. The lightest touch can feel amplified. Fabric sliding across my torso can irritate like sandpaper. The idea of a shower is not comforting. The water striking my back can feel like a thousand small impacts, every droplet registering louder than it should. Even clothes resting against my skin can feel like pressure my nerves did not consent to.
My skin feels too exposed to the world, like the protective layer between me and everything else has thinned beyond what is normal.
And beneath all of it is the exhaustion.
Pain consumes energy quietly. It hums in the background, constant and draining. By the time I wake up, it feels as though I have already spent half of what little reserve I had. My limbs are heavy, not metaphorically but physically, as if gravity has been adjusted specifically for me. My core trembles from the effort of holding me upright because the ribs are already tight, already burning.
Showering becomes a calculation. Cooking becomes a decision weighed against tomorrow’s consequences. Even conversation can feel like work because my brain is wrapped in fog, slow to retrieve words, slow to focus, like it is trying to function underwater.
It is not ordinary tiredness.
It is depletion that seeps into bone. A battery that never charges fully, no matter how long it is plugged in. Sleep does not restore me. It only pauses the drain briefly before the hum of pain resumes.
The hardest part to explain is the constancy. An injury has a timeline. An illness spikes and recedes. This does neither. It lingers. It tightens. It flares without clear cause and settles only slightly, never disappearing entirely. My ribs remain the center, the place the pain circles back to like it belongs there, but my feet burn, my skin recoils, my muscles ache, my joints throb, my energy evaporates.
It feels like living inside a body that believes it is under attack.
Like my nervous system has mistaken existence for injury.
And no matter how careful I am, how still I stay, how gently I move, my body continues to brace for impact that never visibly comes.

Fibromyalgia is a chronic neurological pain disorder that affects the way the brain and nervous system process pain signals. For many people living with fibromyalgia, even normal sensations like touch, cold air, clothing, or water from a shower can feel amplified and painful. The condition can cause widespread musculoskeletal pain, extreme fatigue, brain fog, and hypersensitivity throughout the body.
In my case, fibromyalgia began with severe pain in my ribs before spreading to other areas of my body. Over time, it has affected my muscles, joints, skin sensitivity, and energy levels. Some days the pain feels like deep bruising across my body. Other days it feels like every muscle aches as though I have been physically beaten, even when I have barely moved.
This invisible illness affects millions of people worldwide, yet it remains widely misunderstood.
Living with fibromyalgia means living with an invisible illness. From the outside, people may see someone who looks healthy. But internally the body can feel exhausted, inflamed, and overwhelmed by constant pain signals.
The fatigue caused by fibromyalgia is not ordinary tiredness. It is a deep depletion of energy caused by the nervous system constantly processing pain and stress signals. Even simple daily tasks can feel overwhelming during flare-ups.
For many people, fibromyalgia also includes symptoms such as:
• Chronic muscle pain • Rib pain and chest wall pain • Hypersensitive skin • Pain in the feet and joints • Extreme fatigue • Brain fog and concentration issues • Widespread body aches
Understanding these experiences is important in raising awareness for chronic pain conditions and invisible disabilities.

The experiences described on this page come from my personal journey with trauma, chronic illness, and resilience, explored in my memoir Beneath the Radar.
The book shares my story of growing up navigating trauma, neurodivergence, addiction recovery, and chronic illness while trying to build a life beyond survival.
If you want to understand the full story behind these experiences, you can learn more