Isn't it Chironic?

don't you think?

I made up a new word: Chironic.

It takes the mythos of Chiron, the wounded healer, and wraps it up in how unexpected (and dare I say, impeccable?) the medicine that finds us can be.

I’ve had this happen so many times, as I’m sure you can relate, where you get injured or sick or emotional, and the medicine ends up being just perfectly ironic. It can be literal medicine or a new understanding, but it’s like you got hurt that specific way to teach you something.

Don’t threaten me with a good time like finding a deeper meaning in any perceived slight from the universe!

Chiron was a centaur in Greek mythology born from the union of the titan Cronos and the nymph Philyra. I’ve heard a lot of different versions of the story—but one way or another, their “union” (possibly assault, definitely infidelity)—Cronos takes the form of a horse when his wife walks in on them. This is the first wounding for Chiron, at conception.

When he is born, he is quickly deserted by his mother because of his unusual body: half horse, half human—a centaur with human legs in the front (unusual for a centaur). Either which way, this is his second wounding, abandonment.

He is taken in by Apollo and his story continues with one wounding after the other, but always a turn of events that is fated to make him a renowned and skilled healer among other credentials. He ends up training warriors, one of which accidentally wounds him with a poison arrow in battle (Hercules?). Unfortunately, because of his father’s god-blood, he can neither die nor escape the pain from the would-be fatal toxins. He attempts to heal himself through studying herbalism, but to no avail.

Call it fate or coincidence, you live your life and you learn the most from the difficult moments if you are willing to rise to the occasion.

Big T, little t; trauma is relatable, is it not?

When Prometheus’ gives the humans fire, Zeus sets him to a lifetime of torture being hung from a tree and having his liver eaten every day, over and over by birds, unless of course someone is willing to take his place. Chiron, having been enduring excruciating chronic pain for long enough, volunteers himself to take Prometheus’ place. Impressed by this selflessness, Zeus sets Chiron free and makes him a constellation in the sky.

When the unfortunate happens, what’s the take away? Getting sick can be a forced and necessary rest. Other times, illness offers a new perspective. While Chiron couldn’t truly heal his wounds, he grew from them enough to be so entirely selfless as to accept the fate of a groundhog day where he has his organs eaten on repeat.

Chiron is one of my favorite characters in Greek mythology since he is an herbalist, astronomer, gymnast, and overall skilled hunter, healer, and intuitive. His story feels so relatable to me as someone who’s character arc has had many a low moment whether by inheritance, tender ego, or ill-advised action.

He became all that he was because of his wounding—in attempts to heal, he had to learn new things. His journey made him empathetic, strong, resilient, deeply knowledgeable, and connected to the thin places.

When it feels weird “inside”, go outside.

Anecdotally, and what led to my Chironic musings in the first place, I lost my voice; in the literal sense.

Upper respiratory congestion that meant endless snot moved down into the esophagus lining my throat and altering my voice. And since my postpartum body isn’t as strong, it’s taken more to fight off this viral infection (but and also, this late-winter sick season is really serving it up). All hail lemon balm for being such a friendly antiviral—I’ve been drinking fresh lemon balm tea with much bliss (it’s delicious). It’s made the sore throat go away instantaneously, but decongesting the lingering glue has been extra work.

Point is, my voice became small and raspy for the better part of a week.

Which was a magical medicine for me as a mother whose toddler has been next-level emotional the last week…

I can’t raise my voice

and thus, nothing quite escalates!

Instead of trying to speak louder and firmer to get his attention when he’s doing something he “shouldn’t”, I just have to use the weak voice I’ve got and in turn, he has to slow down and listen harder. Or, I just can’t really do much reacting, I let more slide.

Of course, I’ve known that speaking quieter is more useful in relation to toddlers for multiple reasons. However, as a primary caregiver who is constantly navigating the chaos and stimulation of raising children, the nervous system can get reactive. Often.

And of course, it doesn’t mean it’s all daisy-chains, either. I am human after all.

A forced softening has once again taught me another lesson in gentleness.

So while there are literal remedies I can help to support my healing, the real medicine here for me is the magic of experiencing an illuminating lack.

And while eventually the initial enchantment of voice-loss has worn-off, the medicine remains:

Be soft when things get hard. Practice stillness in places of chaos. And when you need to connect, a whisper can do wonders.

What about you? Do you often find some wisdom from less desirable circumstances?

All of this reminds me of “the Re-frame”—a silly project I made for a narrative class in 2024.