A Cozy Sick Day: Finding Comfort, Community, and Permission to Rest
Written by Latosha Walker
Founder & CEO, Wondering.Waves | Military Spouse | Creator | Storyteller
Published: September 17, 2025
Some days call for bold action. Others, for soft blankets, gentle care, and the courage to rest. This is the story of one of those days—when comfort, community, and permission to pause became my greatest gifts.
Waking Up Under the Weather
This morning, I woke up before sunrise, tangled in my sheets, with the unmistakable heaviness of a cold pressing down on me. My head felt thick, my ears muffled, and every swallow brought a dull ache to my throat. Even the softest sounds—the distant hum of the heater, the gentle creak of the house settling—felt amplified and far away, as if I were underwater.
For a moment, I lay still, cocooned in the familiar weight of my comforter, letting my mind drift back to childhood sick days. Back then, being sick meant cartoons on the couch, a cool hand on my forehead, and the promise of ginger ale and saltines. My mom would tuck me in with my favorite blanket, and for a little while, the world would shrink to the simple rituals of care and comfort.
Now, as an adult, sick days feel lonelier and a little more complicated. There’s no one to declare a “pajama day,” no automatic permission to set aside the to-do list. Still, I found myself longing for that same gentle care—the kind that says, “It’s okay to rest. You don’t have to be strong today.”
As the Texas sun started to peek through the blinds, I realized what I craved most wasn’t my bed, but the familiar embrace of my Minnie Mouse blanket from Disney Japan, the soft clutter of yarn and knitting on the couch, and the gentle comfort of home here in San Angelo. My world felt small and quiet, focused on the simple act of healing—and maybe, just maybe, letting myself be cared for.
Latosha curled up on the couch under her pink Minnie Mouse blanket, surrounded by yarn, a crochet project, and her favorite Starbucks mug from Japan—a cozy moment of rest and comfort at home.
The Rituals of Comfort
On tough days, it’s the little rituals that bring the most relief. I shuffled out of bed, feet slipping into my coziest socks, and padded downstairs to the kitchen, where the morning light spilled across the counter in golden stripes. I reached for my favorite Starbucks cup from Japan—a cheerful mug covered with hearts and kittens. I always call it pink, even though the words say it’s red. Either way, it makes me smile every time I see it. This cup isn’t just a vessel; it’s a reminder of small joys, of adventures abroad, and the comfort of finding something cute and familiar, even far from home.
On sick days, that cup becomes my lifeline. I fill it with ginger ale, the bubbles fizzing and popping as they hit the ice, releasing a soft, spicy scent that always makes me think of my mom’s “get well soon” tray. The first sip is cold and sweet, soothing my sore throat and grounding me in the present. I linger over the ritual—watching the carbonation swirl, feeling the chill of the cup in my hands, letting the simple act of making a drink become a small act of self-care.
I light a favorite candle—vanilla and sandalwood, a scent that makes the whole room feel softer. Sometimes I’ll turn on a quiet playlist or the gentle background noise of a comfort show, letting familiar voices and melodies fill the silence. These small comforts—fuzzy socks, a favorite mug, a flickering candle—remind me that I can create warmth and safety, even on the hardest days.
Today, the world outside was bright and mild, but I was content to watch the sunrise from the window—going outside was absolutely not on the agenda! I attempted my usual “touch my toes, reach for the sky” morning stretch right there in the kitchen, but my sinuses had other plans. One bend and the world spun! These routines are hard to let go of, even when your body is waving a white flag.
With the stretch abandoned, I settled onto the couch, ginger ale in hand, and let the cool fizz soothe my throat. The gentle clink of ice against the cup, the familiar weight in my hands—each detail offered a sense of control and comfort when everything else felt out of sync.
Wrapped in Yarn and Memories
Once I’d settled onto the couch—ginger ale in hand, candle flickering nearby—I reached for my Minnie Mouse blanket, the light pink, hooded one I brought home from Disney Japan just a few months ago. It’s oversized, impossibly soft, and topped with adorable Minnie ears and a bow on the hood. Even now, it feels like a little piece of magic, instantly making any room cozier. On days like this, it’s more than just a blanket; it’s a hug with a dash of whimsy, perfect for when I’m too tired to ask for one.
I gathered my yarn and projects close, letting the gentle tangle of colors and textures fill the space around me. Today’s projects were simple but meaningful: a Tunisian crochet scarf—just for me, for once—and a moss knitted hair bow I’d been working on for social media. There’s a special comfort in creating something with your hands, especially when the world feels overwhelming. The repetition of stitches, the soft slide of yarn through my fingers, the quiet focus of following a pattern—each step helps anchor me, no matter how out of sync my body feels.
Tunisian crochet has become my go-to on days like this. The rhythmic back-and-forth is meditative, almost like weaving a little bit of hope and patience into every row. I chose colors that felt like spring—soft blues and greens, a hint of yellow—because even on a sick day, I want to surround myself with reminders of brighter times.
Sometimes, I pause in the middle of a row just to appreciate the texture, or to remember the first time I learned this stitch from a YouTube video late at night, determined to master something new. I’ve had my share of “failed” projects—scarves that turned out lopsided, hats that never quite fit, tangled messes that made me want to give up. But even those moments have taught me something about self-compassion: that it’s okay to unravel, to start over, to let yourself be imperfect.
Crafting, for me, is a way to reclaim agency on days when my body feels out of my control. It’s a gentle reminder that even when I can’t do everything, I can still create something beautiful—one stitch, one row, one breath at a time.
The Gift of Community
As my hands worked through rows of soft yarn, my mind wandered to the community I’m so grateful to be part of. Just yesterday, someone from my military community messaged to say they’d be bringing me Chicken Marsala, and honestly, I’d been looking forward to it ever since. It’s such a little thing—a meal, a gesture—but it means so much, especially on a day when even simple tasks feel overwhelming.
When the meal arrived, the warmth of the container radiated through my hands, and the aroma instantly made my mouth water. I opened the lid and was greeted by the rich, savory scent of perfectly cooked chicken, mushrooms, and a hint of wine and herbs. The first bite was absolute comfort—tender, flavorful, and exactly what I’d been craving. The food was absolutely delicious, and I was beyond thankful—not just for the meal itself, but for the thoughtfulness and care that went into it.
Military life can be isolating, especially when you’re far from family or in a new place. But it also teaches you to build family wherever you land. I’ve lost count of the times neighbors have shown up with soup, or friends have dropped off a care package “just because.” That kind of support is everything. It changed my whole mood, just knowing I wasn’t alone. Sometimes, especially in military life, community is what holds you together when you can’t hold yourself up.
Receiving that homemade Chicken Marsala brought more comfort than I expected. It wasn’t just about the food (though I was absolutely craving something hearty and homemade)—it was about being remembered, about someone else taking the time to check in and show up. In a world where we’re often told to “power through” and “handle it ourselves,” these small acts of kindness are a gentle reminder that we’re not meant to do life alone.
Permission to Rest
There’s a quiet magic in letting yourself be cared for. As I settled back on the couch, wrapped in my pink hooded blanket and surrounded by the gentle clutter of yarn, I tried to let go of the guilt that so often creeps in on days like this. My mind ran through the usual litany of “shoulds”—I should check my email, I should fold the laundry, I should at least try to be productive. But my body was sending a different message: slow down, breathe, let yourself heal.
Rest doesn’t always come easily to me. Like so many military spouses and busy creatives, I’m used to juggling a dozen things at once and holding everything together even when I’m running on empty. For years, I saw rest as something to earn—a reward for a job well done or a luxury I couldn’t always afford. But today, I’m learning to listen to my body’s signals and honor them. The world can wait. The to-do list will still be there tomorrow. Today is for healing.
I’ve started practicing a little self-compassion exercise on days like this. When the guilt or restlessness bubbles up, I pause, close my eyes, and take a few slow breaths. I remind myself: “It’s okay to rest. You are worthy of care, even when you’re not accomplishing anything.” Sometimes, I’ll repeat a gentle mantra—“Rest is not a weakness; it’s a form of self-respect.” Other times, I picture myself as a child, tucking a blanket around my own shoulders and whispering, “You don’t have to be strong every moment of every day.”
It’s taken me years to realize that letting people care for you doesn’t make you less capable—it makes you human. Accepting help, whether it’s a home-cooked meal or a friend’s text message, is an act of courage and trust. And on days like this, being human is more than enough.
Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is pause. To let the dishes sit, to let the inbox fill up, to trust that the world will keep turning without your constant motion. There is power in stillness, in honoring what your body and spirit need most.
A Gentle Reminder
If you’re reading this and feeling like you “should” be productive, I hope you’ll give yourself permission to rest, too. Sometimes the most important thing you can do is slow down and let your community be there for you. You don’t have to do it all alone. There’s strength in letting yourself be supported, in accepting comfort, in giving yourself permission to move at your own pace.
If you struggle with accepting help, know that you’re not alone. It’s taken me years—and more than a few sick days—to realize that letting people care for you doesn’t make you less capable; it makes you human. And on days like this, being human is more than enough.
So, as you read this, I’m sending you a little virtual care package:A cozy pink blanket, a cheerful mug of ginger ale, a playlist of gentle songs, and the softest pair of fuzzy socks. I hope you find comfort in your own rituals, and that you remember it’s okay to pause.If you need a reminder, here it is: you are worthy of rest, care, and kindness—especially from yourself.
Even a quiet day of rest can have a ripple effect. When you give yourself permission to slow down, you inspire others to do the same. When you accept help, you show others it’s safe to lean on their community, too. Every act of rest, every moment of self-compassion, helps weave a softer, stronger world.
May this season bring you comfort, connection, and a little sweetness—wherever you are and whoever you’re with.
With warmth and wonder,
Latosha