Rhyming Wahls Protocol: 9 Uplifting, Mischievous Bright Spots

I have a private theory that the human brain is a drawer full of tangled charger cables, and adulthood is mostly you kneeling on the carpet, muttering, “This one must belong to something.”

When MS joined the household, the drawer didn’t get neater. If anything, it became a small circus: fatigue wearing a bow tie, pins-and-needles tap-dancing on the skirting board, and my memory doing that polite thing where it smiles, nods, and then leaves the room.

That’s where Rhyming Wahls Protocol first wandered into my life — not as a promise, not as a miracle, but as a concept that my brain could hold without dropping. I’m not here to offer medical advice (I can’t, and I won’t). I’m here to do what I do best: turn the fog into something I can laugh at, and sometimes rhyme at.

If you’ve read my nonsense corner before, you’ll know the drill: it’s lived experience, gentle humour, and a deliberate refusal to pretend I’m an authority on anything except my own odd little mind.

For more of the same flavour, the home base is here:
Nonsense Verse: Joyful Gems

Introduction to Rhyming Wahls Protocol

I’m going to say this plainly: I’m not trying to prove or disprove any protocol. I’m not trying to “treat” anything in this post. I’m not recommending a plan, a diet, a supplement, a strategy, or a lifestyle overhaul. I’m just telling you what happens inside my head when I hear certain phrases and my brain does what it always does — turns them into a little theatre production.

There’s a particular kind of pressure that comes with chronic illness: the pressure to be doing the correct thing. The correct foods, the correct routines, the correct mindset, the correct optimism, the correct productivity. If I’m honest, Rhyming Wahls Protocol appealed to me at first because it sounded like a way to make the chaos feel orderly — a way to turn uncertainty into a sequence.

But life with MS is rarely a neat sequence. It’s more like a playlist on shuffle, except the “shuffle” button is possessed. One moment you’re fine, the next you’re wondering why your foot is sending Morse code to the carpet.

That’s why my symptom-fables exist at all — not to explain MS, but to live beside it without being swallowed whole by the seriousness. If you’ve met my cast of characters, you’ll know they’re basically my nervous system wearing costumes:

• The Dismal Tale of Dame Dysesthesia
• Sir Prickalot and Pins and Needles
• Miss Hypersensitivity’s Unpleasant Day
• Who Suffered a Loss of Proprioception
• Trigeminal Neuralgia: A Nonsensical Tale
• Lhermitte’s Sign: A Nonsensical Tale

And because MS doesn’t restrict itself to one department, I also keep these close:

• Through the Fog: Fading Vision
• Dancing Through the Discomfort: Chronic Pain
• Growing Old Isn’t for Wimps: Inspiring Humour

So where does Rhyming Wahls Protocol fit in? In my case, it fits in the same place all heavy ideas fit in the fog: I don’t try to carry them straight. I carry them sideways, with a grin, and sometimes with a rhyme.

Also, just to keep everything honest: people often share protocol write-ups that include phrases like autoimmune conditions using paleo principles, or chronic autoimmune conditions using paleo, or even “treat all chronic autoimmune conditions”. I’m not endorsing those claims here. I’m simply acknowledging the sort of language that floats around — the kind that can feel both hopeful and heavy, depending on the day.

And if I’m going to carry heavy things, I’ll do it my way: Rhyming Wahls Protocol style.

The Wahls Protocol Rhyme-O-Meter: A Hatful of “Wahls Protocol” Mischief

(An amusing title for the nonsense verse)

Some people journal. Some people meditate. Some people alphabetise their spices. I write nonsense verse because it’s the only filing system my brain doesn’t try to sabotage.

In that spirit, here is the centrepiece: Rhyming Wahls Protocol as a little looping poem that refuses to resolve, because—frankly—so does life.

Tiny note before the verse

This is humour and lived experience. Not a prescription. Not a claim. Not advice.

Nonsense Verse

I tried to fold a Wednesday into a smaller Tuesday,
 But it sprang back open, shouting, “Who gave you permission?”
 So I consulted a teacup with excellent posture,
 And it said, “Call it Rhyming Wahls Protocol, if naming helps.”
A carrot arrived wearing a serious expression,
 It introduced itself as the Duke of Quite Possibly,
 Then asked why my socks were arguing in pairs,
 And whether my thoughts had a warranty.
I said I was rhyming the Wahls Protocol in my notebook,
 To keep my hope from wandering off unsupervised,
 But the pencil refused to write in straight lines,
 And the eraser tried to erase the horizon.
A spinach leaf practised ballet on the saucer,
 While a mushroom took minutes for the meeting of crumbs,
 The kettle asked for a round of applause,
 And the toaster proposed a toast to uncertainty.
“Is this Wahls Protocol in rhyme?” asked the clock from the mantel,
 “Or is it just Tuesday pretending to be brave?”
 I answered, “It’s both, and neither, and possibly a hat,”
 And the hat agreed, then forgot what it meant.
A banana tried to file my feelings alphabetically,
 But they kept changing their names to avoid the paperwork,
 So I offered them biscuits and a quiet chair,
 And they forgave me for being human.
A cabbage came in as a weather reporter,
 It forecast mild bewilderment with patches of calm,
 Then interviewed my left shoelace about purpose,
 And my shoelace said, “Purpose is overrated.”
I presented a rhymed Wahls Protocol to the mirror,
 Which nodded politely and mispronounced my eyebrows,
 Then the mirror asked if I’d seen my concentration,
 And I said, “No, but I’ve heard it’s travelling light.”
A beetroot played the tuba in the hallway,
 It sounded like courage under gentle pressure,
 The hallway applauded with tasteful silence,
 And the silence wore a scarf like it owned the place.
“Tell me again,” said the curtain to the window,
 “How do we keep going when the script gets smudged?”
 So I recited the Wahls Protocol rhymed into the lamp,
 And the lamp felt seen, which is more than some days manage.

Reflections, FAQs, and the Quiet Bit at the End

Reflections

The strange thing about Rhyming Wahls Protocol is that, in my mind, it becomes less about the literal and more about the emotional mechanics. When you live with MS, you learn that seriousness can be useful… but it can also be exhausting. Humour doesn’t deny reality; it gives you a second handle to carry it with.

If I’m honest, a big part of Rhyming Wahls Protocol is simply the act of making a thing bearable to think about. A name you can repeat without flinching. A framework you can hold without it holding you hostage. A way to say: “I’m here, I’m trying, I’m human.”

And yes, I sometimes reach for rhyme because rhyme creates a tiny promise of order. When the fog is thick, a couplet is a small fence. When the day is heavy, Rhyming Wahls Protocol is my way of lifting one corner of it, just enough to breathe.

I also notice something else: there’s a social weight to protocols. They arrive with enthusiasm, testimonies, screenshots, before-and-afters, and the occasional message that reads like a sales pitch wearing a cardigan. That’s where I stay cautious, and I keep repeating my own boundary: I’m not here to recommend or dissuade. I’m here to describe my inner weather.

If you like poems that wrestle with inner weather (in a very different tone), you’ll find whole archives devoted to difficult headspaces on sites like:
Family Friend Poems: Sad / Mental Illness

And because the internet also contains oddly specific corners for every human preoccupation, even topics like weight loss end up with their own poetic rabbit holes:
PoetrySoup: Weight Loss Poems

I’m not linking those as guidance — just as reminders that humans have always used words to cope with the body being… the body.

A small “newsletter” thought (without preaching)

Some mornings, my mood feels like a newsletter spring edition of myself: cheerful headings, optimistic bullet points, and then a small paragraph at the bottom saying “terms and conditions apply.” If I were writing my own spring newsletter, it would include: one joke, one nap, one stubborn refusal to panic, and a reminder that I’m allowed to be imperfect.

What I actually keep, day to day

I keep the idea that I can try things carefully, talk to professionals when needed, and still allow myself to be a person with a sense of humour. I keep the right to be tired without being ashamed. I keep the freedom to say: “This is what I’m doing right now,” without claiming it is the answer.

And when the brain fog thickens, when pain or sensation gets theatrical, I go back to my cast of characters — not to dramatise MS, but to make it narratable. That’s the heart of Rhyming Wahls Protocol for me: turning the unsayable into something I can say.

Conclusion

If you take nothing else from this, take the gentlest point: Rhyming Wahls Protocol is my way of turning a heavy, complicated idea into something I can hold without dropping it.

Some days that means rhyming the Wahls Protocol just to keep my courage from wandering off. Some days it becomes Wahls Protocol in rhyme, because rhyme makes a small shape out of a shapeless worry.

And on the days when the fog is thick and my patience is thin, I’ll happily settle for a rhymed Wahls Protocol — or simply the Wahls Protocol rhymed — because sometimes nonsense is not an escape from reality, but a ladder back into it.

The hardest part of MS isn’t the symptoms — it’s explaining them.
Stephenism

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