I can’t be the only one who felt like 2025 came out swinging—right? Because for me, this year wasn’t just hard. It was relentless. A slap in the face I never saw coming, followed by a series of blows I’m still trying to process.
This year was filled with chaos and medical trauma I don’t think I’ll ever fully get over. It started with a nine-day hospital stay in March. I left that admission with a PICC line that caused two DVT clots—and some of the most intense pain I’ve ever experienced. During that same stay, doctors discovered a herniated disc in my lower back, which led to multiple rounds of epidural injections.
Then came the worst pain flare of my life.
I went from independently functioning to relying on a wheelchair and a walker. I couldn’t get out of bed on my own. I couldn’t cook or do laundry. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without help. The pain was unlike anything I had ever known—like my hips had been sawed open by a rusty blade and lit on fire. I ended up in the ER more times than I can count, trialed who knows how many medications, and walked away with three new diagnoses. And somehow, that still isn’t the full story.
When it rains, it pours, doesn’t it?
But somewhere in the middle of the sideways, stinging, smacking-you-right-in-the-face kind of rain, I learned a few things about what it really means to live with chronic illness:
Don’t Give Up (Even When You Want To Most)
I know — it’s cliché. But there were so many moments this year when I wanted to throw my hands up and say, screw this, I’m done. And honestly, that urge made sense. I was exhausted in every possible way—and exhausted in ways I didn’t know existed.
But I didn’t give up.
And that alone is something I’m learning to be proud of.
We’re taught that “wins” have to look a certain way: getting married, landing a new job, buying a house. And those things are worth celebrating. But we rarely talk about the less aesthetic wins—the quiet ones, the ones that don’t photograph well.
Not giving up when you live in a body that often feels like it’s given up on you is a massive win. It’s the kind of win that doesn’t come with applause, photos, or congratulations. No one throws a party for getting out of bed when your joints feel like glass, or for surviving another day of pain, uncertainty, and medical gaslighting. Most people never see these moments, let alone recognize them as victories.
But for those of us who are chronically ill, these quiet wins are everything. They’re built in the moments where quitting would make sense, where rest feels undeserved, where hope feels thin—and yet we keep going. For me, that might be the biggest win of all.
Resist. Advocate. Trust Yourself.
I can’t count how many times doctors told me I was “fine” because my labs were “normal.” But I know my body. And when you’re chronically ill, you become deeply attuned to it. You learn when something is off—even if the numbers say otherwise.
So I kept asking. I kept pushing. I requested different labs. I sought out new imaging. I saw different doctors. And eventually, I was diagnosed—not with one, but two conditions I had suspected all along.
And no, it wasn’t easy. I asked one doctor probably a dozen times before I finally walked away and found someone new. Sometimes the win isn’t getting an answer—it’s finding the courage to ask again. Or to ask at all.
Rest Is Not Failure
One of the hardest lessons this year has been learning that rest is not something you earn after pushing yourself to the brink. It’s not a reward. It’s not a weakness. And it’s certainly not a moral failing.
I spent so much time feeling guilty for what I couldn’t do—canceled plans, unfinished tasks, days spent horizontal just trying to exist. But chronic illness doesn’t care about productivity, and neither does healing.
Some days, the most radical thing I can do is rest without apologizing for it.
Listening to my body, even when it’s inconvenient or frustrating, has been an act of survival. Choosing rest has kept me here. And that matters more than checking any box ever could.
Give Yourself Grace
This one is still a work in progress for me.
I find myself comparing my life to other twenty-somethings—where they are, what they’ve built, how “together” they seem. I don’t have a house. I don’t have a neat career path. And some days, that comparison hurts.
But then I remind myself: most people in their twenties have not endured the level of medical trauma I have. Most never will. I am living a very different life—and that means I deserve a different standard of grace.
I’ve had to learn—often the hard way—that comparison really is the thief of joy. Grace doesn’t mean giving up. It means acknowledging that surviving what I have is already more than enough.
I didn’t choose this year. I didn’t choose this body, these diagnoses, or the trauma that came with them. But I did choose—again and again—to keep going. To advocate. To rest. To resist the narrative that says my worth is tied to how much I can produce or endure quietly.
When it rains, it pours. And sometimes the storm doesn’t pass quickly, neatly, or at all. Sometimes you’re just learning how to stand in it—soaked and exhausted—still breathing. Still here.
If any part of this resonates with you, I hope you’ll remind yourself today that your experience is valid. To trust your body. To ask the question again. To rest. To celebrate the quiet wins no one else sees.
None of us should have to weather these storms alone—and connection, however small, can make the rain a little easier to stand in.
Leave a Reply