Recently, someone said to me, “At least it’s not cancer.”
I know they meant comfort. I know they meant perspective. But I want to address something I’ve heard more than once — the idea that if it isn’t terminal, it somehow isn’t worthy of the same weight.
Chronic pain is not unworthy of attention. And I don’t mean attention in the form of a pity party. I mean attention from doctors. From friends. From the people we trust when we say, “I am hurting.” Just because our illness is not fatal does not mean we do not suffer.
This is not a competition. I lost my uncle to cancer, and what he endured — I would not wish on anyone, not even my worst enemy. I am deeply grateful that I do not live with a clock ticking down my days. I understand the privilege in that. I understand the difference.
But my pain is still pain. And it will be with me for the rest of my life. There is no cure for any of my conditions. Cancer can be a death sentence — chronic pain can be a life sentence. Both are heavy. Both are devastating. Both reshape a life in ways most people will never fully see.
One takes you from the world. The other asks you to remain in it while carrying what no one else can see. To show up. To perform wellness. To push through. To smile when you are unraveling.
We are not asking for sympathy. We are not asking for pity. We are asking to be believed. To be understood. To have the weight of our existence acknowledged. To have someone recognize how much strength it takes just to keep going.
So the next time you reach for a platitude to hand to someone who is chronically ill, pause. Put yourself in their body. Imagine waking up in it. Imagine living in it. And then ask yourself how your words would land.
And to the ones reading this who live in bodies like mine — I see you. I know how exhausting it is to advocate for yourself over and over. I know the quiet grief of watching your life narrow in ways you never planned. I know the strength it takes to survive something that doesn’t look survivable from the outside.
Your pain is real. Your exhaustion is real. Your anger is allowed. You are not dramatic. You are not weak. You are carrying something heavy every single day, and the fact that you are still here — still trying — is proof of a resilience most people will never have to develop.
You deserve care. You deserve understanding. You deserve to be believed.
And if no one has told you lately — surviving this is not small. It is extraordinary.
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