I used to be so many things. An indomitable CEO. A parent who never missed a game. A community leader. A friend who could always be counted on for a last-minute coffee or late-night chat. I was spontaneous, energetic, reliable, and proud of the way I showed up in the world.
Then came Addison’s disease. Then fibromyalgia. And a heart condition.
And slowly, almost invisibly at first, I began to disappear.
Living with chronic illness isn’t just about managing symptoms — though that’s hard enough. It’s about losing the person you used to be. There’s grief in that. Real grief. Not just for the things you can no longer do, but for the identity you once wore so easily.
I didn’t wake up one day and suddenly become “the sick person.” It happened in moments — the day I had to cancel plans for the third time in a row, the day I forgot the words I needed mid-sentence, the day I sat out of a community event because I couldn’t trust my body to cooperate. At first, people understood. I started to worry that people would label me in new ways. “She’s the one who’s always sick.” “She has Addison’s.” “She can’t really commit to anything.”
And suddenly, that was me: The Sick Person.
But I’m still so much more. I still think deeply. I still laugh at dark humour. I still want to debate hot topics, talk about my work, make plans (even if I sometimes have to cancel). I want to be asked how I’m doing — not just how my illness is doing. I want to be invited, even if I can’t always show up. I want to talk about the latest news, the movie I loved last week, or the weird dream I had last night. I want to talk about life — not just survival.
When you're chronically ill, people assume that your whole world revolves around your diagnosis. But here's the truth: many of us are working desperately to hang onto the parts of ourselves that aren’t about illness. It takes enormous effort to manage a body that is unpredictable and high-maintenance. Every morning, I wake up and mentally scan: What hurts today? Can I leave the house? Did I pack my emergency meds? And amidst all that, I’m also wondering: Can I still be me?
I’ve had to learn to mourn the loss of my previous self — the energetic, low-maintenance, always-there-for-you version of me. She was wonderful. I miss her deeply. But I’m trying to make peace with the new version, too. She’s more measured. She’s learned to say no. She’s discovered that being present sometimes means sitting quietly and listening, not always doing. She’s still worthy of love, of purpose, of joy — even if she moves through the world a little slower.
If you know someone living with chronic illness, please don’t stop checking in. But also — don’t assume all they want to talk about is how their last doctor’s appointment went. Talk to them about everything else, too. Include them. Invite them. Laugh with them. Mourn with them. Let them be messy and complicated and real — not just a walking diagnosis.
Because behind every medical label is a whole person, still trying to hold on to who they are.
And we are still here. Still us. Just... evolving.
Submitted By Kim Fuller