It’s Friday afternoon and here I am, sitting on the couch, stuck with a thought that refuses to leave. It’s been camping in my head since yesterday, rent-free, humming like an annoying mosquito at night.

The thought comes from something someone said to me: “You used to be a force, driving things till the end of the earth… ”

Now, let me tell you, this is the absolute worst thing you can say to someone with a chronic illness. Honestly, it’s like throwing a brick into the lap of someone who’s already juggling eggs. We already grieve the person we were before getting sick. We’re already mad at our bodies, already tired of living in reruns. Reminding us of who we used to be is like pouring salt on an already generous wound.

It breaks your spirit in the cruelest, subtlest way. Suddenly, you’re curled up in your own mind, fetal position activated, tears on standby, hoping that crying will flush the thought out. Spoiler: it usually doesn’t.

I tried everything to shake it off today, three hours in the sauna, a nap in the afternoon, even the “maybe chocolate will solve this” trick. None of it worked. So here I am, writing instead, hoping words will succeed where sweat and naps failed.

The thing is, I don’t actually believe people say these things to be cruel. Most of the time, they’re just… observing. They’re comparing the “me now” with the “me before” and narrating out loud what I already know too well. For them, it’s a passing comment. For me, it’s a spiral staircase down into gloom.

Maybe I’m more sensitive these days. Maybe I’ve run out of emotional padding. But here’s what I know: I’m still a force. I may not be the bulldozer I once was, pushing things to the edge of the earth, but I am a different kind of force now. Quieter, maybe. Slower, definitely. But still moving, still alive, still here.

And for me that’s enough.