Echoes by Dana

Unchained. Unmasked. Unfiltered. Unapologetically me.

Category: Lyme

  • Still a Force (Just a Different Kind)

    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.

  • Driving into Gold: The Sun, The Pain, The Progress

    It’s the first of October, my second favorite month right after summer. Yes, I’ll admit it: I’m hopelessly in love with warmth, with sunshine, with days that smell faintly of light. But October… October has its own magic. It’s my birthday month (ahem, no pressure), and it’s also the month with skies so beautiful they could humble even the boldest painter. Sunsets spill like liquid rainbows, and the moon shines as if someone in the universe finally changed the batteries.

    This morning I am behind the wheel, leaving the village fields and heading for the highway. The sun is sharp, almost blinding, but softer than summer’s fierce blaze. Fog lingers over the ground, lifting slowly, like a veil being drawn back. The light streams through in golden ribbons, pouring across the earth, reaching out to me, warming something deeper than my skin. It is a scene so ethereal it feels like a glimpse of heaven, the kind of beauty that makes you stop inside yourself and whisper: remember this.

    It is only my second trip to the office this week, and to me, that means progress. Last month, pain anchored me down so heavily that I could manage it no more than once a week. To step into the world twice now feels like reclaiming little pieces of myself, like proof that even the smallest victories matter.

    The sunlight floods my car, visor useless against its brilliance. My pupils must be tiny specks, straining. And yet I don’t reach for sunglasses. I know later I’ll pay with a headache. I know wrinkles may sketch themselves into the corners of my eyes sooner than I’d like. Still, I choose to bathe in this light, because soon October’s generosity will fade into the long gray of winter.

    So I drive through it all, the fog lifting, the light pouring, the road unfolding, and I tuck this moment away. Today, the sky is too generous, the air too forgiving, the light too alive. Pain is still my companion, yes, but today the balance tilts. Today feels like enough.