A new day is on the horizon. The storm has passed. I’ve made it through the chaos, and now I’m standing here squinting at the sunrise like some victorious shipwreck survivor. The rollercoaster has screeched to a halt (for now), and I’ve managed to crawl out of the Mariana Trench of exhaustion, pain, and brain fog. Now I’m just treading water, calm and steady, watching the storm clouds drift into the distance. It feels… peaceful. Almost like I could stay here forever.

But here’s the thing: the storm is still visible in the rearview mirror. It’s behind me, but it’s never gone. It may circle back. And honestly? I’m exhausted. Not just “oops-I-forgot-to-sleep-last-night” exhausted, but “I-just-walked-10-kilometers-in-the-desert-and-someone-hand-me-a-water” exhausted. I crave just a few weeks of actual rest. A break. A reset button. Something.

Living with chronic Lyme feels like being forced to join an endurance sport I never signed up for. And while I’d love a medal, I mostly just want a nap. People tell me I’m “so strong,” “so resilient,” or that “I’ll make it through.” Please, just… stop. I know it’s meant kindly, but hearing it sometimes feels like being handed a participation trophy when you’re already limping across the finish line with your shoelaces tied together.

And then there’s the social side: plans I cancel, invitations I decline, the awkward explanations. It stings when others get frustrated and disappointed . That’s when I go quieter. I pull back. I retreat into my little shell like a Lyme-ridden turtle. Because sometimes interacting is harder than the illness itself.

If there’s one thing this disease is oddly efficient at, though, it’s triage. It separates the good people in your life from the ones who just don’t get it. And while that hurts, it’s also strangely clarifying.

So here I am, floating in calm waters after the storm, soaking up this brief peace. Knowing it may not last, but also knowing: I’ve survived another flare. And sometimes, that’s enough.