My Third Heart Surgery: Cardiac Catheter Ablation Experience

 If you had told me a few years ago that I’d be writing about my third heart surgery, I probably wouldn’t have believed you. And yet, here we are.

This time, it was a catheter ablation for atrial fibrillation (AFib), specifically paroxysmal AFib, which basically means my heart likes to randomly go off rhythm when it feels like it. The goal of the procedure was simple in theory: use energy to target and stop the abnormal electrical signals causing the irregular heartbeat. In practice, it’s a lot more intense than it sounds.

I got to the hospital at 6 a.m., which somehow doesn't feel that early when you’re about to have heart surgery. They started with the usual routine: IV, labs, all the prep. Eventually, they brought me back to the operating room and started placing stickers all over my body. These aren’t just random stickers; they act as a map for your heart, helping guide the electrical signals and the ablation itself.

Unlike my previous procedures, this one was under general anesthesia, which meant I was fully put to sleep and intubated. As nervous as that might sound, the vibe right before was actually kind of comforting. They played Taylor Swift as I was drifting off, which felt very on-brand for me and honestly made the moment a little less scary.

The actual procedure went exactly how you hope these things go: smoothly. My doctor told me afterward that he got everything he went in for. Even better, he checked the arrhythmia I had my previous ablations for and couldn’t trigger anything. That was a huge win. For the first time in a while, it felt like maybe we’re actually getting ahead of this.

Waking up, though, was rough.

I was freezing in that bone-deep, can’t-stop-shivering kind of way, and the chest pain hit immediately.  They loaded me up with warm blankets, hot packs, and pain meds, which helped take the edge off, but I won’t sugarcoat it: it hurt. There was a lot of burning done during the procedure, and now they’re treating the pain as pericarditis, which is inflammation around the heart. It’s expected, but that doesn’t make it feel any better when you’re in it.

Another difference this time was that I had incisions on both sides of my groin, instead of just one. It sounds small, but it definitely makes moving around harder. Even something as basic as standing up becomes a whole process.

At one point, when I first got up to walk, I started bleeding from the incision on my right side. Apparently, that can happen, but it still wasn’t exactly reassuring in the moment. It delayed my discharge a bit, but thankfully, everything stabilized.

And then, just like that, I was home by 2:30 p.m.

Same day. Heart surgery in the morning, back in my own bed by the afternoon. It’s kind of wild when you think about it.

Recovery, though, is never as simple as the timeline makes it sound.

A few days after surgery, things got complicated. The medication they put me on for the pericarditis completely wrecked my stomach. I’m talking full-on gastrointestinal issues to the point where I couldn’t keep food down and ended up losing weight. I had to stop taking it, which then meant the chest pain came back stronger. So it became this frustrating trade-off between managing inflammation and being able to function at all.

At the same time, I started experiencing visual migraines, like kaleidoscope vision with wavy triangles that literally block out parts of what I can see. Apparently, this happens in a small percentage of patients after an ablation.

Of course, I had to be in that percentage.

That’s been one of the hardest parts of this whole process. Not just the big things, but all the unexpected side effects stacked on top of each other. It’s exhausting, both physically and mentally.

A lot of people asked me before the surgery if I was nervous. The honest answer is not really, at least not about the procedure itself. By the third time, you know the drill. You know what the room looks like, what the process feels like, what waking up is like.

What I was nervous about was something else entirely: what if it doesn’t work again?

Because that’s the part no one really prepares you for: the mental side of going through something like this over and over again. It’s hard not to wonder if this is just your reality now. If this is something you’ll keep dealing with indefinitely.

Right now, I’m in that in-between phase. I’ll be on medication for about six weeks, and then we’ll stop and see how my heart behaves. It’s also completely normal to have arrhythmias in the two to three months after surgery while everything is healing and the new pathways in the heart are settling in. So even if things feel off, it doesn’t necessarily mean it didn’t work.

Still, waiting is hard.

But despite all of it, the pain, the side effects, the setbacks, I keep coming back to one feeling: gratitude.

Grateful that the procedure went well.
Grateful for a doctor who took the time to check everything thoroughly.
Grateful that, at least for now, things are pointing in the right direction.

Recovery isn’t linear. It’s messy and uncomfortable and, at times, discouraging. But I’m holding onto the hope that this is the last time I have to go through this. That my heart is finally getting the reset it needs.

And for now, that’s enough.

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Ten Years Later

This week, I celebrated the ten year anniversary of my endometriosis surgery and subsequent diagnosis. The day I was officially labeled as “not crazy” and entered into a completely new chapter of my life. It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years. I genuinely have no idea where the time has gone.

For so long before that surgery, I was fighting to be believed. Fighting doctors. Fighting my own body. Fighting the quiet voice in the back of my head that wondered if maybe everyone else was right and I was exaggerating. That operating room gave me more than a diagnosis. It gave me validation. It gave me proof. It gave me permission to trust myself again.

Endometriosis has taken a lot from me. It has taken days, weeks, entire seasons of my life. It has taken energy I will never get back. It has taken a version of girlhood that felt carefree and simple. But it has also made me into the person I am today.

Someone who knows how to advocate for herself and for others. Someone who has quite literally made a career out of it. Someone who does not care what others think because she has already survived being doubted at her most vulnerable. Someone who is confident. Someone who knows what really matters in life because she learned early on how fast your life can change. Someone who surrounds herself with good people because she understands how precious time is. Someone with unwavering determination and ambition because she has had to fight for everything. Someone who is kind because she knows better than anyone that people can be fighting battles silently. Someone who others can look to when they have just been diagnosed and feel like their world is ending. The list really does go on and on.

I am so proud of the person I am today. And I hate to say it, but I truly do not think I would be this version of myself without all the adversity I have faced. Ten years ago, I remember thinking that if I was going to have to live with this, it had to mean something. I wanted to turn my pain into purpose. I didn't know how yet. I didn't know what that would look like. But I knew I could not let it be for nothing. I am proud to say I have done just that.

I worked with my doctors and my boss to write and file legislation that eliminates the primary care referral requirement for specialty gynecological care so others do not have to fight as hard as I did to be heard. I took the worst moments of my life and turned them into policy. Into change. Into something tangible that could make the path a little smoother for the next person sitting in an exam room begging someone to listen.

Every single day in my job, I use the skills that were sharpened by my pain. I advocate for people in their most vulnerable and hardest moments. People navigating housing crises. People dealing with healthcare systems that feel impossible. People who are exhausted and scared and just want someone to pick up the phone and fight for them. I know how that feels. I know what it is like to feel small in a system that is supposed to help you. And I refuse to let people feel alone if I can help it. And I am just getting started.

In the last ten years, I have graduated high school. I graduated college. I am now just months away from graduating with my master’s degree. Somehow, I have thrived academically every step of the way. I think part of it has been distraction. School gave me structure. It gave me something to focus on when my body felt out of control. It reminded me that my brain still worked even when my body felt like it was failing me.

I completed internships. I nannied. I worked in offices on my college campus. I led many clubs. I said yes to opportunities even when I was tired. All of it led me to the full time job I have today. A job that is challenging and exhausting and demanding. A job that I love. A job that constantly reminds me that everyone is carrying something.

Sometimes I look back at fourteen year old me, sitting in therapy for depression because it felt like no one believed her pain, and I wish I could hug her. She could not imagine a future. She could not imagine feeling strong. She definitely could not imagine a future this bright. She thought her life was over before it had even begun. If only she could see me now.

I still struggle every single day. Every single day is a battle to get out of bed. Chronic illness does not disappear just because you have grown around it. The pain still shows up. The fatigue still lingers. The frustration still creeps in. But I have tools now. I have coping skills. I have perspective. I know what my body is capable of surviving. I know that I can do hard things.

The last ten years have not been easy. They have been messy and painful and complicated. But they have also been filled with growth, purpose, and resilience I never knew I had.

I cannot wait to see what the next ten years will bring. I hope for less pain and fewer medical battles. I hope for more advocacy, more impact, more moments where someone feels heard because I spoke up. Most of all, I hope I continue to honor that girl who just wanted to be believed.

Ten years ago, I was fighting for a diagnosis. Today, I am living proof that you can fight, survive, and still build a life you are proud of.

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The Feelings No One Talks About in Chronic Illness

Those who know me know that I am not an emotional person, and I do not like talking about emotions. But I would be lying if I said that was not an important aspect of living with chronic illness. Chronic illness hardens you. It creates a solid shell that no one can break through. It is not a choice. It is an involuntary defense mechanism.

When you live in a body that constantly surprises you, disappoints you, or scares you, you learn very quickly how to protect yourself. You cannot afford to fall apart every time something new goes wrong. You cannot afford to spiral every time your symptoms flare. So you build armor. You become practical. You focus on logistics. You handle appointments, medications, insurance battles, and procedures. You become efficient at survival. But under that shell, there is still an emotional cycle that happens almost every single time a flare hits.

For me, a flare can look like my heart acting up. Arrhythmias that remind me that my body does not always follow the rules. It can look like chronic neurological chest pain that feels alarming, even when I know it is not an emergency. It can look like endometriosis pain that brings me back to being fourteen and doubled over. It can even trigger the lingering fear that comes with having survived a pulmonary embolism, where every chest sensation feels like imminent doom. Whatever form it takes, the feeling underneath is usually the same.

First comes denial. Maybe I am just tired. Maybe I did not sleep well. Maybe it is stress. Maybe I can push through this meeting, this event, this class. I try to negotiate with my body like it is a misbehaving child. If I drink more water, if I rest for twenty minutes, if I ignore it, maybe it will go away. Most of the time it does not.

Then comes frustration. This is the stage where I get angry. I have plans. I have goals. I have responsibilities. I have a life that does not pause just because my body decided to act up. It feels unfair to have to rearrange everything because of something I did not choose and cannot control. It feels unfair to cancel. It feels unfair to slow down. It feels unfair to once again explain to someone why I cannot do something that looks so simple from the outside.

Frustration is intense. It simmers under the surface. It makes me short with people I love. It makes me want to throw my phone across the room when I get another appointment reminder. It makes me question why my body cannot just cooperate.

After frustration, guilt creeps in. Guilt for canceling plans. Guilt for needing help. Guilt for not being as productive as I think I should be. Guilt for being the friend who has limitations. Guilt for being the daughter who worries her parents. Guilt for being the employee who might need flexibility. Even when no one is making me feel guilty, I manage to do it to myself.

Chronic illness teaches you to measure your worth by what you can still accomplish. On good days, I can do almost everything. On flare days, my world shrinks. And when it shrinks, I sometimes feel like I am shrinking with it. And it feels like I've been stuck in a continuous flair for years now.

Then comes grief. This is the part I do not talk about often. Grief for the version of me who did not have to think twice about her heart. Grief for the version of me who did not have to calculate energy before making plans. Grief for the ease with which other people seem to move through life. Grief for the body I thought I would have.

Grief is quieter than frustration. It is heavier. It shows up late at night when everything is still. It shows up when I realize this is not a phase. This is my life. It does not mean my life is bad. It just means it is different than the average twenty-something.

But the cycle does not end there. Eventually, acceptance makes its way back in. Acceptance doesn't mean I like it. It doesn't mean I am okay with every symptom or every setback. It means I adjust. I reschedule. I rest. I take my medications. I follow up with my doctors. I do what needs to be done. I remind myself that I have handled this before, and I can handle it again.

And somewhere in that acceptance, hope quietly returns. Hope that this flare will calm down. Hope that treatments will improve. Hope that research will advance. Hope that I can still build a life I love within the limits I have. Hope that even on days when my body feels unreliable, I am still capable, still worthy, still strong.

Chronic illness hardens you, yes. It builds that protective shell because it has to. But it also deepens you. It forces you to confront fear, anger, and sadness in ways most people do not have to at a young age. It forces you to become resilient, not because you want to be inspirational, but because you want to survive.

I am not an emotional person in the traditional sense. I do not cry easily. I do not always process things out loud. But I feel the cycle every time my health shifts. Denial. Frustration. Guilt. Grief. Acceptance. Hope. Over and over again.

If you are living with chronic illness and you recognize yourself in that pattern, I want you to know that nothing about it makes you weak. Feeling frustrated does not make you ungrateful. Feeling grief does not mean you have given up. Feeling guilt does not mean you are actually a burden. It means you are human.

There is nothing simple about living in a body that requires constant monitoring and management. There is nothing dramatic about being tired of fighting. There is nothing selfish about wanting ease. The emotional cycle of a flare does not mean you are failing. It means you are navigating something hard.

And even if you build a shell like I did, even if you pride yourself on being practical and composed, it is okay to admit that this life comes with feelings. You are allowed to name them. You are allowed to sit with them. And you are allowed to hope anyway. 

I am reminding myself of this every single day, and if I am honest, it never seems to get any easier. But that does not mean it is not worth repeating. Give yourself grace. You are managing something so few people truly understand.

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How I Decompress After a Long Week

It seems like everyone I’ve talked to agrees that this has felt like a very long week. I know it has for me. There were some really exciting work things happening this week, the kind of opportunities you’re grateful for but that also demand a lot of you. That meant late nights editing, rewriting, rereading, and making sure everything was exactly how it needed to be. I don’t regret any of it for a second, but as we head into the weekend, I’m absolutely drained. I’m feeling especially grateful for my Friday work-from-home day this week because I don’t think I would’ve made it otherwise.

Living with chronic illness means I’m usually tired by the end of the week, no matter how “easy” or “hard” the week looks from the outside. But this week was a different level of draining. On top of work, I also started school again, and the homework is already piling up. Perfect timing, right? Between work responsibilities, academic deadlines, and the constant baseline of managing my health, it felt like the week just kept going and going. So, in honor of finally reaching the end of this seemingly never-ending stretch of days, I thought I’d share how I decompress after a long week and what helps me reset, even just a little bit.

My weekly decompression usually begins on Thursdays after work when I get together with my coworkers to talk through the week and lean on each other for support. I know to other people it probably looks like just after-work drinks or casual hanging out, but for me, it’s an essential part of my routine. I have a very unique job, and you can only truly understand it if you’ve lived it. In that way, it reminds me a lot of chronic illness. There are certain experiences you just can’t fully explain unless someone has been there too. Being able to hash out frustrations, celebrate wins, and vent without having to over-explain myself makes a huge difference. I always feel lighter walking into the weekend after that time together.

Fridays are a gift in their own way because I work from home. That means I get to sleep in two hours later than usual, which honestly feels luxurious at this point in my life. By the end of the week, that extra sleep isn’t just nice, it’s necessary. When my alarm goes off, I try to ease into the morning, something I don’t have the luxury of doing Monday through Thursday when I sleep until the last possible second. On Fridays, I’ll check my work emails, make breakfast, and usually stay in bed working for as long as I can. Now that school has started again, I try to squeeze in some homework between work tasks so it doesn’t all spill over into the weekend. It’s not always easy, but future me is always thankful when I do.

Once I’ve wrapped up everything I need to get done for the day, it’s time to read. Reading is, without question, my favorite way to decompress. I read every night before bed and as much as I can during the day. Having a stressful job and living in a body that constantly feels like it’s in survival mode makes escape feel necessary. Reading gives me that escape. It lets my mind rest somewhere else for a while. It’s also one of my favorite pain management strategies because it gives my brain something to focus on besides how my body feels. Even a short reading session can make a tough day feel more manageable.

I will say that Fridays are usually my appointment days. It’s rare that I don’t have some sort of medical appointment scheduled at the end of the week, so having a Friday with nothing on the calendar feels like a small miracle. Today, I don’t have one, and the relief that comes with that is bigger than I can explain. It means I can actually focus on resting instead of bracing myself for yet another doctor’s office.

After work is done, I usually spend some time just laying in bed until I have to get ready for whatever I have planned. Tonight, for example, I’m going to a birthday party, and I’m really hoping to squeeze in a nap beforehand to recharge a bit. Laying down never fails to help, even if I don’t fully fall asleep. Sometimes just giving my body permission to stop is enough.

For the rest of the weekend, I try to strike a balance between taking it easy and spending time with people I love. I truly cherish weekends with no obligations at all, though. Because I’m so go-go-go during the week, my body needs at least some dedicated recovery time. Sleeping in is always the goal since I don’t get nearly enough sleep during the week, and if I can sneak in a daytime nap, I absolutely will. At this point, I take sleep wherever I can get it.

While many people use the weekend to let loose and go all out, those of us living with chronic illness don’t really have that option. We’ve had to learn how to rest with intention and how to balance social time with recovery in a way that’s sustainable. It’s not about missing out; it’s about surviving and showing up for the next week as best we can. Decompression isn’t a luxury for me, it’s a necessity, and honoring that is one of the ways I take care of myself and keep moving forward.

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Grad School & Chronic Illness/Pain

As I enter the final days before starting my last semester of graduate school, I can’t help but reflect on all the obstacles I’ve faced over the past two years. By the time I graduate in May, I will have undergone three heart surgeries, made multiple trips to the ER, survived a pulmonary embolism, received a sleep apnea diagnosis, and worked full time, all while completing this one program. That was never the path I imagined for myself back in the fall of 2024 when I started. When I applied earlier that spring, I felt relatively normal. My arrhythmias hadn’t yet returned with the intensity that would later upend my life.

Going to graduate school while working full time and living with chronic illness is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I honestly don’t know how I’ve made it to this point. There have been countless tears and more moments than I’d like to admit where I wanted to quit, which is very unlike me. Last summer, I almost took a break because I couldn’t fathom having zero downtime to let my body heal. Instead, I reached out to my university’s disability center, advocated for myself, and asked for accommodations. That process wasn’t easy. Years of medical trauma had conditioned me to believe I wouldn’t be believed or taken seriously. But the gentleman I spoke with was incredibly supportive and provided more than enough accommodations to help me through my final semesters. I’m so glad I kept going because now I’m four, hopefully short, months away from my degree and never having to go to school again.

I often find myself daydreaming about what life will look like once I graduate. I will have had, and hopefully recovered from, my third heart surgery. I’ll hopefully have my sleep figured out. I’ll be able to move my body again and have the time and energy to cook nourishing meals for myself. I try not to cling to false hope, but after everything the past two years have put me through, that vision feels incredibly exciting.

The people around me are often baffled that I’ve made it this far. They tell me they would’ve given up a long time ago. While these heart conditions are relatively new for me, chronic illness and pain are not. I’ve spent the last decade learning how to live in a body that makes everyday life significantly harder. In high school, my parents rarely let me miss school because of pain because they didn’t want it to become a habit. At the time, I was furious. Now, I’m deeply grateful. That expectation instilled a resilience in me that I still carry today. That same intrinsic drive and ambition led me to graduate high school with distinction, college summa cum laude and top of my major, and now graduate school with a 4.0 GPA. I don’t share that to brag, but because I’m proud of myself for the millions of moments I had to overcome to get here.

From the outside, it probably looks like school comes easily to me. People see someone who doesn’t procrastinate and seems to stay on top of everything. What they don’t see is how much effort it takes just to complete a single assignment. I don’t procrastinate because I can’t afford to. I don’t know if tomorrow I’ll be bedridden or unable to function, so when I feel well enough, I work ahead, sometimes weeks in advance. I live my life one day at a time. Living in pain is not something anyone should have to endure. It destroys relationships, ambitions, and self-confidence. It has made me doubt myself more times than I can count. It makes even the simplest tasks feel impossible, and that’s not an exaggeration. But I refuse to let it win.

I’m not here to say that pain is mind over matter, because it’s not, and that narrative is deeply invalidating to those of us who live with chronic pain. What I am here to say is that we can do hard things despite our pain, and we deserve recognition for that. School is already hard enough without carrying a body that actively works against you. I think those of us with chronic illness develop an extra layer of ambition because without it, it would be far too easy to stay in bed forever, even though that rest is oftentimes necessary. It isn’t fair, and that reality still makes me angry. But this is the only life I get, and I refuse to let pain I didn’t choose or cause be the thing that stops me from becoming who I know I’m capable of being.

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Feeling Invisible

Having an invisible illness, or multiple in my case, is a uniquely lonely experience. No matter how hard others try to understand, no matter how much time they spend with you, they’ll never truly get it unless they’ve lived it themselves. And that’s not their fault. I’m incredibly lucky to have some of the most supportive friends and family, even though they don’t fully understand what I go through every day. Honestly, I’m glad they don’t. I’m glad they don’t suffer the way I do. I wouldn’t wish any of this on my worst enemy. But that doesn’t make it any less lonely.

On top of feeling invisible, I often feel misunderstood. It’s so hard to explain what I experience in my body every single day. Feeling exhausted after doing nothing. Being in extreme pain but still having to show up and move forward. Carrying the guilt of not being able to participate in life the way I want to. Crying on vacation because my body hurts so badly, while seeming ungrateful even though I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Skipping breakfast with friends on weekend mornings because I need to sleep as long as possible to make up for another night of restlessness. Begging for accommodations at school while fearing judgment or denial because I look “fine” and put together on the outside. Going home early when all I want to do is stay. Spending hours driving across states for doctor’s appointments week after week. Living with the constant fear that my heart could give out at any second, or that my endometriosis is growing back with a vengeance.

Because others don’t understand my lived experience, it’s hard for them to grasp that this is simply my life. So sometimes, they forget. I almost never show it outwardly. They invite me to hike mountains or run 5Ks as if that’s something my body can do. I wish it was. But that’s not my reality right now.

The person I am today has been shaped by living with invisible illness for the last ten years. I don’t care what others think of me because I’m too focused on staying alive. I have a lot of confidence, because if I can survive ten years of feeling miserable in my own body, I can survive just about anything. Sometimes I can be blunt. Sometimes I forget others’ feelings. After being worn down by illness for so long, I’ve lost a lot of my sensitivity, and I’m still learning how to balance that.

My friends sometimes give me a hard time because I don’t love meeting new people or letting others get close to me, especially as I’ve gotten older. What they don’t see is how exhausting it is to explain my limitations over and over again. It’s awkward. It’s invasive. And yet, it’s often necessary just to justify why I do the things I do. My energy is extremely limited, and I want to spend what little I have loving on my inner circle, the people who have been through it with me. The ones who have tried, in their own ways, to understand.

Even if my loved ones don’t fully understand what I’m going through, they still find ways to show me they care, and I appreciate it more than they know. Seeking out the only chair in the bar and giving it to me. Checking in when I go quiet. Letting me cry and vent my frustrations (thanks, Mom). Suggesting something low-key instead of a night at the club. Making sure I’ve made it home safely. Validating my feelings around chronic illness. Sending flowers or my favorite food after surgery. Showing a genuine, consistent interest in my well-being. I am so deeply thankful.

All of this is why I created this community ten years ago and why I continue to lean on it for support. I know others living with invisible illness feel this same mix of loneliness, gratitude, exhaustion, and resilience. And while I hate that any of us have to experience this life, there is comfort in knowing I’m not alone. The worst club with the best members, as we like to say. In the end, this space exists to remind us that even when our pain goes unseen, our stories still matter, and we don’t have to carry them by ourselves.

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I’m Excited for Heart Surgery (Here’s Why)

My biggest goal going into 2026 is to have my third heart surgery for my arrhythmias, this time for atrial fibrillation, and finally say goodbye to my cardiovascular issues for good. Of course, that’s easier said than done. This surgery doesn’t come with a 100% success rate. But when I picture my ideal life this year, that’s what I see.

Being excited for surgery sounds weird, right? It’s not something anyone should want to experience. It’s similar to being excited about a new diagnosis. People with chronic illness and chronic pain understand this instinctively, but it can be hard for the outside world to wrap their heads around. I’m not excited about heart surgery itself. I’m excited about the life it could give me afterward.

A life with more energy and less pain.
A life where I can walk up the stairs without feeling like I’m going to die.
A life where I can cook and clean without feeling like I might faint.
A life where my bedroom doesn’t look like a pharmacy just so I can stay alive.
A life where I can do normal twenty-something things, have fun with my friends, and not constantly question how every single decision will affect my heart.

That’s what I’m excited about.

So when I went to see my cardiologist earlier this week, I walked in with that life in mind and I wasn’t willing to accept anything less. Technically, my medications are “working,” and I could probably go without surgery for a while longer. I put working in quotes because while they lower my heart rate and keep my arrhythmias at bay, they also leave me exhausted, lethargic, and feeling nothing like myself.

I don’t want to live in constant fear that missing a dose could send me into heart failure. I don’t want half my bag to be filled with medication when I travel, leaving no room to bring home gifts for the people I love. This is not the life a twenty-something should be living.

Unlike my endometriosis, which I will carry with me for the rest of my life, atrial fibrillation can be curable. When you already live with a lifelong disease that has no cure, you understand just how much of a privilege it is to have a condition that might be fixable.

At the same time, it’s hard to fully let myself feel excited. I thought my heart issues were going to be cured back in November 2024 after my first surgery. So yes, I’m really hoping third time’s the charm.

I’ve had a diagnosed chronic illness for ten years, and chronic pain for years before that. That’s half my life. I don’t remember what it’s like to live without illness constantly looming in the background. Because of that, it’s easy to feel jaded and discouraged when new medical issues show up. And don’t get me wrong, I do feel discouraged. I get angry at my body all the time. That’s normal, and that’s okay.

But I don’t like to stay in that headspace for too long, because it’s not helpful. My body isn’t trying to hurt me. It’s fighting against itself because it’s trying to protect me. Trying to be positive doesn’t magically erase my symptoms or make them any easier to live with, but it’s something I’ve learned helps me survive the mental battle that comes with chronic illness.

Having a medical condition that might actually be curable allows me to see a light at the end of the tunnel that I’ve never been able to see with endometriosis. And that feeling? That hope? It’s really nice. I’m going to hold onto it for as long as I can.

I’m sure there will be a million obstacles between now and my heart surgery at the end of March, because that’s just how our lovely medical system works. But I’m doing my best to stay positive and keep picturing that dream life waiting for me on the other side.

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