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.
