If I’m being honest…
I’m exhausted.
I wouldn’t wish this condition on anyone.
Not because I don’t have strength… but because this kind of strength shouldn’t have to exist.
The loneliness that comes with it is overwhelming.
And the truth? Talking about it makes people uncomfortable.
But not talking about it?
That’s what almost broke me.
I live with pain that never clocks out.
Bone pain. Muscle spasms. Nerve pain that feels like fire under the skin.
And then there’s the stares. The questions.
Always the questions.
“What happened to you?”
“Why are you like that?”
Imagine your biggest tragedy being the thing strangers feel entitled to ask about in the middle of a grocery store aisle.
I wear my trauma like a clunky watch.
It ticks in every room I roll into.
Loud, visible, impossible to hide.
Everyday things aren’t simple for me.
Before a simple family outing, I have to plan 300 extra steps.
Will the bathroom be accessible?
Will there be ramps?
Will I even fit through the front door?
Most people never think twice about those things.
For me, it’s survival logistics.
No one prepares you for the heartbreak of realizing…
Some people don’t want to be seen with you because of your chair.
Not even your own family.
They don’t say it out loud.
They don’t have to.
I try to be a good mother while battling anxiety over whether my caregiver will even show up.
I try to work, to function, to live, while constantly navigating systems that weren’t built for me.
I try to stay grounded when I feel forgotten.
I try to smile through the ache of being treated like I’m fragile when all I want is to be seen as whole.
It’s in the way they pause before inviting you.
The way their energy changes in public.
The subtle hints that you’ve become too much.
There’s a grief I carry that most people can’t name.
Grief for a body that isn’t mine anymore.
Grief for sensations lost… like feeling the sun warm my skin.
Grief for the moments I can no longer create, the activities I once loved.
Grief for people who disappeared once they had to adjust to my limitations.
Grief for the version of me that could move freely, without pain or fear.
And yet… I wake up every day and try.
This isn’t a pity post.
This is truth.
This is survival.
This is me, taking off the clunky watch and laying it down… for just a minute… so I can breathe.
If you’ve ever wanted to scream because nobody understands how heavy the simple things are now…
You’re not crazy.
If you’ve ever felt invisible in your pain, or too visible in your chair…
You’re not alone.
And if you’ve felt the sting of being seen only for what you’ve lost…
I see you… ALL 0F YOU.
By: Krystina | #WheelStrong
Leave a comment. Share if you relate. Or just sit with it.
Sometimes the most healing thing we can do is say: me too.