The Gentle Haven

My chronic illness diagnosis devastated me — which feels strange to say, considering how long I had already been suffering quietly.

For years, I didn’t question the unfairness of it. I just kept going.

I first noticed the unusual aches and pains around the age of fifteen. My hands ached and stiffened in the cold — pain that didn’t seem age-appropriate. I mentioned it once to an adult in my life, and it was brushed off as arthritis, something common among the adults in my family. I accepted the explanation and moved on.

Then came the insomnia. Once, when I was sixteen, I stayed awake for nearly three days straight. My parents told me I could paint a mural on the living room wall, so that’s what I did in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn’t come. Anxiety had been a constant presence for as long as I could remember, so I didn’t recognize it as something separate or concerning. Fatigue was explained away by puberty — and later by the eating disorder I battled from the age of thirteen.

The thing about anorexia is that you’re never truly “cured.” You just become better at managing it. And so, every symptom had a reason. The pain, the exhaustion, the migraines — they were all easily explained away.

When I was seventeen, I was kicked out of my home and became estranged from my family. Of course I was depressed. Of course I was stressed. Of course I had migraines. The explanations stacked neatly on top of each other, creating a story that made my suffering feel expected — even justified.

And so it went, year after year.

Until suddenly, I was thirty years old with my third child, and I couldn’t bounce back anymore.

I wondered if it was severe postpartum depression. I waited. I gave it time. I waited two years to see if it would magically lift. It didn’t. Instead, the pain, fatigue, and depression settled into my body in a way that felt permanent — like this was just my new normal.

Every doctor visit followed the same pattern. Some tests. Normal results. Antidepressants offered. Stress blamed. It was fairly standard care for a woman saying things like “I’m exhausted” or “everything hurts,” especially while chasing a toddler around a hospital room.

Until finally, I was referred to a doctor who listened.

And she really listened.

That’s when the diagnosis came: Hashimoto’s disease and fibromyalgia.

Down the Google rabbit hole I went — and suddenly, everything made sense. For the first time, my symptoms had names. Patterns. Explanations. I could identify flare-ups. I could learn how to manage them.

And then came the anger.

I was furious. Angry that no one had listened to me for years. Angry that I had been labeled lazy, forgetful, or unmotivated. So I tried harder. I worked harder. I wrote everything down meticulously so I wouldn’t forget. I pushed through pain until I barely noticed it — unless I physically couldn’t get out of bed.

All the while believing I was lazy.

Looking back now, I was the least lazy person I knew. I didn’t even feel safe resting. I pushed myself relentlessly to outrun the version of myself I had been taught to despise.

Then came the why me questions.
What had I done wrong?
Why was my body betraying me?

I dissected my life. I ate well for most of it. I rarely drank. I never smoked or partied. I became a mother at twenty-one. I worked in social services for most of my adult life. I did everything “right.”

So why?

Stress. Perfectionism. Anxiety. Genetics.
All of the above.

Then came the grief.

I grieved the life — and the version of myself — I had been striving for. I wanted to be active. I wanted to be outdoors. I wanted to play with my kids when I wasn’t working. I wanted to contribute meaningfully to the world.

At my worst, I was flaring every three days. I could barely manage one small chore before being wiped out for the rest of the day. I worried constantly that my husband would eventually leave me because I couldn’t perform well enough as a homemaker or mother. I worried my children would be ashamed of me. I felt hopeless, lost, and deeply afraid.

It was the lowest point of my life.

Thankfully, those fears were born from anxiety — from invisible expectations I had placed on myself. It took nearly six months to find the right combination of medication and dosage, but when we did, something shifted.

I feel more human now than I ever remember feeling.

I’ve learned to offer myself the same patience and compassion I give so freely to others. I pay attention to my limits. I notice which foods, weather patterns, or situations trigger flare-ups. And when I can’t meet an expectation — especially one I placed on myself — I respond with gentleness instead of punishment.

This diagnosis didn’t break me.

It gave me language.
It gave me permission.
And it gave me the opportunity to finally listen to my body — the way I always deserved to.