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Cover image showing a cruise ship sailing through a dramatic Norwegian fjord, with mountains and a calm sea beneath a cloudy sky. The title reads “Life at Sea: Finding Hope on an Unpredictable Journey.”
In Chronic Illness

Life at Sea: Finding Hope on an Unpredictable Journey

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As the ship eased into port, passengers gathered eagerly at the gangway, ready to explore another new destination. I, however, could only watch from my balcony, knowing that my body would anchor me to the ship that day. The world beyond the gangway remained just out of reach. I knew that feeling all too well. In that moment, I realised that travelling with chronic illness has much in common with life at sea. Both have taught me that no matter how carefully I plan, forces beyond my control can still alter a journey’s course.

Stunning scenery of the Norwegian Fjords and the ripples from the ship as it os sailing away
"I can plan my journey, but I can never control its course." Share on X

Beneath The Surface

Looking out across the vast ocean from my balcony, I found myself drawn to what lay on the surface: the gentle swell of the waves, the endless horizon, and especially the sunlight dancing across the water. It was a calming, mesmerising sight, yet the surface told only a fraction of the story. Beneath it lay an unseen world, hidden from view but influencing everything above. The more I watched the sea, the more I recognised something of myself in it.

Life with chronic illness often feels much the same. People see the smile, the photographs and the moments I manage to enjoy. But what they don’t see is everything beneath the surface: the pain that refuses to relent, the dizziness that unsettles my balance, the weakness that quietly limits my independence, and the exhaustion that shadows even the happiest moments. 

My symptoms didn’t stay behind when I went on holiday. They travelled with me through every step, decision, and mile of the journey. Yet my photographs revealed only a small part of my story. 

Travel-themed graphic showing a cruise ship balcony overlooking a blue sea and mountainous coastline, with photographs of fjords arranged across a travel map alongside sunglasses. Text reads, “My symptoms didn’t stay behind when I went on holiday. They travelled with me through every step, decision, and mile of the journey. Yet my photographs revealed only a small part of my story.”
"My symptoms didn’t stay behind when I went on holiday. They travelled with me through every step, decision, and mile of the journey." Share on X

That is one of the strange contradictions of travelling with chronic illness. I can be somewhere beautiful, surrounded by everything I have looked forward to, while my body reminds me of its limitations 

When the Journey Changes

The sea reminds me I can plan an itinerary, but I can’t always follow it.

On a cruise to Norway and Iceland many years ago, the weather prevented the ship from entering two ports. Two excursions I had eagerly anticipated disappeared from my itinerary almost as quickly as they had appeared. 

No one caused the problem, and I couldn’t change it. The sea had made its decision, and I had no choice but to accept it.  

I remember the disappointment keenly, not just because of the places I didn’t get to see, but because of the experiences I had imagined and quietly mourned as they slipped away.

Living with chronic illness has taught me that my body can be just as unpredictable. Sometimes the weather changes a journey’s course. Other times, pain, weakness, or dizziness keeps me from stepping ashore. 

Photograph of a woman wearing a sun hat sitting on a balcony overlooking a calm blue sea at sunset. A dark brushstroke overlay contains the text, “Living with chronic illness has taught me that my body can be just as unpredictable.”
"Living with chronic illness has taught me that my body can be just as unpredictable." Share on X

Over the years, I have missed excursions I had carefully planned, remained on board while others explored, and watched beautiful places drift past from the quiet of a balcony. 

The grief isn’t simply about missing a destination. It is about missing the opportunity to create memories there. Something I had looked forward to may now exist only in someone else’s photographs and stories. 

Watercolour-style postcard showing a woman seen from behind on a cruise ship balcony, looking across the sea towards the dramatic Norwegian fjords, with mountains, snow-capped peaks and a waterfall in the distance. To the right of the image is text which says "Something I had looked forward to may now exist only in someone else's photographs and stories."
Not every destination becomes a memory of my own. Sometimes, I have to watch from a distance as others make the memories I had hoped to create.
"The grief isn’t simply about missing a destination. It is about missing the opportunity to create memories there. Something I had looked forward to may now exist only in someone else’s photographs and stories." Share on X

I have learned that disappointment comes in many forms. Sometimes, it arrives as a storm rolling across the horizon. At other times, it arrives quietly, in the form of a body that simply cannot do what my heart longs for. 

Learning to Adapt

Both the sea and chronic illness have taught me the importance of adapting to changing conditions.

At sea, a change in weather conditions can mean altering the route, changing the day’s plans, or waiting for conditions to improve. I remember one cruise when the ship couldn’t dock at a port on the itinerary. An unexpected outbreak of food poisoning on another ship had made the port unavailable. The captain quickly adapted and diverted the ship to a different port. 

I have had to learn to do something similar with my own body. 

Sometimes adaptation means accepting that I cannot step ashore and finding other, quieter ways to enjoy the day. Other times, it means slowing down, resting when I would much rather be exploring, or accepting that I may only manage part of what I hoped to do. Sometimes it means using my wheelchair instead of relying on my crutch. 

Picture of a sea with the quote 'Sometimes adaptation means accepting that I cannot step ashore and finding other, quieter ways to enjoy the day.' and the social media handle @serenebutterfly underneath

None of this comes easily. 

Frustration still swells whenever my body places limits on experiences I have eagerly awaited. There is still a part of me that wants to push through, to pretend I can manage what I had planned and refuse to let my symptoms dictate my day. 

"There is still a part of me that wants to push through, to pretend I can manage what I had planned and refuse to let my symptoms dictate my day." Share on X

Sometimes, that way is surprisingly small.

 It might mean spending an afternoon on the balcony watching the coastline pass by, taking photos from the ship, or simply resting without feeling guilty. I imagined a different experience when I first planned the trip, but I still treasure the memories I made.

Listening to My Body

Spending time at sea has also taught me to notice the smallest changes. 

I’ve noticed the creaking sounds of the ship as the waves begin to swell. The hangers tap together as the sea beneath my feet becomes increasingly turbulent. Around me, chairs on the balcony shift and slide as the wind intensifies, while the sky darkens dramatically before rain, thunder, and lightning arrive. Just this year, I saw this in Hamburg from our balcony window: a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a violent rumble of thunder. Then the heavens opened, and the streets below were soon awash with rain. 

Picture of Hamburg with red brick building and a church spire in the distance
A picture of Hamburg before the heavens opened!

Sometimes the change is obvious. Other times, conditions shift quietly, long before I am consciously aware of what is coming. 

Living with chronic illness has made me just as observant of my own body. 

"Living with chronic illness has made me just as observant of my own body." Share on X

Over time, I have learned to recognise the earliest signs that a difficult day lies ahead: a little more fatigue than usual, legs that feel heavier than the day before. Dizziness can suddenly intensify. Sometimes pain starts as a whisper before it demands my attention.

Other people may never notice these changes. For me, they can be the difference between managing a day and pushing myself beyond what my body can safely handle. 

Listening to those warning signs is not always easy. Sometimes it means accepting that the journey I planned is no longer the journey I can take. 

The acceptance can feel like a loss. 

But it can also be an act of kindness towards myself. 

Still Part of the Journey

Years ago, I wrote about feeling trapped within the four walls of my home, longing to be part of the world beyond them. Cruising reminded me that changing the scenery doesn’t necessarily change the reality of living with chronic illness. 

"Cruising reminded me that changing the scenery doesn’t necessarily change the reality of living with chronic illness." Share on X

Sometimes my prison had portholes instead of windows, and a balcony instead of a garden. 

Photograph of a cruise ship cabin with a porthole window and open balcony overlooking blue sea and snow-capped mountains. Text reads, “Cruising reminded me that changing the scenery doesn’t necessarily change the reality of living with chronic illness. Sometimes my prison had portholes instead of windows, and a balcony instead of a garden.”

Yet it also reminded me of something else. 

Even when I couldn’t step ashore, I was still part of the journey. 

The sea continued to unfold before me. The coastline still slipped past. The light changed across the water. The ship carried me towards places I had dreamed of seeing, while life continued around me. 

In those ever-changing waters, I found reflections of my own life that I may never have noticed if I had remained on land. 

Perhaps that is why life at sea seems so familiar to me. 

Beautiful scene in the Norwegian Fjords with the mountains perfectly mirrored on the water
A scene in the Norwegian Fjords as it is docked in a port. To the left of the picture is buildings in the small town
Scene in the Norwegian Fjords with a cruise ship in the distance
Beautiful scene of the Norwegian Fjords with snowtop moutains and blue skies and clouds overhead

Every journey begins with hope, but neither the ocean nor my body promises me the destination I imagine. Sometimes those hopes become cherished memories that I look back on with quiet gratitude. Other times, they remain hopes because the sea, or my body, quietly changes course before they can become memories. 

But some days, my body is kinder. 

Days when I wandered unfamiliar streets and stood in awe at breathtaking landscapes, particularly in Norway. For a little while, chronic illness felt as though it had loosened its grip.

I never take those rare moments for granted.

If anything, living with chronic illness has taught me to savour them more deeply. I know that neither my body nor the sea can promise me another opportunity to experience them. 

Reflections on a Life at Sea with Chronic Illness

Reflecting on the cruises I’ve taken, I know I will never forget the amazing places I have visited. 

But I will also remember the places I didn’t.

Perhaps that is another lesson travelling with chronic illness has given me: I cannot always measure a journey by the places I manage to reach. Instead, I measure it by the moments I find along the way, even when the journey looks nothing like the one I imagined.

"I cannot always measure a journey by the places I manage to reach. Instead, I measure it by the moments I find along the way, even when the journey looks nothing like the one I imagined." Share on X

Life at sea has reminded me that I can control neither the sea nor my chronic illness. Both demand respect. Both require patience. And both ask me to adapt when conditions suddenly change. 

Perhaps that is why, when I look back on my experiences at sea, I feel an unexpected sense of peace. 

Watercolour-style background in shades of blue and green, resembling gently moving water. Handwritten text reads, “The sea has never promised certainty. Neither has my body.”

The sea has never promised certainty.

Neither has my body. 

"The sea has never promised certainty. Neither has my body." Share on X

Yet despite everything, both have carried me further than I once thought possible. 

Graphic featuring a cruise ship sailing through a dramatic Norwegian fjord surrounded by steep, snow-capped mountains and waterfalls. Text reads, “Life at Sea: Finding Hope on an Unpredictable Journey,” with brainlesionandme.com at the bottom.
A tranquil Norwegian fjord reflects snow-capped mountains and surrounding woodland beneath a blue sky. Overlaid text reads “Life at Sea: Finding Hope on an Unpredictable Journey” and “Lessons in living with chronic illness, one unpredictable journey at a time.”
Travel collage featuring three photographs of Norwegian scenery, including steep green mountains surrounding a fjord, snow-capped mountains reflected in a lake, and a cruise ship sailing past a coastal town. The images are arranged on a torn-paper background with a dotted travel route and ship icon. Text reads “Life at Sea: Finding Hope on an Unpredictable Journey.”






















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Graphic on a navy blue background with large white text reading, “What’s it like lying awake with chronic pain.” A vertical sidebar says “Painsomnia.” Below, a photo shows a person sitting on a bed at night with their face in their hands beside a lit bedside lamp, conveying distress and sleeplessness. Text at the bottom reads “brainlesionandme.com.”
In Chronic Illness

Painsomnia: What It’s Like Lying Awake With Chronic Pain

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Painsomnia: a form of insomnia caused by chronic pain, where exhaustion meets a body that refuses to rest 

What Painsomnia Feels LIKe at Night

3:17 glows from my bedside clock, mocking me in the darkness. It’s a time I’ve come to know intimately, not because I’ve been out living, but because painsomnia, that insomnia caused by chronic pain, keeps me awake when the rest of the world sleeps. I lie in bed, the stillness and quiet around me, yet inside my body, everything feels loud; every ache, every pulse, impossible to ignore. It’s a contradiction I live with nightly; a body desperate for rest, yet unable to find it because of pain, and so I find myself here again, in painsomnia. 

"A body desperate for rest, yet unable to find it because of pain." #Painsomnia Share on X
Illustrated graphic on a dark blue background with yellow text reading, “What is Painsomnia?” White text explains that painsomnia is a form of insomnia caused by chronic physical pain, where exhaustion meets a body that refuses to rest. Below, a person lies awake in bed looking distressed beside a digital clock showing 01:30 PM. Decorative stars and doodles surround the scene, and the handle “@serenebutterfly” appears at the bottom.

When The World Goes Quiet, My Body Doesn’t

As the night deepens, everything around me grows quieter, and that quiet only seems to amplify what I feel, which is often the hardest part of painsomnia. I don’t know if the pain actually worsens, but it always feels like it does at night. During the day, I can almost pretend I’m fine, my pain blending into the background of everything else. 

"The rest of the world sleeps, and I lie awake negotiating with my own body." #Painsomnia Share on X

Because during daylight, there is always something to do: errands to run, emails to answer, dishes to wash. Conversations fill the gaps. There are places to be, books to read, and television to switch on and lose myself in. Distractions are everywhere, and for a while, they soften the edges of what I feel. But at night, when all of that falls away, there’s nothing left to buffer it. 

"Distractions are everywhere, and for a while, they soften the edges of what I feel. But at night, when all of that falls away, there’s nothing left to buffer it." Share on X
Illustration on a dark blue background of a person sitting wrapped tightly in a pink blanket. Above them, the time reads “3:17 AM” and a battery icon says “LOW.” White text below reads, “The rest of the world sleeps, and I lie awake negotiating with my own body.”

There’s no background noise from the world beyond my window, no text messages arriving, no sound beyond my bedroom at all. There is only silence, and in that silence, my pain expands, growing louder. I can almost feel it stretching itself out, claiming space, demanding my full attention. Without anything to distract me, even the smallest ache becomes impossible to ignore. 

Time Moves Differently When You Can’t Sleep

I glance back at the clock, watching the minutes change slowly. Time stretches in a way it never does during the day. That is the strange rhythm of painsomnia. Each minute slowly drags itself forward while I lie there, fully aware of every second I’m still awake. Ten minutes feels like an hour. An hour feels like a small lifetime. I close my eyes, turn onto my side, adjust the pillows once more, hoping this time I might actually find sleep. For a moment, it almost feels possible. But then it slips away again. A dull ache creeps back in, then sharpens, pulling me back into full awareness of my body. I start over again: shifting, adjusting, trying to outmanoeuvre pain that refuses to yield.

"Ten minutes feels like an hour. An hour feels like a small lifetime." #Painsomnia Share on X
Graphic on a dark blue background with white handwritten text reading, “Ten minutes feels like an hour. An hour feels like a small lifetime.” On the right side, a large partial illustration of an alarm clock emphasizes the slow passage of time during sleeplessness.

The Loneliness of Painsomnia

It’s in these quiet moments that I feel the loneliness of painsomnia begin to settle in. The rest of the world is asleep, and instead, I lie wide awake, feeling like the only one still up. The house is still, peaceful, and as I lie, I become aware of every small sound; the faint creak of the pipes, the rain tapping on my bedroom window. They’re the only signs of life, the only company I have. I feel a strange kind of isolation, exhausted yet awake, alone in a body that refuses to settle. 

"I feel a strange kind of isolation, exhausted yet awake, alone in a body that refuses to settle." Share on X

It makes me more aware of everything. I find myself listening for any kind of sound, just to remind myself that the world is still there beyond my room. 

Illustration on a dark blue background with white text reading, “I feel a strange kind of isolation, exhausted yet awake, alone in a body that refuses to settle.” Below the quote is the handle “@serenebutterfly.” The image shows a person sitting with their head resting on their hand, appearing tired and withdrawn, emphasizing loneliness and sleeplessness.

I look for anything to take my mind elsewhere

Sometimes, I reach for my phone, one of the small distractions I use when pain and painsomnia keep sleep out of reach. I fall into the familiar habit of doomscrolling, letting one thing blur into the next just to pass the time, to fill the deafening silence. I try watching something, anything quiet enough not to disturb anyone else in the house, the brightness turned down, the volume barely there. It never seems to help, not in any lasting way, but it gives my mind somewhere else to go for a little while; something other than the pain that won’t leave me alone. 

There’s only so much I can do

Eventually, even that stops working. In frustration, I start the cycle again: shifting, adjusting, trying to find a position that hurts less. By this point, painsomnia has usually been with me for hours, and I’ve usually taken as much pain medication as I can safely take. I know how long I need to wait before I can take anything else, and I find myself weighing up whether it’s worth taking it now or saving it for later, in case the pain worsens. But even then, I’m not sure it will make a difference. 

Illustration of an orange pill bottle tipped over with pink tablets spilling out onto a light beige background. Brown text below reads, “Pain medication doesn’t switch it off. It just lowers the volume.” The handle “@serenebutterfly” appears underneath.

Even then, my pain medication isn’t a magical switch that shuts the pain off. In my life, medication merely lowers the volume. It often turns a scream into a moan. Sometimes, it takes the edge off, but often it doesn’t. There’s no real way of knowing, and that uncertainty becomes part of the night too; another thing to sit with, another thing to wait out. 

The night doesn’t end when the day begins

Eventually, I run out of things to try. I have nothing left but to lie there and wait it out. Sleep feels out of reach, something I can’t quite get to, no matter how tired I am. Instead, the night stretches ahead of me, not as a time for sleep, but as something to endure: hour by hour, minute by minute. 

"The night stretches ahead of me, not as a time for sleep, but as something to endure: hour by hour, minute by minute." #Painsomnia Share on X

How Painsomnia Follows Me into the Day

Yet the exhaustion doesn’t just disappear with the appearance of daylight. It lingers, settling into every facet of my day. It settles into conversations, into small tasks, into movements that should feel simple, but instead feel heavy and cumbersome. Morning arrives whether I’ve slept or not, and painsomnia leaves its mark either way. And my routine starts all over again. I wake up. Then I take my medication. I prepare myself for the day ahead and finish the morning chores. Still, the exhaustion from the night lingers. I carry the weight of it through the rest of the day. That weight goes beyond ordinary tiredness.

Illustration of a person lying exhausted on a couch, one arm over their forehead, suggesting fatigue and discomfort. A pair of shoes sits on the floor nearby. On a dark blue background, white text reads, “Painsomnia is more than sleeplessness. It follows you into the day.”
"Painsomnia is more than sleeplessness. It follows you into the day." Share on X

This is what painsomnia really is. It’s not just a bad night’s sleep or the occasional restless evening. It’s a relentless cycle: night after night of trying, adjusting, waiting, enduring, followed by days spent carrying its aftermath. Much of it happens behind closed doors, in the quiet hours when the rest of the world is asleep, unnoticed and often unspoken. Living with painsomnia means repeating this cycle night after night. And I know that when night comes again, I’ll be back there. If you’re there too, you’re not the only one still awake. 

Illustration of a person sitting hunched forward at night under a dark, starry sky, appearing tired and in discomfort. White text above reads, “If you’re awake in pain tonight, you’re not the only one still awake,” conveying a message of shared experience and reassurance.
"If you’re awake in pain tonight, you’re not the only one still awake." #Painsomnia Share on X "When night comes again, I know I’ll be back there." #Painsomnia Share on X
Graphic showing a person sitting up in bed at night with their head in their hands, appearing distressed and unable to sleep. Below the image, text reads, “Painsomnia: What it’s like lying awake with chronic pain,” followed by “brainlesionandme.com
Purple-toned promotional image of a person sitting on the edge of a bed at night, knees drawn up, suggesting discomfort and sleeplessness. Overlaid text reads “Painsomnia” and “What’s it like lying awake with chronic pain,” with “brainlesionandme.com” at the bottom






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This Body Betrays Me is in large font at the top middle of the page. On the side of it reads Disability and Its Hidden Anger. The bottom shows a black and white photo of a woman sitting by a window with her arms clutching the top of her head
In Chronic Illness

Disability And Its Hidden Anger: This Body Betrays Me

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I live in a body that rarely feels like home. Though it belongs to me, it often acts like a stranger—an unwilling companion I never chose but must carry. I hold my breath, always bracing for the moment my symptoms strike and knock me off my feet. My legs give out without warning, sending me crashing to the ground. Even though I’ve learned to expect it – another consequence of living with a disability. I still feel a quiet, persistent anger rising inside me. It simmers beneath the surface, lurking in the silence where pain waits to flare. I don’t direct my anger outward; I turn it inward, toward the body I’m supposed to trust and call home.

"I hold my breath, always bracing for the moment my symptoms strike and knock me off my feet. My legs give out without warning, sending me crashing to the ground." Share on X
A simple design of a large quotation mark in pink at the top left-hand corner. The other quotation mark is at the bottom right, slightly larger but behind, so the colour is faded. In the middle reads 'I hold my breath, always bracing for the moment my symptoms will strike and knock me off my feet

Disability: My Body Is My Home – But I Don’t Feel Safe Here

My body is my home—my only permanent abode—yet I never feel safe inside it. They say the body is a temple, but mine feels more like a dilapidated house, one that is haunted by constant aches and unpredictable pain. My body moves in ways I can’t control—or it refuses to move at all. It aches quietly, collapses without warning, and spasms for no reason. It hides things from me, keeps its secrets, and exposes me in the worst ways. And it makes me vulnerable to injury, to misunderstanding, to judgment.

"My body is my home— yet I never feel safe inside it." Share on X "My body moves in ways I can't control—or it refuses to move at all. It aches quietly, collapses without warning, and spasms for no reason. It hides things from me, keeps its secrets, and exposes me in the worst ways." Share on X

Every time I stare into my mirror, I see evidence of my body’s fragility littered across my skin. As my eyes skim across every inch of my body, I notice the adornment of cuts and bruises, the inevitable fallout from the many falls and accidents from my disability.

"As my eyes skim across every inch of my body, I notice the adornment of cuts and bruises, the inevitable fallout from the many falls and accidents from my disability." Share on X

Each mark on my skin tells me I’ve lost the safety of trust and predictability—the quiet confidence that my body will respond, that my strength will endure. Instead, I am bracing. I am bracing for the next moment when my body will betray me. All too aware that it will do so again, again and again. I’ve had to endure moments when my legs gave out while crossing a street, when pain surged so violently I couldn’t speak, and when fatigue blanketed me so thickly I couldn’t lift my head. Each of these moments has only carved a chasmic crack in the already fragile foundation of my self-confidence. 

"I've had to endure moments when my legs gave out while crossing a street, when pain surged so violently I couldn't speak, and when fatigue blanketed me so thickly I couldn't lift my head." Share on X
A dark background with the text in different colours. In a pink colour at the top reads 'I never', then in white reads 'feel', then in lilac reads 'safe', reads 'in', blue reads 'my' and finally yellow reads 'body'. At the bottom are my Twitter and Instagram handles @serenebutterfly

But I Can’t Be Angry: I Have To Paint A Smile And Perform

Yet, I feel I’m unable to give voice to this part of my life with a disability. All because society deems it inappropriate for the chronically ill and disabled to express anger. Instead, people expect me to feel grateful for the small things and the lessons that illness can teach, be inspirational, and smile. I often feel pressured to paint a smile, brush the pain aside and find the silver linings underneath the dirt that this disability refuses to let me forget.

"I often feel pressured to paint a smile, brush the pain aside and find the silver linings underneath the dirt that this disability refuses to let me forget." Share on X

When I do speak of my anger, people flinch. They want to hear a story of acceptance and peace, not the rage and discontent inside me. But I want both peace and acceptance; I fight for it, but my body won’t let me have it. 

On the bad days, I hear cries to put on my favourite cheery pop song that makes me smile and turn the volume up loud. But as much as I want the music to drown out the sadness and anger, it’s not what I want to hear. Sometimes, I don’t need bubblegum pop’s uplifting, happy, saccharine lyrics. What I want to hear is an angry, angsty rock anthem type to listen to and emulate, and permit me to wallow in the anger that my body is betraying me.

"What I want to hear is an angry, angsty rock anthem type to listen to and emulate, and permit me to wallow in the anger that my body is betraying me." Share on X

I carry anger like ARMOUR

A bitterness creeps in whenever I hear ‘You look fine’ or ‘Think positively.’ As if my disability is a mere inconvenience, a temporary setback that I can snap out of with a positive attitude. But if they looked deeper, they could see the invisible chains that bind me, the constant battle raging within. 

It’s not only the physical pain that fuels the anger but the isolation that accompanies it. The fear of explaining my condition, the exhaustion of constantly managing my pain, and the fear of being a burden to those around me weigh heavily on me every day. The anger is a shield, a way to protect myself from the well-meaning but often insensitive comments, the pitying glances, the constant need to justify my existence. 

"The anger is a shield, a way to protect myself from the well-meaning but often insensitive comments, the pitying glances, the constant need to justify my existence." Share on X

My body is betraying me. It promises me a good day and then pulls the rug from under me without warning. Yet, people speak of ‘listening to your body’ as if it’s a wise inner compass. Mine no longer feels like a strong, resilient body – it is fragile. I reject the beauty standards society taught me and recognise this form as real, twisted, bruised, slow, and silent. My body may be powerful in its own right, but that power is rarely under my control. 

"My body is betraying me. It promises me a good day, then pulls the rug from under me without warning." Share on X

I feel a silent anger and rage toward it. A deep, bitter anger rises when I’m alone or tired; when I’ve had to cancel plans for the third time that week, or when I miss out on things others take for granted. The anger feels all too real; it pulses in my chest and curls in my fists. It is a grieving kind of fury – a longing for a body I will never have and the freedoms I’ve never fully known. 

" It is a grieving kind of fury – a longing for a body I will never have and the freedoms I've never fully known." Share on X

I carry this anger as a reminder of the battles I fight every day Because of My Disability

But I refuse to cover the pain with gratitude to make it palatable for others. I won’t smother my anger with false positivity or disguise my grief with a smile. My anger is the echo of the weight I carry because of this disability; a reminder of the battles fought inside my skin every single day. 

"My anger is the echo of the weight I carry because of this disability; a reminder of the battles fought inside my skin every single day." Share on X

I’m learning to accept this rage, to mourn the body I wanted, and to grieve the trust my body has broken. This anger is not the opposite of acceptance—it’s part of the process. It’s the fire that keeps me moving, breathing, and surviving.

This body may not always feel like home, but it’s still mine. I will carry the pain and fury because both are real and deserve acknowledgement. 

"This body may not always feel like home, but it's still mine." Share on X
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Fatigue: A More Fitting F-Word For My Chronic Life
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Fatigue: A More Fitting F-Word For My Chronic Life

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F**k. A profanity I find myself crying out when the pain becomes unbearable. Or after hurting myself after yet another fall. It’s a word that perfectly encapsulates the pain, frustration, heartache and the many downs of living with a chronic illness. Yet, it’s not the F-word that springs to mind when I think about my own experience of living with a disability. No, for me, the real f-word is fatigue. Why? Because it is my most formidable adversary – an intensely debilitating symptom that not only obliterates my energy but also has the might to make my existing symptoms worse. 

"For me, the real F-word is Fatigue because it is my most formidable adversary – an intensely debilitating symptom that only obliterates my energy but also the might to make my existing symptoms worse." Share on X
A rainbow background with pink and black leopard spots. In the middle of the image is a white blob shape text block with fatigue written in pink block capitals, beneath reads 'is the real' in black print and undernrath that reads 'F-word' in pink capital letters

Yet, it’s a part of my life with chronic illness that I haven’t given voice to before. I’m not sure why this is; it isn’t because the symptom is not as severe as all the other symptoms. Because it is, in fact, every bit as relentless as any of the other symptoms I endure every day. No, it’s because fatigue is difficult to articulate; so much more than one word can describe. Words grasp at it but never quite manage to capture it perfectly. However, when I do find the right words, it mutates, becoming more punishing and a damn more insidious. 

"Fatigue is difficult to articulate; so much more than one word can describe. Words grasp at it but never quite manage to capture it perfectly." Share on X

Fatigue: The Most Difficult Symptom To Withstand

Because of this, fatigue is often the most challenging symptom for me to try and manage. Indeed, a little white pill doesn’t always magic away the pain that is a constant reality. But there is no pill at all to try and alleviate the continuous crippling fatigue. I’ve learned to adapt to being in constant pain, but fatigue is much harder to withstand. Every day is a battle of trying to get through the day on a battery at risk of dying at any moment. But not even a whole night’s uninterrupted sleep is enough to recharge and replete my body’s run-down battery life.

"A little white pill doesn't always magic away the pain that is a constant reality. But there is no pill at all to try and alleviate the continuous crippling fatigue." Share on X

The symptoms of my illness remain invisible. However, perhaps the most significant clue to my ill health is the ever-present dark circles under my eyes. These permanent features on my face are not the result of late nights out burning the candle at both ends, but rather due to lying awake, tossing and turning as I battle intense, unendurable pain. At night, I often find myself lying awake, tired and exhausted, longing for sleep to claim me, yet it refuses to arrive. Even when I can snatch forty winks when I wake the next day, I don’t feel rested. I feel just as exhausted as before I hit the sack.

Fatigue Is So More Than Just Being Tired

But fatigue is so much more than being tired. Fatigue is an intangible presence that suddenly jumps out of the shadows, bleeding every ounce of energy I still possess. It’s a crushing, soul-sucking exhaustion that leaves me feeling as if I’m failing at life.

"Fatigue is an intangible presence that suddenly jumps out of the shadows, bleeding every ounce of energy I still possess. It's a crushing, soul-sucking exhaustion that leaves me feeling as if I'm failing at life." Share on X
Bright pink background with two stars diagonal to one another at the top left, and bottom right and in the centre of them are the words 'fatigue is so much more than just being tired'

It arrives without warning, an invisible force shrouding my body with an entrenched heaviness that makes it impossible for me to move any part of it. Every step feels like I’m dragging myself through thick molasses. Everything hurts, and a heavy, aching sensation overwhelms my body, almost like I’m battling the flu. I’m unable to function, dragged down into a fugue state where concentration is nigh impossible. There have even been times when the fatigue has been so severe that I’ve been lying down, only to realise that I no longer could move either of my legs. 

"Every step feels like I'm dragging myself through thick molasses. Everything hurts, and a heavy, aching sensation overwhelms my body. I'm unable to function, dragged down into a fugue state where concentration is nigh impossible." Share on X

But fatigue is not just physical; it is also a mental battle. As fatigue descends, it robs me of my ability to think clearly. The TV may be on, but it’s just for some company to fill the empty silence of my isolation. The noise from the television rings out in the background, but I don’t watch, unable to comprehend what’s happening on the screen. I pick up a book, but the words swim in and out into a jumbled, unintelligible mess. My memory’s terrible, forgetting all manner of things in ways that are unusual for me. I’m at a loss, not knowing what to do with myself in the fog of pain and fatigue. 

"But fatigue is not just physical; it is also a mental battle. As fatigue descends, it robs me of my ability to think clearly." Share on X

My Bed is Both A Comfort And a Prison

As the fog of fatigue descends, I feel the allure of my bed summoning me. I hear its siren call, ready to welcome me into its warm embrace. As I slip inside its warm covers, feeling the weight of the duvet, it feels like a loving hug. But it also feels like I’m surrendering to the enemy, letting my illness have its victory over me. Yet, it’s hard to ignore the temptation of my bed when my body is aching all over, and exhaustion is pulling me into a bottomless abyss. 

A pink with white swirls at the top left and bottom right hand corners. In the middle, is a white box and inside that is a watercolour picture of a woman lying on a bed in a pink feminine room. At the bottom of the white box reads 'Fatigue makes mh bed my sole source of comfort; but it also makes it my prison.' The end of the sentence is highligted by a pink watercolour stripe

Fatigue makes my bed my sole source of comfort, but it has also become my prison. The limitations of my body trap me and chain me to a bed where I have no choice but to live my life from its clutches. My bed has become not just a place for me to sleep but also a place to spend hours binge-watching reruns of my favourite programmes beneath cotton sheets. I always choose familiar shows, ones I’ve watched so many times I know nearly every word because I don’t have the mental capacity to give attention to something new or anything with a complex storyline. 

"Fatigue makes my bed my sole source of comfort, but it has also become my prison." Share on X

My Bed Has Often More Uses Than Just For Somewhere To Sleep

It’s also my favourite reading nook (when fatigue allows). I find nothing more comforting than burrowing beneath warm blankets as I escape from the reality of living with a chronic illness into the pages of a book and into a world that is so different from my own. Sometimes, it even becomes a cafe, where I bring food and drink to consume as I lie in bed, unable to drag my body from the confines of my prison. 

A light pink background with a bed in the middle taht has a grey duvet and one grey pillow. It also has a larger pink pillow at the back and a small pink pillow in the shape of a heart in front. Off the image are arrows pointing to what a bed is used for apart from sleeping - reading nook, home office, a place for respite, a prison, restaurant or cafe, place to cry, comfort and sanctuary, entertainment centre

It has even become a place not only for rest but also for work. From the quiet solace of my bed, I’ve planned, written, rewritten, and published dozens of essays (including this one). 

As Fatigue descends, I feel LIKe I Exist, Not Truly Living.

As I lie on my bed, I often feel like I exist, not truly living. I feel guilt for the things I should be doing but can’t. I even start to doubt myself, wondering if I’m just lazy despite the evidence of my illness and disability all around me. 

"As I lie on my bed, I often feel like I exist, not truly living. I feel guilt for the things I should be doing but can't." Share on X

Fatigue significantly impacts my life. It affects what I’m capable of each day and the insidious ways it creeps into my moods. In truth, it is the number one cause of my mood swings. As fatigue takes over my body and every task, however small, becomes unsurmountable, frustration and anger build. I’m angry at my body, which is failing me, but instead of getting angry at it, the anger’s misdirected toward whoever happens to be around. So, when fatigue is high, I often become irritable, short-tempered and moody, so beware!

"As fatigue takes over my body and every task, however small, becomes unsurmountable, frustration and anger build." Share on X

I have both good and bad days in my battle with fatigue. But, it still is chronic, and so it never goes away. Although I experience brief moments of respite, I still feel its presence like a malevolent shadow waiting in the wings, ready to attack.  Every day, fatigue makes every step, every move, an uphill struggle. And to make it through the day unscathed feels like fighting the most prolonged battle in the world. But, still, as I wake up every day and live my life despite it, it feels that I’m defeating the monster that is fatigue. 

"Although I experience brief moments of respite, I still feel its presence like a malevolent shadow waiting in the wings, ready to attack." Share on X
Fatigue: A More Fitting F-word For My Chronic Life
Fatigue: A More Fitting F-word For My Chronic Life
Fatigue: A More Fitting F-word For My Chronic Life
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Looks like a scrapbook with three polaroid photographs (two at the top and one on the bottom right side). To the left of the bottom photo says 'Joy existen even if my memories were not free from pain.' Underneath has the blog website brainlesionandme.com
In Chronic Illness

‘Joy Existed Even if My Memories Were Not Free From Pain.’

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The first feeling I had as I stared at the confirmation email that landed in my inbox was excitement. I felt exhilarated at the prospect of escaping the gilded cage that illness had created for me. I was excited by the promise of a change of scenery from this gilded cage my home has become. But it also came with trepidation. Why? Because, unfortunately, I’m unable to escape my disabled body. I can’t take a holiday from this illness that controls much of my life. Instead, I have to make room and take them with me. Because wherever I am, the symptoms will be, too. Where I am is irrelevant; pain and all the other symptoms will exist no matter where I am. So how can I feel joy about travelling while I’m drowning in a torrent of pain and besieged by a myriad of other horrible symptoms?

"'I'm unable to escape my disabled body. I can't take a holiday from this illness that controls much of my life. Instead, I have to make room and take them with me." Share on X
Wherever I am the symptoms will be too

None of my days are symptom-free. Every day, I experience crushing waves of pain, weakness, fatigue or dizziness, waves that drag me deep into the abyss. Some days, I experience two or three severe symptoms; on the worst days, I come up against all of them. So, much of every day, I make decisions explicitly designed to avoid physical pain. I spend every day doing everything in my power to prevent triggering any of the symptoms that make my life increasingly oppressive.

"Much of every day, I make decisions explicitly designed to avoid physical pain. I spend every day doing everything in my power to prevent triggering any of the symptoms that make my life increasingly oppressive." Share on X

Glimmers that once sparked joy are now pushed into the shade.

So, I decline social invitations, cancel long-awaited plans and wave goodbye to passions and ambitions that once nourished my soul. But by doing so, I’ve paid a hefty toll. As the symptoms play a more prominent role in my life, my world becomes smaller and more isolated. The only company I seem to keep are the symptoms that forever haunt me. I often stare outside, wishing to be part of the world beyond my window. The glimmers that once sparked joy suddenly pushed into the shade, shrouded in darkness that light cannot reach. Because of this, I, like so many others living with a chronic illness, often experience depression, a byproduct of the happy, joyous moments that sickness has stolen from me.

"I often stare outside, wishing to be part of the world beyond my window. The glimmers that once sparked joy suddenly pushed into the shade, shrouded in darkness that light cannot reach." Share on X

So, saying yes to a marathon visit to bookstores, a trip to my favourite shopping haunt, a night out at the theatre, or a voyage on a cruise ship is a way of reclaiming some of the stolen joy illness snatches away. I do so despite knowing the heavy price to pay for these small snippets of normality: the rigidity and incandescent pain that rages through my legs, the all-consuming fatigue that overwhelms my entire body, and the dizziness and vertigo that refuses to relent, forcing me to lie down gripping at sheets as everything around me spins. I want good days and to feel alive rather than just surviving. So, I would opt to be in pain and feel the full force of my symptoms rather than be depressed.

"I want good days and to feel alive rather than just surviving. So, I would opt to feel pain and feel the full force of my symptoms rather than be depressed." Share on X

What ifs: to go or not to go?

But as the symptoms became more intense and severe, the anxiety about going at all increased. I didn’t want to go, only to have the cruise ruined by my erratic and unpredictable body. Was it even possible to postpone until I felt stronger and better prepared? Or at least until the symptoms were not so out of control and were no longer making my life a living nightmare.

I want good days and to feel alive rather tahn just surviving. I would rather opt to feel pain and the full force of my symptoms than be depressed

For me, a cure or getting better is a wish only a Fairy Godmother could grant. But my life is no fairytale. It might not even be a flare, but the start of my symptoms worsening again. Right now, it might be the best it gets. Whatever the case, I cannot put my life or plans on hold, however much I would like to.

My mind constantly raced with thoughts of what if—catastrophic thoughts of what would happen if I did go and thoughts of what if I didn’t. But ‘what’ and ‘if’ are as nonthreatening and insipid as two words can be. But together, side-by-side, they have the power to haunt you with anxiety or regrets. As much as I feared going, I also feared that I would always regret it if I didn’t go. As unwell and anxious as I felt, what if I had gone would forever haunt me.

My most treasured memories were not pain or symptom-free

But I did it. After a whole lot of tears, anxiety attacks, as well as pep talks and words of encouragement, I did it. Despite feeling weak, defeated and broken by both my physical symptoms and mental health, I amazed myself by achieving what I thought was unthinkable – stepping on board, passport in hand, ready to cruise.

Reflecting on this cruise and those preceding it made me realise something. Some of the best experiences and my happiest memories were not pain— or symptom-free.

".Some of the best experiences and my happiest memories were not pain— or symptom-free." Share on X

The pain and other symptoms, as severe as they were, are not what I remember most from the trips I’ve loved while cruising. What I remember most is being in awe of the majestic scenery as I stood in the fjords of Norway. I look back now on not the amount of pain I was in but standing on a ferry, witnessing the beauty and quaintness of Portofino as it came into view. Only the joy and excitement of seeing a pod of dolphins as they jumped alongside the ship remain, not the days spent feeling sick in the cabin. What I remember is not the crushing fatigue but walking the pretty streets of Sorrento. I dwell on not the nights spent in the cabin in pain but the lovely, joyful memories of nights eating fantastic food and sipping delicious cocktails.

Symptoms lingered, but joy lingered, too.

I look at pictures of myself while travelling, and I’m glowing—beaming in a way I haven’t seen myself in a long time. For the first time in a long time, it felt like I was living and not just existing. Illness and its vast array of symptoms have long ago created a gilded cage, and for me, books were its key. Reading allows me to escape the cage and experience worlds and places, both real and imagined. But as I stood on the balcony, watching the glistening blue waves of the ocean, my world no longer felt small and secular. My world suddenly expanded, and I was a part of it, experiencing it for myself instead of observing it from a tower, like Rapunzel or reading about it from a book.

"'But as I stood on the balcony, watching the glistening blue waves of the ocean, my world no longer felt small and secular. My world suddenly expanded, and I was a part of it, experiencing it for myself." Share on X
"I swallowed the maximum dose of painkillers while crossing my fingers that it would delay the inevitable assault of pain." Share on X

But all good things must come to an end. But, for each excursion and every accomplishment came a physical cost. I swallowed the maximum dose of painkillers while crossing my fingers that it would delay the inevitable assault of pain. I diligently took the correct dose of my other pills and hoped they would ease the nausea and dizziness advancing toward me. But, living with a chronic illness, I often have to prepare to worsen my symptoms for a slice of normality. I must pay the price to take part in everyday things everybody else takes for granted. But even sometime later, symptoms lingered, pushing my body into a debilitating flare. But joy and exhilaration lingered, too – almost making the pain worth it.

"But even sometime later, symptoms lingered, pushing my body into a debilitating flare. But joy and exhilaration lingered, too." Share on X
Joy Existed Even if My Memroes Were Not Free From Pain
'Joy existed even if my memories were not free from pain.'
'Joy Existed Even if My Memories Were Not Free From Pain.'
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