There’s a version of me that existed before chronic illness and chronic pain

And then there’s the version of me that exists now.

Contrary to popular belief, they are not strangers.

Yes, my body hurts. Yes, my energy is rationed like it’s a luxury item. Yes, my life looks different than I planned. But at the core? I’m still kind. I’m still funny. I still laugh—sometimes darkly, sometimes loudly, sometimes at wildly inappropriate moments. I still believe most people mean well, even when they miss the mark.

Chronic illness didn’t replace who I am.

It just tested which parts were real.

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Keeping Yourself When Your Body Changes the Rules

Living in pain teaches you efficiency. You learn quickly what’s worth your energy and what absolutely is not. You stop performing wellness for other people. You stop explaining yourself to folks who don’t actually want to understand. You stop apologizing for existing as you are.

That pruning can feel brutal—but it’s also clarifying.

I’ve learned that kindness doesn’t require overextending. Humor doesn’t disappear just because the punchlines are sometimes about pill organizers and heating pads. Believing in people doesn’t mean letting them hurt you repeatedly.

You can be gentle and have boundaries.

You can be soft and selective.

That’s not bitterness. That’s wisdom earned the hard way.

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The Shipwrecks No One Warns You About

Here’s the part people don’t love to talk about:

You will lose people.

Friendships. Relationships. Situationships. Work-ships. Family-ships. Every possible “ship” you can imagine—some will quietly drift away, some will sink dramatically, and some will jump overboard the moment things get inconvenient (which most have done this one)…

And honestly? That’s natural.

Not everyone is built for long-term uncertainty. Not everyone can sit with discomfort without trying to fix it or flee from it. Some people only know how to love the version of you that was easy, available, energetic, or endlessly accommodating.

That doesn’t make them villains.

But it does make them incompatible.

You will lose some.

You will also gain some.

And the ones you gain—the ones who stay—will see you clearly. They won’t need you to perform strength or positivity on command. They’ll understand that showing up looks different now. They’ll meet you where you are, not where you used to be.

Those relationships? Gold.

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Taking Things at Face Value (and Sleeping Better for It)

One of the quiet gifts of chronic illness is losing the patience for over-interpretation. I don’t decode mixed signals anymore. I don’t chase clarity from people who refuse to offer it. I take things at face value.

If someone shows up—believe them.

If someone disappears—believe that too.

It’s not cynicism. It’s conservation.

My energy is better spent laughing when I can, loving honestly, resting unapologetically, and holding onto the parts of myself that still feel like home.

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Still Here. Still Me.

Chronic pain changes your body. Chronic illness changes your life.

But they don’t get to steal your humanity unless you hand it over.

I am still kind.

I am still funny.

I still believe in good—even when it shows up quietly, imperfectly, or later than expected.

I’ve lost some ships. I’ve boarded others. And I’ve learned how to swim on my own when necessary.

Still me.

Just with more depth, better boundaries, and zero interest in pretending I’m okay when I’m not…

With much love,

Di💗🥂@unwellbutcutee on instagram and ⏰ app!