A Year of Lessons in the Trenches

Navigating chronic illness, medication changes, and self-advocacy

I didn’t start this year gently.

I started it deep in the trenches.

In pain that was loud and constant.

In exhaustion that sleep didn’t touch.

In confusion that made even simple decisions feel heavy.

The year opened with a medication transition that should have been straightforward and absolutely was not. Insurance delays. Denials. A doctor’s office that moved slowly while my body unraveled quickly. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. I waited without the medication my body needed while inflammation climbed and pain took up more space in my life.

There is a particular cruelty to knowing relief exists and being unable to access it.

Pain like that doesn’t just hurt. It narrows your world. It shrinks your thinking. It erodes your patience and your confidence. Sleep becomes fragmented or disappears entirely. Your nervous system stays on high alert. You start measuring your life in tolerable hours rather than meaningful moments.

At the same time, I had to become my own advocate in ways I didn’t feel prepared for. Calling. Following up. Explaining again. Asking again. Pushing when I would have preferred to rest. Navigating a healthcare system while already depleted is a skill most people never have to develop. Those of us living with chronic illness learn it the hard way.

Eventually, it became clear that pain management was not optional. It wasn’t just about comfort. It was about survival. Without sleep, everything else began to break down. I had to insist on support that allowed my body to rest enough to function.

That insistence mattered.

We found a medication that worked.

Inflammation eased.

Pain loosened its grip.

Sleep slowly returned.

Coming out of a long stretch like that is disorienting. Relief doesn’t arrive all at once. It comes in small increments. A morning that feels a little less heavy. A night with a few uninterrupted hours of rest. A moment where you realize your body feels familiar again.

Not healed.

But recognizable.

As my system settled, I found myself standing in a quieter place with more clarity than I expected. Not because the year had been kind, but because it had been honest. It showed me exactly what it costs to live in a body that doesn’t cooperate and what it takes to come back from the edge of burnout.

It was in that steadier space that I made a decision I had been circling for a long time. I chose to build and launch my coaching practice.

Not from inspiration, but from experience.

This year became a constant balancing act. Building something sustainable while managing chronic illness. Offering care while protecting my own capacity. Learning how to grow a business without recreating the same pressure and overextension that illness punishes so quickly.

Even now, in a period of relatively low pain and inflammation, there is no illusion of permanence.

Chronic illness teaches you to live with a kind of double awareness. You can feel better and still know how quickly things can change. You can make plans while keeping contingency close. You can hold gratitude and vigilance at the same time.

That tension never fully disappears.

What changed this year wasn’t my diagnosis or my reality. It was my relationship to them. I trust myself more now. I advocate sooner. I rest without as much negotiation. I build with intention instead of urgency.

This year stripped away any fantasy of control and replaced it with something sturdier: capacity. The capacity to endure hard seasons. The capacity to rebuild when things settle. The capacity to live a meaningful life even while knowing the ground can shift again.

If you are reading this from your own trenches, I want to say this clearly: getting through doesn’t mean you’re weak for struggling. It means you’re human in a system and a body that asks too much.

And if you are reading this from a calmer moment, know this too: awareness isn’t pessimism. It’s wisdom. Living gently, planning thoughtfully, and honoring your limits isn’t giving up. It’s how you stay in the fight for the long haul.