22/07/2026
Beneath The Words
“I’m Tired of Feeling This Way.”
I wake up hoping today won’t be another day like yesterday.
For a few seconds, everything is still.
Then comes the moment I quietly dread.
Sometimes I lie there for a while, as though, if I don’t move, I might be able to slip quietly into the day without the pain noticing.
I move a hand. A foot. An arm. Just enough to find out what today’s going to feel like.
Sometimes, there’s a quiet sense of relief, because nothing happens.
Sometimes, the smallest movement that activates my neck or lower back is enough.
Without warning, it’s like someone has thrown a switch.
A violent spasm tears through my body like a massive electric shock. Every muscle locks so tightly it feels as though it could break the very bones it’s meant to support.
For a few moments, all I can do is stop. Not because I want to, but because there’s nothing else I can do.
I wait for it to ease.
Then the negotiation begins.
Can I get out of bed? Can I get washed? Can I get dressed? Can I make breakfast? Can I keep today’s commitments? Or is today going to be one of those days?
Some mornings I make it to my feet. Some mornings I don’t.
Occasionally, those are the days I have to make phone calls I never want to make—cancelling plans, apologising to people, hoping they’ll understand that if I could be there, I would.
After enough mornings like this, I’ve realised it isn’t only the pain that’s exhausting.
It’s the uncertainty.
Never quite knowing what tomorrow will bring.
It’s negotiating with my body before the day has even begun. It’s wondering whether I’ll be able to keep the promises I’ve already made.
Pain doesn’t only change what you can do. It changes what you dare to plan.
Before long, the spontaneous day trips become less frequent. The last-minute invitations become easier to turn down. The simple freedom of saying, “Yes, let’s do it,” starts to disappear, replaced by quietly wondering what it will cost physically tomorrow.
Without really noticing, chronic illness can quietly shrink your world. Not because that’s what you wanted, but because you’ve slowly learned to live within the limits of what feels possible.
Eventually, somewhere beneath all of that, another thought begins to appear.
“I’m tired of feeling this way.”
For me, those words have never meant, “I’ve given up.”
They’ve meant, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep carrying this on my own.”
My experience won’t be your experience.
But if you’ve ever found yourself quietly thinking, “I’m tired of feeling this way,” whatever sits behind those words, I hope you’ll know you don’t have to carry them on your own.
Sometimes the most powerful thing another person can offer isn’t an answer.
It’s the quiet understanding that you no longer have to explain what it’s like.