I didn’t expect to live life with chronic illness.
I didn’t expect the spins, the sensitivity to sound, the migraines that left me in the dark.
I didn’t expect to rewrite my schedule, my dreams, or my definition of strength.
But life has a way of asking us to let go of the version we planned, and lean into the one that is.
And somewhere in the middle of symptoms and surrender, I’ve learned a few things that continue to shape me in the most unexpected ways.
Strength Isn’t Always Loud – I am still working hard on this. I struggle with this daily but I try and these are things that I am learning
Before Ménière’s Disease, I used to think strength looked like pushing through, carrying on, doing all the things.
Now, strength looks quieter.
It’s getting out of bed when my head feels heavy.
It’s choosing kindness when I’m short on patience.
It’s asking for help instead of pretending I don’t need it.
Strength is showing up anyway, without pretending I’m not hurting.
It’s honoring my body’s needs and still choosing to live with purpose.
God is gently redefining what strong means for me. And it no longer looks like independence.
It looks like dependence on Him.
Surrender Is Not Defeat
Surrender used to feel like giving up.
Now I understand it as giving over, offering my life, my body, my story, to the God who still holds it all.
When you live with chronic illness, you give up a lot;
Plans. Predictability. Energy. Expectations.
But I’ve discovered that surrender is where peace begins.
Not because everything gets better overnight, but because I stop fighting a battle I was never meant to fight alone.
Letting go of what I can’t control has opened my hands to receive what I didn’t know I needed:
Compassion. Rest. Presence. Peace.
Faith looks different here.
Faith in the midst of pain is less about declaring big things and more about whispering truth to myself on hard days.
Some days I can pray with confidence. Other days, I just breathe His name.
Both are valid. Both are enough.
God isn’t waiting for perfect prayers or strong performances.
He’s present in the pauses, the tears, the messy middle.
He walks with me in the grocery store when I feel unsteady.
He steadies me when the ringing in my ears is relentless.
He meets me in the moments no one else sees—when I lie in the dark and ask Him to just get me through the next hour.
That’s faith. Real, raw, quiet faith. And I’m learning that it’s more than enough.
Showing up matters.
Chronic illness forced me to stop showing up for everything.
But it also taught me to be more intentional about where I do show up!
I’ve learned to show up with empathy. With listening ears. With soft words and deep compassion.
Because I know what it’s like to feel invisible. To feel like you’re falling behind while the world keeps moving.
Showing up might look like writing this post from bed.
It might look like being present with my family, even if I’m not at full capacity.
It might look like using my story to encourage someone else to keep going.
And that matters.
You don’t have to be at 100% to make a difference.
You just have to be willing to bring what you can.
Even if it’s 40%, even if it’s a little wobbly.
There’s beauty in the offering.
To the One Walking This Road Too
If you’re living with chronic pain or illness—if your body feels like it’s working against you—I want you to know this:
You are not weak for needing rest.
You are not failing because you have limits.
You are not forgotten just because others don’t see the battle.
You are deeply loved.
You are held.
You are still being used by God in quiet and powerful ways.
Chronic illness may change your pace, but it doesn’t cancel your purpose.
So show up gently.
Surrender what you can’t control.
Redefine strength with grace.
And know that you are never walking alone.
With Love,
Laura
