Living in a Body That Hurts

This isn’t the body I once knew, and most days I’m still learning how to live here. The ache, the fatigue, the unpredictability. It’s a daily practice of making peace with what is while missing what was. Some days I can meet that reality with softness. Other days, not so much.

Living in a body that aches. A body that’s changing in ways that don’t feel comfortable. A disabled body that doesn’t do what I need or want it to do. One that tires too quickly, that makes enjoying things harder than it used to be. I fight the urge to judge it, to shame it, to hate it, to shrink it, to alter it, to hide it away.

It wasn’t until about four years ago that things really started to fall apart physically. Mentally, things have always been challenging for me, but I used to hike, kayak, dance, and work long shifts without thinking twice. Now I can barely get out of bed. Living with a heart condition that adds to fatigue, along with chronic pain and limited mobility, means even simple daily tasks can feel monumental. Being in recovery adds another layer, since my options for pain relief are limited to what’s over the counter. So I live on heating pads, practice pacing, and constant reminders that motion is lotion. Even when it hurts, I need to move, because the longer I sit, the stiffer everything gets.

It’s exhausting. It’s frustrating. It’s isolating. I am always tired. I feel like a bummer. I know I’m not as fun anymore. I don’t really have in-person friends, and most of my community is also disabled, which means finding time when we all have enough spoons to connect can feel impossible. I try to stay positive, but then there are days, and sometimes weeks, when I just feel like shit. I get angry. Nothing seems to work. Everything feels heavy. And underneath it all is grief.

Still, there are moments that soften the edges. Moments when I feel grateful for my community and the people who continue to show up. For the days when my body cooperates long enough to step outside, or when I finally finish that LEGO set that’s been waiting on my desk. Those moments don’t erase the pain, but they remind me that I’m still alive in here.

As winter rolls in and the cold settles deep into my bones, everything feels harder again. Sometimes even impossible. So I try to notice the small things, the micro joys that remind me this body, even in its ache and unpredictability, is still worthy of care. The feeling of soft fabric against tender muscles. Gentle stretches in bed with my pup in the morning as the blood starts to move again. Little reminders that even in all of this, I am still here.

There isn’t a tidy way to live inside a changing body. Grief and gratitude tend to live side by side here. Some days I ache for what I’ve lost. Other days I can feel a flicker of tenderness for what remains. Learning to live with this body, not against it, is a process that keeps unfolding. It isn’t about fixing or transcending the pain, but about learning to honor the life that still exists within it.

This is what I return to again and again. Even when everything hurts, this body is still mine. Still worthy of care. Still deserving of joy.