3 years.

3 whole years today since I woke up and said goodbye to life as I knew it.
No more half marathon training. No more hikes. No more spontaneous adventure trips. Just…no more.

I bet you’re expecting this to be a depressing post about all the difficulties.

Well…

The first 12 months, I lived in “when I’m better.” I made plans for later that year, fully expecting I’d be back to myself by then. Obviously, that didn’t happen.

The next 12 months were different, but not really healthier. I tried to reflect. Tried to grow. But I was still comparing everything to the old me. Still saying, “when I’m better.” Still waiting for this version of “okay” that never seemed to arrive.

And then there’s this last year. It’s felt different.

But why?
What’s changed?

I think it’s me. And, of course, the beautiful people around me.
My closest supports taught me something I didn’t know I needed to learn.

They didn’t treat me like I was made of glass.
They didn’t let me shrink.
They didn’t lower their expectations of who I am.

Instead, they gently pushed me. Taught me that grieving my old life doesn’t mean I stop living this one. That reflection isn’t weakness. That adapting isn’t giving up.

They planned things thoughtfully, around my limitations, not in spite of them. They made memories possible. They reminded me that I am still capable of joy, even if it looks different now.

And that changed everything.

I’ve stopped living in “when I’m better.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always hope I’ll run again. Hike again. Feel strong again. But I’ve stopped building my life around a future version of myself that may or may not come.

Because actually…my life right now isn’t empty.

Yes, I’m still in intense pain.
Yes, new symptoms have appeared. More sickness. More weakness. No appetite.
If anything, on paper, I should feel worse than I did a year ago.

But somehow, I don’t.

Some days are brutal. Some days I barely cope. Some days I don’t know how I’ll get through.
But the thing is, I do get through.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped comparing and started adapting.

I stopped pouring into people who weren’t pouring into me.
I stopped mourning every missed opportunity.
I started making plans for what I can do.

And in the last 12 months, I’ve done more than I did in the 2 years before that.

More holidays.
More sunshine.
More trips away.
More memories with people who love me exactly as I am.

It hasn’t been easy. Not just for me, but for those closest around me. I won’t pretend it has.

I haven’t eaten a proper full-sized meal in over a year. Mealtimes still fill me with anxiety. Some days I can’t brush my own hair. I can’t shower if I’m home alone. My anxiety and overthinking is sky high. That’s my reality. But it’s also the reality of my loved ones.

It would be easier to let that swallow me whole. To stay in bed. To let the pain define the day before it’s even begun. People tell me they’d understand if I stopped pushing or trying.

But that’s not who I am.
I’d still be in pain.
I’d still be weak.
I’d just be more defeated.

So I choose to fight.

I’ve built a career I’m proud of. I’ve earned promotions. I’ve worked hard. My colleagues respect me for my knowledge, not my limitations.

My conditions do not define me.
What these three years have really changed…is me.

And change, under these circumstances, is inevitable.

But I am stronger.
I am more intentional.
I am more protective of my energy.
I am surrounded by people who don’t expect me to be anything but myself.

I’ve learned that it’s okay to not always be okay. I opened myself up to therapy. Life forced me to understand it. I still have hard days. I still get frustrated. I still grieve the version of me that could run without thinking.

But I also celebrate the version of me that fights through anyway.
The little wins matter. The big challenges I overcome matter. Every single win matters.
It’s not about what I’ve missed. It’s about everything I’ve still managed to do.

And that feels like something worth holding onto.