Two years. Two whole years of this battle. I wish I could say things have improved, even just a little. But I can’t. I’m not better. In fact, it feels like I’m trapped on a rollercoaster that only ever spirals downward. When does the pain stop? Does it ever?

It’s been a while since I last posted. I’ve written so many entries over the past few months, but I just couldn’t bring myself to share them. Maybe I didn’t want to face it. Maybe I was tired of processing what feels like an endless cycle of suffering. Instead, I bottled it up, convinced myself that if I just smiled and said I was fine, then maybe—just maybe—it would be true.

I’ve spent so much time making sure everyone around me believes I’m “doing well” (whatever that even means). I’ve perfected my answer to the inevitable “How are you doing?”—a simple “I’m doing” and a forced smile. People think it’s me trying to stay positive, but in reality, it’s a shield. What I really mean is: I can’t bring myself to tell you I’m not okay. Life sucks and I’m in absolute agony. I’m really struggling. I cry myself to sleep most nights, and my body feels so weak I can barely stand it. I just want to give up. But let’s be real—no one wants that kind of answer over morning pleasantries at the office. I’d feel sorry for the poor soul who made the mistake of simply asking how I’m doing.

When Everything Falls Apart
So what changed? Wasn’t I always the positive one? Wasn’t I handling things as best as I could? I thought I was. I even had a blog post ready to go about a 10km charity walk I planned to do—something to mark two years since I first got sick, a way to turn a painful anniversary into something meaningful. I wasn’t going to run (obviously), just a painfully slow walk (pretty sure a snail could beat my pace at this point), with more rest stops than actual steps. I knew it would take forever, I knew it would hurt, but it was something to hold onto. I was determined to find some kind of light in this dreaded dark I continue to find myself navigating through. A small victory in a never-ending battle. Or so I thought.

But then life did what it always does—it knocked me back down.

Over the last few months, my body has turned against me in ways I didn’t think were possible. I can’t eat without unbearable pain, nausea, or sickness – sometimes I’m lucky enough to get all of the above! I’ve lost weight, I’m weaker than ever, and somehow, the pain keeps finding new ways to get worse. Social events & meals out? Impossible. Even the little things I used to do to keep myself going feel out of reach. I keep asking myself—how can life be this cruel?

Where Do I Go From Here?
The honest answer? I have no idea. The tests, the scans, the procedures—they keep coming, but the light at the end of the tunnel keeps fading. I needed to write this because the truth is, I’m scared. I’m terrified of how lonely this feels, even with such incredible people around me. It’s an isolation no one can ever fully understand. And as much as I appreciate the love and support, I don’t think I can hear another piece of well-meaning advice from someone who has no idea what this feels like. Telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing to make things better. How can they possibly know? They can’t.

But what scares me the most? I’m losing myself. I’ve always been the person who fights, who stays optimistic, who finds something—anything—to hold onto. But now? I don’t recognise that version of me anymore. And the thought of being here, a year from now, still in this much pain, still fighting the same fight? That thought breaks me. Because I don’t know if I have that fight in me anymore.

And yet, somehow, I have to keep going. I know I’m lucky to have a life filled with an abundance of love and support. I know I’ll keep finding a way to push through, even when I feel like I’m losing this battle. It’s a powerful thing to be able to recognise when you’re not okay. I am not okay, I’m losing my fight right now. Maybe writing helps. Maybe it doesn’t. Right now, I’m just taking it one tiny step at a time. It won’t be steady, and it won’t be strong, but it’s something. And right now, something is all I have.