How do you tell people you want to give up?

It’s been a while since I last wrote a blog – six months, to be exact. I avoided it because facing everything felt like too much. Of course, I didn’t actually admit to anyone that I couldn’t handle it; instead, I just avoided processing it altogether. Week after week it felt like more bad news, and no matter how much I tried to put a positive spin on things or stay strong, it wasn’t working. Eventually, it became too heavy to process, so I stopped. I ran away from it.

I know avoidance isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but honestly, is there ever a “right” way to handle this kind of thing? When you’re navigating a life where every single step has to be carefully considered, how are you supposed to get it “right”? I don’t think you can – or at least, I couldn’t. I told myself when the time felt right, I’d start writing again. So here I am.

I wish I could say this was the post where everything changed. That in the last six months I’ve gotten better, healthier, stronger. But the truth is, I haven’t. I’m not healthier. I’m just trying to get through each day without giving up.

Since the start of the year, I’ve lost more than 16kg. Some people say I’m “lucky,” that this is what others dream of, to be “summer ready.” I know they’re only joking, trying to help me find some kind of silver lining, wherever that may be. But what happens when the weight loss wasn’t my choice? Last year I complained about medication making me gain weight, and now I almost regret it, kicking myself because most of my clothes now just hang off me. Every morning is a battle just trying to find something to make me feel “normal”. I barely eat without facing severe pain, nausea, or sickness. Another diagnosis: some kind of motility disorder to add to my growing list of battles. More exhaustion. More pain.

But here’s the thing, people don’t realise it’s not just the physical symptoms. It’s the mental toll. I’m scared all the time. Scared of eating, because I know the pain that follows. Scared I’ve eaten the wrong thing, or the portion size is too much. Scared of the impact of not eating at all. My body already struggles with fatigue and pain; take away the fuel it needs, and everything intensifies. It sucks. It hurts. And honestly, it terrifies me.

The anxiety of going out for dinner is overwhelming. I don’t want to be the one who ruins the night with “more of my problems.” It doesn’t feel fair to those around me.

So I laugh it off when people call me “lucky” for losing weight, or “strong” for pushing through. But inside, I want to scream. Because they don’t see the whole picture. Yes, mindset matters. Yes, staying positive helps. But sometimes positive thinking doesn’t fix things. It won’t make walking less painful. It won’t make waking up to another day of pain feel easier.

How do you tell people you feel disappointed to wake up in the morning? That sometimes you’re sad just to have woken up at all? You don’t, because people panic. And I don’t want people to panic. It’s not that I want to die, but it’s exhausting pretending to be strong and happy when I wake up like this every single day. I wish I could go back in time and tell myself not to take all the little things for granted. To make the most of everything I wouldn’t normally think twice about.

The moment I open my eyes, I’m in agony. I get through the day step by step (quite literally), distracting myself from the pain as best I can. I go to bed hurting, cry myself to sleep some nights, and wake up in misery in the middle of others. My whole life is managing symptoms, but the pain never goes away. Never.

At the start of this post, I asked: How do you tell people you want to give up? Even now, I don’t have an answer. People panic when you say you can’t keep fighting. They don’t understand that wanting to give up doesn’t mean you’re quitting. I didn’t choose this life, but these are the cards I was dealt. And sometimes it feels impossibly lonely, because you can’t tell the people you love how much you don’t want to do this anymore. You can’t keep explaining that “a few more steps” is too many, or that you feel like a burden, without them trying to reassure you that you’re not. I know they mean well, and I love them for it, but sometimes shielding them from the full reality feels like the only option.

I love my support system more than they really understand. Without them, I honestly don’t think I’d be here. They’ve given me memories to smile about, moments to look forward to, reasons to keep trying. They give me something to fight for. But I won’t pretend that means I don’t still want to give up sometimes. I do. The battles never end. Still, the people I love are the only light at the end of this dark tunnel, and I cling to that with everything I have left.

Having something to fight for matters. It’s powerful. It’s the reason I force myself to get out of bed each morning, even when everything feels unbearable. So I guess for now, I’ll keep holding onto that light – one day at a time.