The days passed in an uneven rhythm, like an old song skipping on a scratched-up record. Some mornings, Sarah woke up feeling almost normal, as if the weight of her illness had decided to take a day off. On those days, she’d sit up in bed with purpose, roll her shoulders, and think, Alright, body, let’s not be a complete disaster today.She’d shuffle into the kitchen, make coffee, and maybe even get through half of a to-do list before the fog rolled in, creeping through her bones like an unwanted houseguest.
Other days, though, she barely felt human. Those were the mornings when just opening her eyes felt like dragging herself up from the bottom of the ocean. The pain was deep, layered, and relentless—like her body had been steamrolled in her sleep and then put back together with duct tape and bad decisions.
She wanted to be the fun mom, the energetic wife, the friend who said yes to spontaneous plans. But fibromyalgia was like an unpredictable, passive-aggressive boss who changed the rules whenever she felt like it.
One morning, Sarah stood at the stove, flipping pancakes while holding onto the counter for support. Cooking had become a game of strategy—use minimal energy, take breaks when needed, and don’t let anyone notice that you’re one wrong move away from face-planting into the frying pan.
“Mom, are you okay?” Hannah asked, watching her too closely.
Sarah forced a smile. “Of course! Just mentally preparing for the moment when you all leave me a mess to clean up.” Embarrassed to let her know how she felt, it’s tiring when you have to fake so as not to worry those around you, it hurts.
Huda, her youngest, grinned, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “That’s what kids are for, right?”
Sarah let out a dramatic sigh. “Ah yes, how could I forget? Your mission in life is to turn my home into a crime scene of crumbs and chaos.”
Huda giggled and reached for a pancake. “Can’t help it, Mom. It’s in our DNA.”
Sarah felt a tiny warmth in her chest. Moments like these made the pain easier to bear. Her kids have become her lifeline, just looking at them gave her the will to be better
Midway through the day, the fog settled in like an unwanted winter storm. Words tangled on her tongue, her thoughts scattered like confetti in the wind.
She reached for her phone to check the time—only to realize it wasn’t in her hand. Or on the table. Or anywhere in sight.
“Hannah!” she called.
Her daughter poked her head into the room. “Yes, mom?
“I lost my phone.”
Hannah smirked. “Again?”
Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Listen, child of mine. If you want dinner tonight, I suggest you help me find it.”
They searched the couch cushions, the kitchen, even the bathroom. Nothing.
Defeated, Sarah sat down and sighed. “This disease is turning my brain into a potato, a pile of mush”
Huda skipped into the room, chewing on a granola bar. “Mom, your phone is in the fridge.”
Sarah blinked. “I—what?”
Huda pointed. “Fridge. Right next to the milk.”
And sure enough, there it was, nestled between the orange juice and a half-eaten yogurt cup.
Sarah covered her face with her hands. “Just leave me here. I’m clearly a lost cause.”
Hannah patted her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll still love you when your brain finally turns into mashed potatoes.”
Humor helped. It always had. But the pain? That was something else.
By afternoon, Sarah’s body was screaming at her to stop. Every joint, every muscle ached like she’d run a marathon while carrying bricks on her back.
She curled up on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through social media to distract herself. But it didn’t help. Instead, she saw posts from friends going on weekend trips, running 5Ks, or simply living lives unburdened by an invisible illness.
I miss that. I miss me.
She tried to shake the thought away, but it lingered, heavy and suffocating. She didn’t want to resent other people’s happiness—she just wanted to feel like she could still participate in life, but fibromyalgia had drawn a line in the sand, and every time she tried to cross it, she was shoved back down.
She massaged her temples, willing herself not to spiral. It was easy to feel bitter, to drown in self-pity, but she hated that version of herself. She needed to focus on the things she could still do, even if they looked different now.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Hannah stood there, holding a cup of tea.
“I figured you could use this,” she said, offering it with a small smile.
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