Dear Stranger,

If you’ve ever fought through a storm in silence, wondered if anyone else really gets it, or found yourself trying to hold onto hope when it felt like everything was slipping, this might be for you.

Dear Stranger,

Some mornings I wake up and just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m still the same person I used to be. The one who could juggle deadlines, meetings, kids, chaos, and still show up smiling. Now? I shuffle to the kitchen like a 90-year-old, wincing with every step, my joints screaming louder than my alarm ever could.

I don’t know when it all started feeling this heavy. Work used to give me purpose. A rhythm. Something to belong to. But lately, with all the changes—new policies, new managers, new systems (that break more than they work)—I find myself sitting at my desk, staring at emails like they’re written in an alien language. I used to thrive in high-stress environments. Now it just feels like I’m surviving them. Barely.

And don’t get me started on the politics. Everyone walking on eggshells, passive-aggressively CC’ing the entire team, pretending to collaborate while low-key competing for a sliver of recognition. Is this what work is now? Just a game of who can look the busiest while feeling the most burnt out? Quiet as it’s kept, I’m drowning! I try to keep my head above water, but fibro keeps weighing me down. It’s as if dead weights are attached to every limb and no matter what I do I can’t get free of them. Is this what my life looks like now? I can’t walk, let alone swim and no one is throwing me a life raft.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m becoming invisible, like the pain is slowly erasing me from the version of life I used to know. I laugh less freely now, not because I’ve lost my humor, but because even joy feels like it takes energy I don’t have. The world doesn’t slow down for people like me. It keeps spinning, and I’m gripping the edges like a passenger on a ride I didn’t sign up for. And God help me if I drop anything—forks, papers, the ball—because my body doesn’t bounce back anymore. It sulks. It protests. It holds grudges like an old auntie at a family reunion.

Honestly, I don’t feel built for this anymore.

Fibromyalgia has wrecked more than just my body—it’s chipped away at my identity. I used to be sharp, quick, dependable. Now I forget words mid-sentence. I reread the same paragraph five times before it sticks. My body aches like I’ve been hit by a bus, and some days, brushing my hair feels like an Olympic sport.

I started writing this blog because I needed a place to put all of this. The fear. The grief. The constant questioning: Is this what life is now? Am I just meant to endure it? I wanted to give a voice to the kind of pain that doesn’t show up on X-rays. The kind of fatigue that isn’t solved with a nap. The kind of sadness that seeps in when you feel like you’re falling behind in a race you didn’t ask to join.

This blog is my quiet scream into the void. My way of saying, Hey, I’m still here. Still trying. Even when it hurts.

I miss who I used to be. I miss laughing without it costing me energy. I miss showing up to work and actually feeling like I belonged. Now, even logging in feels like an act of defiance. I show up out of sheer willpower, not because I’m thriving—but because I don’t know how to not try. Because giving up isn’t in me, even when I feel like I’m falling apart.

Some days, I fantasize about quitting everything. Throwing my hands up and yelling “I’m out!” while dramatically walking away like I’m in some soap opera. But instead, I take a deep breath, down another pain med, and keep typing. Because bills. Because kids. Because life doesn’t pause for chronic illness.

I look around at coworkers, most of whom have no idea what I’m battling. I nod on video calls, I smile when I can, and I mute myself when the tears come mid-meeting. No one sees the flare-ups. No one knows I cried for 30 minutes because I dropped a fork. And maybe that’s why I’m writing this. Because someone needs to know. Someone needs to understand that surviving a day, sometimes, is a damn victory.

There are so many changes happening at work, it’s dizzying. One day we’re told to prioritize one thing, the next it’s something completely different. There’s no consistency, no direction, just noise. Everyone is scrambling to keep up, pretending it’s fine, but I can see the fatigue in their eyes too. Maybe they’re not as fine as they seem either.

Sometimes I feel like I’m being slowly erased. Like the competent, organized person I used to be is fading, and all that’s left is someone hanging on by a thread. I question everything now. My worth. My capacity. My place in the world. And that’s hard to admit.

But here I am. Still writing. Still showing up. Still hoping that by sharing this, someone out there will feel seen. Maybe you.

If you’ve ever sat in your car before work, needing a pep talk just to open the door… if you’ve ever dragged yourself through a meeting while fantasizing about your bed… if you’ve ever smiled through pain so no one would feel uncomfortable—then maybe you’re my people.

Maybe you’re why I keep writing. Not just to vent, but to connect. To build a small, quiet corner of the internet where honesty isn’t punished, and invisible pain is acknowledged.

Thank you for being here. For reading this far. For caring, even just a little.

With love and exhaustion,

This Fibro Chick