Dear Stranger,

I disappeared for a little while.

I did not mean to disappear. A few weeks ago, my grandmother passed away. She was 105 years old, which still does not feel real when I say it out loud. One hundred and five years old. She lived through wars, loss, heartbreak, joy, change, and generations of family that existed because she did. Even with all those years, it still felt too soon.

I have opened this draft at least twelve times over the last few weeks and every single time I ended up staring at the screen without writing anything meaningful. Once, I typed “I’m tired” and just closed my iPad.

She was the kind of woman who corrected people when they mispronounced words and somehow made you feel loved while doing it. Sharp, observant, stubborn in the funniest ways. The type of person you quietly believe will always be there, even when logic says otherwise.

I think grief confuses the body as much as it confuses the heart. Fibromyalgia already makes exhaustion feel heavy, but grief added something deeper to it. My entire nervous system felt overwhelmed. I tried so hard not to get too emotional, I didn’t want an unwanted guest ( fibromyalgia) flaring up on me. The fatigue became unbearable, and my anxiety got louder. Depression settled over everything, it felt as if I was trying to see through the fog and take control.

Some days I could barely answer a text message. Some days brushing my hair felt like I was trying to run a marathon. Some days I wanted comfort so badly, but could not find the energy to talk to anyone. I know many of you understand that kind of exhaustion in a way most people do not. That is why this space means so much to me.

Thank you for staying here while I went quiet.

Thank you for your kindness.

I appreciate you for creating a community that feels safe to come back to, even after disappearing for a while.

There is something deeply comforting about being around people who understand chronic illness without needing a three hour explanation. People who understand brain fog, overstimulation, random pain, canceled plans, and the strange guilt that comes from not having the energy to be the version of yourself you want to be.

Sometimes I think the hardest part about fibromyalgia, depression, and anxiety is how isolating they can become together. You slowly disappear from conversations, messages pile up, and before you know it, you start feeling disconnected from the world around you.

Then I come back here, I remember I am not alone with this illness. I say to you, you are not alone we are fighting the same battle.

If you are grieving right now, whether it is a person, your health, your old life, your peace, or even just the version of yourself you miss, I hope you give yourself more gentleness than guilt.

You are not failing because you are struggling. Some seasons of life are not about thriving. Some seasons are about making it through the day without completely losing yourself.

I do not really have a neat ending for this letter because grief is messy and exhausting and deeply human. I wanted to come back and say thank you.

Thank you for every kind message.

Thank you for every comment.

Thank you for making this little corner of the internet feel less lonely for people like me.

I think we underestimate how healing it is to be welcomed back after going silent. I am very grateful to have found that here.

This Fibro Chick (Sarah)

A tired girl trying her best