Dear Stranger,

Living With Fibromyalgia and Finding My Voice. How I Ended Up Here

Dear Stranger,

I didn’t start writing because I was brave. I started writing because I was breaking, and I needed someone to understand.

If you’ve somehow stumbled into my corner of the internet, maybe through a fibromyalgia flare-up rant or a late-night note I posted at three in the morning while my joints screamed you deserve to know the real story of how I got here.

Not the polished version. The messy, unfiltered truth.

Most people assume writers wake up one day and decide to be vulnerable. That’s not how it happens.

My story started in survival mode. It started with pain I couldn’t outrun, the kind that rearranged my life like a careless mover dropping boxes labeled fragile and walking away.

Fibromyalgia didn’t ask permission. It barreled into my life, knocked over the furniture, and rewired everything. The fatigue, the brain fog, the chronic pain, the grief for the version of myself I used to recognize in the mirror.

Somewhere in all of that, I lost my voice. Not my literal voice, the identity one. The one that used to tell me I was capable, strong, and okay.

I couldn’t hear her anymore. So I decided to write. Not because I felt wise, but because I felt alone.

For a long time, I didn’t think my story mattered. I thought, who would want to hear about the woman who’s exhausted by breakfast, who cries over stairs, who jokes through pain because it’s easier than explaining it for the hundredth time.

Then I realized something important, my story wasn’t the problem. Hiding it was. Every time I shared a piece of the truth, the messy middle, the ugly days, the fragile moments, someone whispered back“ Me too”.

That’s when I understood. I wasn’t writing because I had everything figured out. I was writing because I needed to feel less alone.

So I created this space, “This Fibro Chick”. Raw does not scare me here. Honesty is the whole point. This is a place where pain isn’t turned into inspiration porn, it’s turned into human connection. A place where we talk about survival, healing, identity, and the weird, hilarious, heartbreaking world of living in a body that refuses to follow the normal operating manual.

My biggest failure was thinking I had to go through all of this quietly.

For years, I treated my pain like a secret. I minimized it, I masked it and I overworked to prove nothing was wrong. Until everything was wrong.

My biggest failure wasn’t getting sick. It was pretending I wasn’t. It was letting shame shrink me. It was believing people only wanted the shiny version of me, not the real one. Pain has a way of becoming a teacher with a megaphone. It cracks you open in places you didn’t know were sealed. It scrapes away the layers you were hiding behind.

And in those cracks, I found something I didn’t expect,

A voice.

My voice.

Not the old one, the new one. She understands survival. She knows softness is strength. She refuses to disappear again.

This is why I’m here. This is why I write. I write because I want to help people who feel lost, tired, overwhelmed, or unseen. I write because pain taught me things I never learned from books, doctors, or Google at three in the morning. I write because connection is medicine. I write because my story, the messy, unfiltered one, is the most valuable thing I have to offer.

And if someone spends an hour reading through my Substack, I want them to walk away thinking, I get her. I trust her. I feel understood.

Because that’s how community starts.

That’s how people decide to stick around.

That’s how a stranger becomes more than a stranger.

The truth, anyone can write tips but only I can tell this story. And only you can tell your story.

So here I am, showing you the real me, the imperfect one, the human one.

Maybe it connects. Maybe it resonates. Maybe you see a piece of yourself in this letter.

If you do, then welcome. You’re not a stranger anymore.

If you made it this far, thank you.

Thank you for reading my story, for sitting with my truth, and for letting me sit with yours.

If this letter resonated, if it made you feel seen, less alone, or a little more understood, leave a comment, tap the ❤️, or share it with someone who might need it. Every click, comment, and share helps this little corner of the internet grow into a real community where no one feels invisible.

And if you want more letters like this, raw, honest, human, subscribe so you never miss the next one.

Here’s to turning strangers into something more.