What Chronic Illness Taught Me About the Body I Spent Years Criticizing
· Vice
For as long as I can remember—and as much as I hate to admit it—I’ve placed more value in my appearance than I have in my health. I believed that I must “earn” most of my human needs: rest, food, pleasure, love.
And, as if it were responding to my inner critic’s constant bullying, my body rebelled. Or rather, it started to reject itself the same way I rejected it, developing an autoimmune disease, a rare allergy to its own hormones, and a host of other health conditions that I’m still sorting through.
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This year has been one of the most challenging years for me health-wise. Not only am I grieving the rites of passage my illness has stolen from me, but I am also unable to do the things I love the most. At least, not to the same extent.
Leisurely morning walks feel more like trekking up a mountain carrying sandbags. Slow strength training sessions have my heart rate spiking dangerously high. Writing my fiction book has been nearly impossible with the disorienting brain fog. Spending time with friends is accompanied by flu-like body aches and profound exhaustion. Reading in bed feels more like a chore than a cozy hobby.
Suddenly, all the things that once brought me joy feel more inaccessible by the day.
But amidst all of this, I find myself surrendering—for once—to my body and its needs. I simply have no other choice. And in doing so, I’m realizing just how much I’ve previously thrived on superficial accomplishments (e.g., glowing skin, a thin body, etc.) and my sense of control over them. Now, plagued by exhaustion, riddled with inflammation, and covered in hives for half the month, I’m paying the price of self-neglect.
Body Image and Chronic Illness
When you’re diagnosed with a chronic illness that limits your physical abilities and sometimes even hijacks your mental health, finding your footing can feel impossible at times. My sense of control—the driving force behind my sanity—has completely gone out the window. I can’t always predict when I’ll experience a flare, can’t force creativity and productivity on the low-energy days, can’t push my body through a workout when my legs are quite literally giving out on me.
Instead of accepting these episodes as part of chronic illness management, I tend to view them as personal failures. As my body is actively fighting against itself, I chime right in, adding fuel to the fire by labeling myself as weak, lazy, unattractive…When I look in the mirror, I see a shell of the woman I was years ago—that vibrant, active girl is nowhere to be found, and I mourn her as much as I mourn the confidence she once had.
Now, I can only speak for women when I say we have ridiculous, unrealistic standards put on us from day 1. But I suspect every single human can relate to never measuring up to society’s expectations. I used to combat these feelings of inadequacy by simply doing more. More work. More exercise. More dieting. More skincare. More journaling. More affirmations.
What I didn’t realize was that, in the absence of my carefully curated, extensive routine, I was still incredibly fragile. At the core of it all, I believed I wasn’t enough. And soon, my body believed it, too—and it stopped performing the way I wanted it to. It stopped carrying me with strength and resilience.
All I see when I look in the mirror are flaws: Textured skin from my inflammatory condition. Weak muscles that quiver during the mildest of exercise. I even shame the evidence of laughter on my face as an unwelcome sign of aging.
And while I know—deep down—that none of this paints me as unworthy, it’s still difficult to fight the intrusive thoughts.
Reclaiming My Identity
I am a woman who preaches self-love, the beauty of growing older, the insignificance of our physical attributes. And yet, at times, my thoughts directly contradict these very notions, as if my external shell is all I am—all I can offer the world around me.
When this occurs, I feel ashamed of my lack of confidence, of the insecurity that makes me into someone who isn’t always fun to be around. It’s a sick sort of spiral that only keeps me small.
I try to be careful not to play victim in my own life. Victimhood makes us powerless. And while I can’t exactly control my body’s illness or the symptoms it produces, I can control my reaction to them. I do have power over my choices, opinions, values, and morals. I get to decide whether I fight my body when it’s already depleted, or whether I accept, love, and nurture it—the way it deserves.
Today, instead of wallowing in self-doubt, I chose to write this article—no matter how vulnerable and exposing it might feel. That, in and of itself, is an empowered choice. It’s a reclamation of my identity as a writer, someone who sheds light on the dark, seemingly “ugly” parts of ourselves we wish to ignore. And it’s a reminder that I am still here; I am still me, even when I’m tired, even when I’m feeling insecure, even when I’m struggling.
And I, like everyone else in this world, am still worthy.
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