Redefining Strength in My Life With POTS

I used to think that strength meant putting on a brave face, holding back tears, and saying “I’m OK” or “hanging in there” when I wasn’t. As my relationship with my chronic illness has developed, my definition of strength has evolved too.

There are many seemingly endless nights that I lie awake willing the pain to go away, quiet tears streaming down my cheeks. I listen to my husband’s snoring and observe my dog spilling out of his bed, envious of their ability to end the day of their own accord and go to sleep. Books, podcasts, playlists, meditation apps, and my journal are my companions as the rest of the world sleeps.

Many days and nights, I commune with my bathroom floor, laying on the cold tile, collapsed, sad, and defeated, whispering to no one in particular that I can’t keep doing this anymore – the pain, agony, and uncertainty are just too much to bear. And yet I scrape myself off the floor, drag my feet back to bed, eyes swollen, heart heavy, but ready to try again all the same.

I’ve realized that strength and perseverance aren’t about bottling up my emotions or hiding them, but rather having the courage to let myself be seen. It means calling a friend who will sit with me in discomfort and pain. It looks like finding a therapist and saying, “I need help. I want to stay here, but I don’t know how.” And mostly, it looks like breaking and shattering over and over again and still having the courage to start another day again. It’s saying I am here. I am worthy. I am whole. I know that I am strong because I refuse to give up. I am still here.