A Conversation with Illness
In the summer of 2023, my life changed overnight. On a scorching July weekend, an uninvited visitor arrived with an illness called GERD, gastroesophageal reflux disease. It wasn't just heartburn. It was a burning pressure deep in my chest, a tightness in my throat, and a discomfort that refused to ease. And it has never truly gone away.
GERD didn't just interrupt my life; it reshaped it, changing how I ate, slept, moved, and even breathed. Speaking too much could trigger flare-ups, turning simple conversations into quiet struggles. The pain came in waves, sometimes dull, other times sharp and relentless. But perhaps the most challenging part was how silent it was to everyone else. My appearance reflected health and strength, but the discomfort lived beneath the surface, unseen and unheard by those around me.
At first, I did what many of us do when faced with pain: I fought it. I tried everything: prescriptions, elimination diets, holistic remedies, herbal protocols, and deep spiritual work. I was determined to fix it, to conquer it. But the more I tried to force healing, the more my symptoms raged. Through that perseverance, I realized something important: illness wasn't here to fight me - it was here to speak to me.
This shift in perspective changed everything. I began to soften. I stopped pushing and started listening. I stopped demanding answers and started asking gentler questions. "What are you trying to tell me?" "What do you need from me today?" It didn't make the discomfort disappear, but it began to transform how I lived with it.
Now, GERD is still a part of my life, but not in the same way. I no longer see it as a punishment. I see it as a teacher, a quiet companion that calls me back to slowness and presence. It asks me to examine how I nourish myself with food, rest, boundaries, breath, and honesty.
I've had to release the fantasy of being "cured" and instead step into a more sustainable form of healing, one rooted in relationship rather than resistance. I'm learning to live with my body, not against it, to be responsive, not reactive, and to meet myself in the moment I'm in. It's not easy, and some days are still quite challenging, but there is something sacred in this surrender. There is wisdom in slowing down and listening. In this quiet space, I've found something essential to my healing: writing. It became more than just a reflection; it became a doorway. A place where I could begin shaping the thoughts and truths that eventually grew into my book, Don't Chase Your Dreams, Allow Them to Come to You.
Writing has become my refuge, a place to exhale when my chest burns, and my throat feels tight. It's my way of speaking without forcing sound, like sitting beside a trusted friend who doesn't need me to talk out loud. My illness doesn't define me. What defines me is how I grow through it with tenderness, courage, and compassion. I've found strength in softness, power in presence, and beauty in choosing myself, even when it's hard. This isn't the end of my story; it's the beginning of a new way of being that honours my limits, listens to my body, and trusts the unfolding of healing.
If you're living with something chronic or unseen, know this: you are not alone. Healing isn't about returning to who you once were; it's about growing into someone more rooted and true to your authentic self. Ask yourself gently, "What do I need right now?" and listen with kindness, not pressure. Trust the unfolding of your life, even if it looks nothing like you imagined. It may be leading you somewhere unexpectedly tender and full of wonder.
