Month: June 2026

Some people believe that you become what you focus on. In some ways, that may be true, but in others, it falls far short of reality. If you focus only on pain, you can miss the small moments of joy that arrive quietly and without warning: a message from a friend, the feeling of sunshine through a window, a day when your body grants you an hour of peace. Yet if you ignore the pain completely, there is no honesty in your life, and no guiding light to help you find your way through the fog.

I fight so hard, battling insurance companies, following up with doctors, searching for answers through research and experience, and sometimes walking paths I’ve never walked before, for one simple reason: beneath all the pain, I profoundly want to live, and I profoundly want a joyful life. I am not afraid of death, but I understand a deep poetic truth that many people overlook: I can still see the sunshine, even on the days when I can no longer feel its warmth.

Perhaps that’s the part people don’t understand. Surviving this much suffering while still clawing toward a future, while still dreaming, still creating, still asking your body to hold on for one more chance, is its own kind of proof that a meaningful, happy life isn’t the impossibility we sometimes imagine. Joy doesn’t always arrive as a grand triumph over suffering. Sometimes it exists quietly, in the spaces between pain and soft smiles, in the stubborn refusal to stop hoping, and in the enduring belief that there is still something beautiful waiting just ahead.

I have so much optimism about the future, but don’t be deceived; there is no place for toxic positivity in my life. When three days out of five are difficult, and two days out of ten are downright awful, it can be hard to keep focusing on the scattered days that are beautiful, or happy, or simply fun.

Most of the time, it’s better not to think in terms of days, but in terms of hours, or sometimes, just in terms of minutes. You can find joy in so many small places. When you are living with chronic pain or disability, those moments of joy often have to be enough to carry you through.

Yes, of course, it’s alright to be down sometimes; just don’t stay there too long if you can help it.

Stop looking for grand experiences, fabulous vacations, family reunions, or any number of bucket-list moments. Learn instead to cherish the flower you never thought would bloom, the savage rainstorm after a long summer’s drought, or waving to a neighbor you haven’t seen in a while. A happy life isn’t made up of grand gestures. It’s made up of small, hesitant moments that will pass you by if you aren’t quick enough to notice them.

People often talk about how frightening it is to receive a cancer diagnosis, to become disabled, or to learn that a chronic illness will be part of your life forever.  What they talk about far less is what happens when you face those things alone.

When you’re single, childfree, widowed, or have simply outlived the people who once formed your safety net, every medical crisis carries an extra layer of fear. You aren’t just worrying about the illness itself. You are also worrying about logistics, finances, transportation, paperwork, and a hundred other practical concerns that healthy people rarely think about.

Who will drive you home after surgery?  Who will sit with you in the emergency room when you’re scared and exhausted? Who will advocate for you if you’re too sick to speak for yourself? Who will pick up your medications, walk the dog, bring in the mail, or help you get dressed if you suddenly cannot do those things on your own?

When you live alone, there is no one automatically stepping into those roles.  And if you think your insurance will cover hiring a home health aide, you are sorely mistaken.

Every worsening symptom forces you to make calculations that other people never have to make. How sick am I? Can I safely wait until morning? If I go to the hospital, who will take care of everything at home? If I lose more mobility, how will I manage? If I need help, who can I realistically call?

Many people assume that being independent means you are never lonely or afraid. The truth is that independence often exists because there is no alternative. You learn to handle things yourself because you must. You become your own caregiver, advocate, researcher, scheduler, chauffeur, record keeper, and emergency contact.

And perhaps the hardest part is that these concerns don’t appear only during major crises. They live quietly in the background every day. Every new diagnosis, every worsening symptom, every medical test carries the unspoken question: “What happens if I can’t do this alone anymore?”

That question can be far more frightening than the illness itself.

Yet people who face these challenges alone develop a kind of strength that is rarely recognized. They continue showing up to appointments, making difficult decisions, managing their homes, and solving problems despite carrying burdens that are largely invisible to everyone around them.

It isn’t that they aren’t afraid. It’s that they keep moving forward anyway.

People often admire those who face illness and disability alone. They call us strong, independent, resilient, and brave. What they don’t understand is that strength doesn’t solve everything.

There may come a day when the illness progresses, the disability worsens, the cancer returns, or age simply catches up. A day when managing alone is no longer possible.  Then what?

Do you enter a nursing home years before you ever imagined you would need one? Do you hire strangers from online listings and hope they are trustworthy, competent, and willing to show up when promised? Do you end up hospitalized because there is no safe way to manage at home, even though hospitalization isn’t truly what you need?

What happens when you can’t cook your meals, pick up your prescriptions, get to your appointments, manage your finances, or advocate for yourself? What happens when the money runs out? What happens when there is no spouse, no adult child, no sibling, and no close family member waiting in the wings to step in?

Those are the questions many people living alone with serious illness carry every day, not because we are pessimists or because we have given up, but because we are forced to think about realities that others can afford to ignore. For some of us, the greatest fear is not the disease or disability itself. It is the uncertainty of what happens if our health declines to the point that we can no longer manage alone, and the frightening possibility that when that day comes, there may be no one there to help us navigate it.