I used to be a high-energy workhorse—the kind of person who worked 80-hour weeks, volunteered on weekends, and never slowed down. I was raised to push through and get things done. Giving up was never an option. I grew up believing in the mantra: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”
I wore that belief like a badge of honor. I thought it meant I had a strong work ethic, that I was dependable, resilient, and capable. I didn’t realize until much later what I now see so clearly: that underneath all that determination was a quiet desperation to prove my worth; to show the world—and myself—that I was “good enough” despite my disability and chronic pain.
In my relentless effort to keep up, to exceed expectations, to prove I wasn’t defined by my limitations, I ignored what my body had been telling me all along. The pain wasn’t a test to overcome—it was a message. My body was asking for rest, for recovery, for compassion. But I had been taught that yielding to pain meant weakness. I believed that slowing down meant failure, and I refused to fail.
Looking back, I wish I had known how much damage I was doing. I didn’t feel like I could ease up or give less than 200%, because somewhere deep inside, I believed that if I did, it would prove what I feared most—that I wasn’t enough. I saw my limitations as personal failings, not medical realities. I thought if I just tried harder, I could overcome anything. But that belief was dangerous. I shudder to think how many times it nearly broke me completely. No one can survive under that kind of relentless pressure. It was an expectation no human—especially one living with a painful progressive disability—could ever meet.
Eventually, my body couldn’t take it anymore. The act collapsed. I couldn’t keep up the performance anymore.
The pain became unbearable, and the cost of ignoring it caught up with me. One day, I simply couldn’t get up. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t move. The pain was crushing, and my body—at last—forced me to stop.
Over time, a lifetime of medical trauma, surgeries, and chronic conditions have changed the way I function—not just physically, but neurologically. I now live with a highly sensitive nervous system, and a digestive system that responds to even mild stress with dramatic, debilitating symptoms. This is the new reality I’ve had to learn to navigate.
When Sound Feels Like a Threat: Living with a Sensitized Startle Reflex
Sudden sounds—doors slamming, a dog barking, a loud truck or motorcycle passing, a dropped pan—don’t just make me flinch. They jolt through me like a shockwave, sending my heart racing and leaving me shaking long after the noise fades. This is more than being sensitive or anxious. It’s the result of something called central sensitization, a condition where the nervous system becomes overly reactive after years of chronic illness, pain, and physical trauma.
This hyper-vigilance can also stem from medical trauma. Long hospital stays, being hooked up to medical pumps and machines, cancer treatments, and multiple surgeries leave marks not just on the body, but on the nervous system. My body has been conditioned to stay on high alert—like it’s bracing for the next threat. My body is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
After a loud or unexpected noise, it takes a long time for my body to come down from the ‘fight-or-flight’ response. Others may think I am being dramatic or over-reacting, but even once I realize there’s no real danger, the adrenaline rush, rapid heartbeat, and stressed breathing continue as if I’m still under threat. It’s as if my body can’t turn off the alarm—it reacts like I’m in a life-or-death situation, even when I’m clearly not.
Balance challenges and mobility issues further feed into this sensitivity. When your footing is unsteady, loud surprises don’t just scare you—they feel dangerous. They make me feel terrified that I will fall. My startle reflex is my body’s way of trying to protect me, even when there’s no real danger.
The Gut’s Breaking Point: How Stress Triggers Debilitating Symptoms
As someone living with Short Bowel Syndrome (SBS) and severe radiation damage to my digestive system, stress doesn’t just make me uncomfortable—it completely incapacitates me. A difficult conversation, an angry confrontation, a tight deadline, or even a minor conflict can trigger days of intense symptoms: relentless diarrhea, painful bloating, cramping that makes it hard to stand upright, and overwhelming abdominal pain. These aren’t just inconvenient flare-ups—they’re completely disabling.
To make matters worse, the physical toll often leaves me unable to leave home. When your body is in that state—unable to manage basic function, doubled over in pain, wearing oversized clothes to accommodate severe abdominal distension and flatulence—being out in public simply isn’t possible. The risk of an embarrassing or uncontrollable episode forces me into isolation, not by choice, but by necessity.
Because I lack much of my small intestine and bowel, my ability to absorb nutrients, regulate fluids, or process bile acids is fragile at best. Add stress into the mix, and it becomes nearly impossible. I experience gastric dumping, bile acid malabsorption, and intestinal bloating so severe that it causes visible abdominal distension—often forcing me to change into larger, looser clothing and limiting where I can comfortably go in public. This isn’t something I can “power through.” This is my body’s non-negotiable limit.
Why I Can’t Work Anymore—and Why That Doesn’t Mean I’ve Given Up
Multiple doctors have told me plainly: you cannot return to work. The stress would endanger my health, unravel my digestion, and leave me in medical crisis. As someone who used to find meaning and value in being busy, this has been a profound shift. But it’s not failure—it’s adaptation.
I’m not ‘giving up’—I’m honoring my body’s limits. I’m not who I was years ago, and that’s okay. The same strength that helped me push through years of work and illness now shows up in how I protect myself from what will harm me. Rest isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom. Survival is strength.
My job now is healing, managing a full-time internal ecosystem, and finding joy within limitations. And that’s a career of its own kind—one that demands endurance, patience, and resilience.
No matter how carefully I manage my health and lifestyle, there are still moments when something unexpected triggers a new medical crisis. It’s incredibly frustrating. I find myself getting angry, blaming myself for not seeing it coming—like I should’ve somehow predicted and prevented it.
But the truth is, I can’t avoid the unavoidable. I can’t plan for every possibility. My body no longer has the resilience to ‘roll with the punches,’ and I’m learning to offer myself grace instead of guilt. This is still an area I struggle with. I tend to expect myself to find solutions and fix problems—even when doing so isn’t entirely possible or reasonable. Letting go of that instinct is hard.
Final Thoughts
People may not understand why I’ve stepped away from traditional work, but that’s okay. The truth is, even minor stressors can trigger a medical crisis for me—one that may result in days to weeks of debilitating symptoms, medical intervention, or even hospitalization. This isn’t a matter of choice or preference—it’s a matter of protecting my health and staying out of medical crises. I’m learning how to live fully within those limits, and that takes strength of a different kind. I didn’t quit—I adapted. And that, in itself, is its own kind of triumph.
I think many people can relate to what you are saying. I really appreciate your candor.
Thanks for commenting, Maureen. I knew you, of all people, would understand.