Every once in a while, it sneaks up on me when I’m doing something ordinary: reading, writing a story, making a list, thinking about what needs to get done that day. Then suddenly it hits me that not so long ago, this same moment would have been effortless. I wouldn’t have planned it. I wouldn’t have had to pace myself. I wouldn’t have wondered whether I’d still be functional tomorrow.
What’s strange is how normal this life feels now. I’ve adapted. I’ve learned workarounds. I’ve adjusted expectations so gradually that over time, I’ve barely noticed them changing. Because of that, it can be hard to remember just how much has been lost.
I remember being able to do a full day’s work and still having energy left. I remember thinking clearly without effort. When I wanted to be social or go out to eat, I didn’t need to calculate the cost – both physical and financial. For the most part, I could trust my body and my brain to show up when I needed them.
I don’t dwell there often; you can’t survive if you do. But sometimes I miss that version of myself; not with bitterness, just with a quiet ache. And it’s not because this life has no value, but because it took so much adapting that the contrast only becomes clear in moments of stillness.
And then I take a breath, smile, and keep going, because this is the life in front of me now. Then I settle back into the quiet rhythm of the day and I’m glad to be alive.
For more reflective writing by Jan Mariet, try Living with Invisible Losses: Finding Meaning in Chronic Illness – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life
When the Table Was Full – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life or
When the Storm Changes You – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life.