'I'm Still Here' (Trigger Warning - It's okay to skip this one...)

Even When I’m Tired of Being Strong

I stopped writing for a while—not because I ran out of words, but because my battle got heavier than my voice. What began as a space to celebrate people I loved, respected, and admired slowly became harder to show up for as my health placed limits on everything I was reaching toward. Chronic illness isn’t something I would have chosen or wished on anyone, yet it has quietly reshaped my body, my career, and my sense of self. I spent years believing that if I had enough faith, worked hard enough, masked the pain, and showed up for everyone else, maybe I’d outrun it—or get over it. The “maybe” I wasn’t prepared for was this: maybe it could get worse, maybe I needed to slow down, and maybe the life I was trying to force no longer fit the body I was given. This spoken word is what came out when I finally stopped running from that truth…

So, If you’ve got about 4 minutes to listen… or three minutes to read…welcome to my honesty.

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I don’t talk about it much.
Not because it doesn’t hurt—
but because pain learns quickly
which rooms are safe
and which ones would rather not know.

I thug it out.
I always have.
Not because I’m brave,
but because stopping was never offered to me.

They say,
“God gives His toughest battles to His strongest warriors.”

But I don’t want to be a warrior anymore.
I’m okay with sitting this one down.
I’m tired of armor.
Tired of waking up already in a fight
I didn’t sign up for.

This body—
this body is a daily conversation.

Pain that doesn’t warn me.
Fatigue that settles in without permission.
An immune system that forgot
who it was meant to protect.

People say,
“Well… it could be worse.”

And I know what they mean.

It could be cancer.
And cancer is terrifying—
but cancer has a name.
A cause.
A treatment plan.
A scan you can point to and say,
“There. That’s the enemy.”

Cancer can be fought.
Measured.
Placed into remission.

Mine is invisible.
Unexplained.
Unpredictable.

There’s no clear beginning,
no clean diagnosis,
no finish line.

Just pain that doesn’t show up on tests.
Just exhaustion that can’t be quantified.
Just a body that looks fine
while screaming on the inside.

So I keep adjusting.
Listening.
Trying what they say might help.

I change the way I eat,
not for control,
not for trends,
but because hope makes you try
even when certainty doesn’t exist.

I’m not trying to be difficult.
I’m trying to survive something
people can’t see
and can’t imagine
until it’s living inside them.

And while I’m doing all of this…
I’m raising children.

Children who need presence more than explanations.
Comfort more than consistency.
A mother who keeps showing up
even when her body is asking her to stop.

Some days I mourn the life I planned.
The career I worked toward.
The version of me that didn’t have to measure pain
before making a promise.

I grieve her quietly.
Because grief for a life that didn’t end—
it just changed—
makes people uncomfortable.

I had visions that didn’t survive this diagnosis.
Goals that required a body
I could rely on.

So now I’m learning how to dream again.
Different.
Slower.
Trying to find new vision,
new passion,
new purpose
inside limitation.

And yes—
my faith gets shaken.

Because tell me why a good God
hands out battles without instructions.
Tell me why healing stories skip over me.
Tell me why belief doesn’t quiet the pain.

I still pray—
but some prayers sound more like questions now.

Why me?
What am I supposed to learn from this?
Why does strength feel like punishment?

They say doubt is weakness—
but doubt is just faith
that’s exhausted.

Jesus rested.
Jesus wept.
Jesus asked for the cup to pass.

So I’m not wrong for wanting relief.
I’m not broken for being tired.

I don’t want to be strong anymore.
I want to be honest.

I’m learning to release the life I wanted
without resenting the life I’ve been given.

Some days survival is worship.
Rest is obedience.
And staying is an act of faith.

I am not difficult.
I am not lazy.
I am not complaining.

I am surviving—
an invisible, unexplainable,
unimaginable battle.

And I’m still here,
even when being strong
costs more than I have.