Yesterday, I learned a lesson I’ve already learned a hundred times. I had a medical appointment in a hospital, and because I’d been feeling pretty good lately, I decided not to use my wheelchair.

My Skyrizi treatment was only a few weeks ago, and this is usually the window when I feel my best. So I could handle the walking.

I was wrong. There was much more walking than I expected, and by the time I was heading back to the car, I could feel my body slowing down.

Then I hit the wall—that concrete-wall kind of fatigue. My legs felt like bricks were strapped to them. My arms felt heavy. Pain I hadn’t felt in a while started coming back.

And sitting in the car on the way home, I could feel the crash happening.

My first reaction was frustration with myself: Haven’t I learned this lesson yet? But God does not respond to my limitations with disgust or disappointment. He remembers that I am dust—and He meets me with compassion. Psalm 103:13–14 says, “As a father has compassion on His children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear Him; for He knows how we are formed, He remembers that we are dust.” 

There is a lesson I keep having to relearn here: I don’t use my wheelchair only because of what I can or cannot do in that exact moment.

Sometimes I use it because I know what walking today might cost me tomorrow.

Sometimes mobility aids are preventative care. They help me conserve energy, manage pain, avoid falls, reduce symptoms, and hopefully prevent the kind of crash I’m in today.

By last night, I could barely get off the couch independently. I was using both of my forearm crutches—something I haven’t needed to do since last year. My husband had to help me with some self-care tasks. 

In less than 12 hours, my level of functioning changed dramatically. That is what dynamic disability can look like. And even though I’ve lived in this body for years, it still surprises me.

There was a time before treatment when I lived in a crash almost constantly. I didn’t have the luxury of forgetting I was sick. So strangely, I’m grateful for the days when I feel well enough to forget.

But those good days can also make the crashes harder emotionally, because now I know what it feels like to have some of my function back.

Today I’m barely walking around my apartment without significant pain and fatigue. I may end up using my wheelchair inside this tiny apartment, and that comes with its own challenges. My weakness is not a place where God becomes absent. Scripture tells me that His power is made perfect there. 2 Corinthians 12:9–10 says, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

I had to remind myself today that a crash does not erase my progress. Needing my chair today does not mean I have failed. Needing two crutches does not mean I am back at square one.

And misjudging what my body could tolerate yesterday does not mean I need to punish myself today. I am still learning how to live in a body whose needs can change dramatically from one day—or one hour—to the next.

And in the middle of all of it, I am incredibly grateful that Jesus has never left me. I feel His presence so powerfully in my weakness.

My husband and I begin facilitating a marriage ministry this Sunday, and I am very aware of the temptation to believe that this crash means I am incapable, useless, or unable to serve. 

I refuse to believe that. The kingdom of God does not measure usefulness the way our culture does. Scripture even describes the parts of the body that seem weaker as “indispensable.” 1 Corinthians 12:21–22 says, “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I don’t need you!’ … those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable.” In this verse, Paul directly challenges the idea that apparent weakness equals lack of value in the Body of Christ.

So I’m saying this out loud today: You are not succeeding, Satan. Pain cannot separate me from Christ. Disability cannot separate me from Christ. Weakness cannot separate me from Christ. I am still His. Romans 8:38–39 says, Nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

And whether I walk into that ministry, roll into it, or need help getting through the doors, my calling has not changed. My method of getting through the door may change. My identity and purpose in Christ do not. Ephesians 2:10 says, “For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works…” I will point out that NOTHING in Ephesians 2:10 says the good works God prepares for us require nondisabled bodies.

If you’re in a chronic illness crash or are feeling significant emotional/physical pain today too, please hear this:

Your accommodations are not evidence that you have failed. Your mobility aids are not a defeat. Rest is not something you have to earn. And needing more help today does not erase all the progress you made yesterday. Jesus does not tell the weary to prove themselves before they may rest. He says, “Come to Me” in Matthew 11:28. 

Some days I can carry more. Some days I need to be carried. But through every version of my body, God says, “I will sustain you, and I will carry you” (Isaiah 46:4). Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is believe our bodies when they tell us what they need—and receive care without shame.

Hello everyone! For Psoriatic Arthritis (PsA) Action Month through the National Psoriasis Foundation, I’ll be sharing my journey, as well as parts of PsA that people never see: pain in multiple parts of the body, daily limitations, prescription step therapy, medication denials, prior authorizations, and the emotional weight of fighting for access to care while already sick.

Stay tuned for my PsA themed articles and notes during May!

• This Is PsA: The Pain, the Paperwork, and the Fight to Access Treatment

• Psoriatic Arthritis Is More Than Joint Pain — It’s a Full-Time Fight for Care

• The Hidden Burden of PsA: Insurance Denials, Prior Authorizations, and Treatment Delays

• When Chronic Illness Makes You a Patient and a Case Manager

• PsA Action Month: What I Wish People Understood About Treatment Access

P.S. — Depending on my energy/pain levels, I may not be able to return to my posts about Job/suffering until June. Thanks for your understanding! :)

We often move quickly through Easter. We hurry from the suffering of the cross to the hopeful resurrection. But the followers of Jesus did not live the story that way. They had watched Jesus die, seen His body taken down from the cross, and the stone rolled into place. “Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joseph saw where He was laid” (Mark 15:47). These two women knew exactly where the body of Jesus rested. And then came the Sabbath. I have often wondered what Saturday felt like for them. What did it feel like to wake up in a world where Jesus was dead? What did it feel like to hold His promises in one hand and their grief in the other?

We know the resurrection is coming, but they did not. The women and His disciples were lost in a terrible stillness that follows devastation. As I read the Easter story this weekend, that terrible stillness feels painfully familiar. I pray, seek help, adjust my life, and do what I can. Yet, there are still seasons when nothing seems to move, and the future feels uncertain. I find myself living in the space between what I asked God to do and what my life still looks like now.

When Jesus Delays

Holy Saturday reminds me that there are moments in the life of faith when grief is real, and clarity is nowhere to be found. That same tension runs through John 11. In John 11, Jesus’ beloved friend, Lazarus, is sick, and his sisters send word to Jesus: “Lord, he whom you love is ill” (John 11:3). They know Jesus cares and could change the situation. But, Jesus responds unexpectedly:

“When He heard that Lazarus was ill, He stayed two days longer in the place where He was” (John 11:6).

He could have told his disciples right then, “My beloved friend is sick, and we need to leave now to go see him,” but He stayed. Have you ever begged God to intervene, only to watch the situation worsen? My journey of chronic illness and disability reflects that grief. By the time Jesus arrives, Lazarus has died. Martha meets Him with these wounded words:

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21).

Mary says the same thing a few verses later (John 11:32). These words are grief laid bare before God, and the women weren’t wrong in saying them. Many people living with chronic illness and disability know what it is to bring similarly unvarnished words to God: “Lord, if You had answered sooner, maybe this would look different. If You had intervened, maybe this loss would not feel so deep. Lord, I know You love me, but I do not understand why You’ve delayed.” Faithful people who follow Him can ask those questions (see my Substack series on the book of Job!). The Bible is full of them. “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” the psalmist cries (Psalm 13:1). Lament is not the opposite of faith but faith refusing to let go.

One reason that these passages matter so much to those of us with chronic illness and disability is that they take place in unresolved lives. Our lives often consist of the quiet accumulation of limitations, treatments, and adjustments. Every day, we have to negotiate with our bodies, which probably won’t cooperate with our plans. We grieve the process of living a life that we did not ask for. Romans 8:23 speaks directly into that tension:

“Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies.”

He promises redemption daily, but it is not yet complete until He returns. We carry the firstfruits of hope while still inhabiting bodies that groan, and it is spiritually exhausting. There is a particular weariness that comes from trusting God while also living with ongoing limitation. You may:

• believe deeply in His goodness and still feel tired of hurting

• may know He is faithful and still mourn the life you expected to have

• may love Him and still find yourself asking hard questions in the dark

None of that disqualifies you from faith. It places you in the company of people like Martha, Mary, and the disciples on Saturday.

What Jesus Does in Grief

One of the most beautiful things about John 11 is that Jesus does not rush past sorrow, even though He knows resurrection is coming. He sees Mary weeping and is overwhelmed by grief. John gives us the shortest, and perhaps one of the most tender, verses in all of Scripture:

“Jesus wept.” (John 11:35).

He entered the pain of the moment before He transformed it. Jesus does not treat grief as an obstacle to overcome quickly or shame Lazarus’ mourners for not being more hopeful. The silence of Holy Saturday means that God’s work is sometimes hidden. His disciples could yet see resurrection, but God was still at work in the place that looked most hopeless. Suffering often makes us interpret silence as abandonment. If healing has not come or change is slow, we may begin to wonder whether God has stepped back. But these stories tell us otherwise. The tomb is not proof that God has stopped working.

Spoiler alert! Both of these stories end in LIFE. Lazarus comes out of the tomb. Jesus rises on the third day. But the power of these passages is not only in their endings but also in what they show us about God in the middle. Jesus was present before the resolution, not frightened by grief, and remains Lord when the stone is still in place. Scripture does not promise that every suffering will be lifted on our preferred timeline. Many believers live and die in bodies marked by illness or disability. Many of us may continue to live lives structured around pain and limitation. Easter does not erase that reality but offers us assurance that suffering is not sovereign. Jesus is. The resurrection tells us that death itself will not have the final word. We are still waiting for the redemption of our bodies, but are held by the One who has already conquered death.

If Easter Finds You Here

Perhaps this Easter, you feel closer to the disciples on Saturday than to the women at the empty tomb. If so, you are still held in the hands of our Lord God Almighty. The same Jesus who lay in the silence of Saturday and stepped out of the grave on Easter morning is with you now. If that is where you find yourself this Easter, then I invite you not to force joy that feels out of reach but simply remain in His presence. Your “in-between season” is not empty because He is with you. And even here, especially here, Jesus remains what He declared Himself to be:

“I Am the Resurrection and the Life” (John 11:25).

Lord Jesus,

Thank You for being present not only in resurrection joy, but also in grief, delay, and silence. Thank You for meeting Your people in places that feel unresolved. For those of us living with chronic illness, disability, pain, and unanswered questions, draw near. When we do not understand Your timing, keep us rooted in Your love. When our bodies feel heavy, and our hope feels thin, remind us that You are still at work. Teach us to trust You in the middle, and hold us steady until the day when all things are made new.

Amen.

On April Fools’ Day, most jokes confuse us for a second and maybe even make us laugh. But for people living with chronic illness or disability, some of the most absurd things we hear are not jokes at all. They are real comments and often come at the exact moment we most need compassion:

• “You’re too young to be this sick.”

• “But you don’t look sick.”

• “Have you tried drinking more water?”

• “Maybe it’s just stress.”

• “You were fine yesterday.”

• “Everybody gets tired.”

• “At least it’s not that bad.”

These statements are so common that chronically ill people can recite them from memory. I’ve heard them from strangers, coworkers, family, friends, and even doctors. Some people genuinely think they are being helpful when they say any of the above statements. Others simply do not know what to say and fill the silence with an explanation that feels easiest to them. But when you are the person living inside a chronically ill body, those comments are focused more on someone else’s comfort instead of your reality.

One of the hardest parts of living with chronic illness is that so much of it can be difficult to explain. Energy levels, symptoms, pain, and capacity change often. All of these things can change daily, hourly, or even minute-by-minute. I can “look fine” one day and be in bed the next. I can smile through a conversation while silently calculating how much longer I can remain functional. I understand how this inconsistency can be confusing to someone on the outside. To me, who is actually living it? It is simply life.

That is why comments like, “But you were fine yesterday,” cut so deeply. They reveal how little people understand about what it means to live in an unpredictable body. Unfortunately, I’ve become an expert at seeming okay for short periods. I’ve learned how to answer questions lightly, conserve energy in public, and mask distress because people often respond better to composure than honesty. Ironically, that same survival skill has been used against me as “proof” that I am not struggling at all.

For twelve years, I’ve felt a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being sick. It is the exhaustion of anticipating others’ disbelief before I even speak. Other times, people offer oversimplified advice, a quick fix, or a cheerful suggestion that ignores the complexity of my conditions. What’s worse is that people sometimes assume that my symptoms are self-created. At this point, you might be thinking, “Big deal. Just ignore people’s comments.” I will do my best to do so. But it is often not that easy because these comments make me question my own experiences.

When others repeatedly act as though my symptoms are not that serious, I sometimes begin to wonder whether I am overreacting. In the past, some people have suggested that I would feel better if I just tried harder, rested differently, thought positively, exercised more, worried less, or pushed through. These suggestions have created a quiet shame about what my body and mind can no longer do. Living with multiple chronic illnesses is heavy enough without that shame.

“Everybody gets tired” is Not The Same As Fatigue.

One of the most misunderstood parts of my journey with chronic illness is the tendency people have to compare my symptoms to ordinary human experiences. Yes, everybody does get tired. But I’m talking about living daily with a relentless fatigue that does not improve with sleep. Yes, everybody gets stressed. But not everybody has serious symptoms dismissed by family or friends because stress is easier for them to accept than physical illness. Yes, everybody has hard days. But not everybody has to organize their entire life around pain, flares, medications, appointments, etc.

These comparisons may sound harmless to you on the surface, but they flatten my daily reality into something more comfortable for others to imagine. I do understand that many comments come from others because chronic illness is uncomfortable. People just can’t let go of their desire to fix what they do not know how to sit with. That is often where the “Have you tried…” comments come from.

• Have you tried water?

• Have you tried yoga?

• Have you tried getting outside more?

• Have you tried cutting out sugar?

• Have you tried being more positive?

For someone living with chronic illness, these comments can feel exhausting because they usually assume one of two things: either I’ve not already thought of basic self-care, or my suffering continues because I’ve failed to manage it correctly. Most people with chronic illness have tried many things. I’ve tried it all: treatments, medications, lifestyle changes, supplements, specialists, and so on. Some of these have been helpful, and others have not. When someone offers a simplistic suggestion as though it has never occurred to me, I feel dismissed rather than supported.

There is a reason disabled and chronically ill people use humor online. Humor is how we cope with what would otherwise crush us, and it gives language to experiences that are too painful to say plainly. That is part of why I wrote this April Fools post. Yes, I hope it can bring some smiles to fellow spoonies and awareness to those who have the privilege of better health. But please know that we often hide our grief underneath the humor. Some of my grief is that others sometimes doubt my suffering and feel more comfortable questioning my reality than learning from it. Another sad reality is that chronically ill and disabled people have to become their own medical defenders in rooms that should have already been safe enough to tell the truth.

What Chronically Ill People Actually Need

We need people just to believe us and resist the urge to explain our experiences away. People must understand that fluctuating does not mean fake, invisible does not mean mild, and smiling does not mean okay. The most supportive thing someone can say is:

• “I’m sorry. That sounds really hard.”

• “I believe you.”

• “Thank you for telling me.”

• “I may not fully understand, but I want to.”

• “What do you need today?”

These responses do not erase pain, but do make room for truth.

Closing Reflection

So yes, on April Fools’ Day, we can name these comments:

• “You’re too young to be this sick.”

• “But you don’t look sick.”

• “Have you tried drinking more water?”

• “Maybe it’s just stress.”

• “You were fine yesterday.”

• “Everybody gets tired.”

• “At least it’s not that bad.”

for what they are: ridiculous, outdated, and deeply hurtful. These are the kinds of comments that shape how sick and disabled people move through the world. They can affect whether people speak up, ask for help, seek care, request accommodations, or feel safe telling the truth about how they are doing. The world becomes more accessible when people finally learn to listen.

If you live with chronic illness or disability and have heard these comments before, you are not alone. If you are someone who loves a chronically ill or disabled person, remember that your belief, willingness to listen, and efforts to learn matter. You do not have to have all the answers to be a safe person. But dismissiveness, even when casual, leaves a mark. Some things should stay April Fools’ jokes. Doubting sick and disabled people should never have been one of them.

What is one comment you’ve heard that you wish people would stop saying to chronically ill or disabled people?

I’d love to hear from you in the comments.

StROLLING with you in faith and chronic life,

Mary

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For people living with chronic illness, there is a moment when suffering shifts. At first, the struggle may be emotional or circumstantial, but then, the pain becomes physical. In chapter 1, Job loses everything, and his life collapses around him. Yet Job continues to trust God. But in chapter 2, the suffering moves into his body.

When Suffering Enters the Body

At the beginning of Job 2, the Heavenly scene from the previous chapter appears again. God affirms Job’s integrity for a second time:

“He still maintains his integrity, though you incited me against him to ruin him without any reason” (Job 2:3).

Even after a devastating loss, Job has not turned away from God. But the accuser challenges again.

“Skin for skin… a man will give all he has for his own life. But stretch out your hand and strike his flesh and bones, and he will surely curse you to your face.” (Job 2:4–5)

In other words, Satan suggests that as long as Job’s body is intact, his faith will remain. But if Satan touches his physical health, his faith will collapse. Anyone living with chronic illness knows how heavy that kind of suffering can be. Scripture says that Satan struck Job with painful sores from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. He sits among ashes—a place of mourning—and scrapes his skin with broken pottery in an attempt to relieve the pain. For me, this image resonated with my soul in several ways. Perhaps not with pottery shards, but with heating pads, medications, injections, and countless attempts to ease symptoms that never disappear. Pain has become part of the rhythm of my life, and it’s isolating at times. Job’s suffering also begins to isolate him. His wife sees the depth of his pain and speaks from her own grief:

“Are you still maintaining your integrity? Curse God and die.” (Job 2:9)

Her words sound harsh, but they likely come from a place of despair. Job’s wife has lost children, security, and stability. Now, she has to watch her husband suffer physically as well. Chronic illness affects not just the person who is sick, but the entire household: spouses, parents, children, and friends feel the weight. Sometimes loved ones respond with deep compassion, and at other times with confusion or frustration. Sometimes, like Job’s wife, they doubt how faith can survive such pain.

When Friends Show Up

At the end of Job 2, three of Job’s friends arrive: Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar. They come with good intentions—to comfort and console him. When they first see Job, they are so shocked by his condition that they barely recognize him. They weep, tear their robes, and sprinkle dust on their heads in mourning. Then, they sit with him in silence for seven days and nights. No advice, explanations, or attempts to fix the situation. They just offered their presence.

Ironically, being quiet is the most helpful thing Job’s friends do throughout the story. This moment highlights an important truth: the most powerful form of support is simply showing up. Over the years, I’ve had friends respond with offering health solutions because they were incredibly focused on fixing my chronic issues. Other friends minimized the pain because they judged me too quickly and didn’t understand the weight of living with it. My mere existence reminded some friends of their worst fears, or they believed that the pain was a result of my sin (we will visit this topic in another part of the series). Others soon realized that I was taking too long to heal, so they disappeared.

When the Silence Breaks

There are moments in suffering when the silence finally breaks, and this is what happens in chapter 3 of Job. After everything Job has lost——he sits in silence for seven days with his friends. Then, finally, Job speaks in a raw manner.

“After this, Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth.” (Job 3:1)

Job does not curse God, but he wishes the day of his birth had never existed. He longs for the darkness of nonexistence rather than the agony he is living through. At the beginning of my illness, my suffering was so overwhelming that I couldn’t help but ask hard questions like:

• Why was I born into this body?

• Why does the pain not stop?

• Why does life feel so heavy?

These thoughts frightened me, because it felt almost wrong to ask these questions. But Job’s words remind us that Scripture does not hide the emotional reality of suffering. In Job 3, one theme that emerges is exhaustion. Job asks God why people who suffer have to keep living:

“Why is light given to those in misery, and life to the bitter of soul?” (Job 3:20)

He describes people who long for relief as someone might search desperately for water. Chronic suffering is persistent and often does not end after a few days or a single treatment. The hardest part about suffering is the repeated doctor visits, flare-ups that undo weeks of progress, and the uncertainty of never knowing what tomorrow’s symptoms might bring.

Honest Lament is Not a Failure of Faith

One of the most important things to understand about Job 3 is that God allows these words to exist in Scripture. The author of the book of Job does not edit Job’s emotions to make them more comfortable. Job’s anguish is preserved because lament is part of the language of faith. Throughout the Bible, people cry out to God in moments of distress. The book of Psalms contains many similar expressions of grief and confusion. These prayers often begin with questions:

• “How long, Lord?” appears most notably in Psalm 13:1-2, where David cries out four times regarding God hiding His face and his enemy triumphing. While Psalm 13 is the primary example, the phrase “How long, O LORD?” is a recurring theme of lament, appearing in other Psalms such as 89:46, 79:5, and 6:3.

• The phrase “Why do you hide your face“ (or variations like “Why have you hidden your face“) appears most prominently in Psalm 88:14, which states, “LORD, why do you reject my soul? Why do you hide your face from me?“ (NKJV/NASB).

• “Where are you in this suffering?” is a direct summary of the lament and emotional cry found in several psalms, most notably Psalm 44 and Psalm 22, which question God’s perceived absence during times of pain.

Lament is the act of bringing pain directly to God instead of carrying it alone. One of the most courageous things Job does in chapter 3 is simply telling the truth about how much he is hurting. For many years, I felt pressure to hide my pain from others. I worried about being perceived as negative, dramatic, or ungrateful. So, I smiled while my body was on fire, reassured others, and minimized my symptoms. My silence became another form of suffering, and I did not truly break that silence until December 2024. Job showed me that giving voice to pain is not weakness and is often the first step toward healing.

God is Not Afraid of Your Questions

Job 3 is especially powerful because God does not immediately silence Job; He allows him to speak. Later in the book, God will respond—but not in anger over Job’s questions (we will get to this later in the series). Instead, God engages with him and reveals something important about His nature. God is not fragile or threatened by our confusion, grief, or questions. The God who created the universe can hold our deepest sorrow. If you are living with chronic illness or ongoing pain, Job’s monologue offers a powerful reminder: you are not alone. Many people of faith have wrestled with suffering and asked difficult questions, and it does not make you weak. Sometimes, faith looks like Job—sitting in ashes, speaking honestly about pain, and still directing every word toward God.

The year 2014 was a moment when my life quietly divided into two chapters: before and after. My life is now defined by the days after: the diagnoses, the unrelenting pain, and when my body stopped cooperating.

The opening chapter of the Book of Job captures a similar turning point. In Job 1, we meet a man whose life appears stable, prosperous, and deeply blessed. Scripture describes Job as blameless and upright, a man who feared God and lived with integrity. He had a large family, thriving work, and a respected place in his community. From the outside, Job’s life looked secure.

Then, in a single chapter, everything changes.

The Life I Thought I Had

As a woman living with multiple chronic illnesses and pain, the early part of Job’s story feels familiar in a quiet way. Before 2014, there was a sense of normalcy in my life. I walked through my daily routine, tried to meet my own expectations of working hard, and had plans for the future. I looked forward to teaching for at least twenty-five years, impacting many young lives, and then transitioning to a quiet, leisurely retirement.

Then something happened. I had a sudden health crisis and symptoms that slowly grew louder and more persistent. And the life I once knew began to shift. Chronic illness often arrives uninvited, much like the messengers who appear in Job 1, each delivering devastating news—one loss after another.

The Suddenness of Loss

The devastating suddenness of loss is what struck me in this first chapter. Messengers arrive one after another, each announcing a new tragedy:

• His oxen and donkeys are stolen.

• Fire consumes his sheep.

• Raiders take his camels.

• A violent wind collapses a house and kills all of his children.

Before Job has time to process one loss, another follows. This cascading grief mirrors the experience many people face when their health begins to deteriorate. First, some symptoms begin as mere background noise and then become a loud soundtrack. Then, medical tests that both terrify and add to the daily pain. Then, health appointments where doctors either don’t believe you or are unwilling to truly investigate your issues because it would mess with their insurance quotas. Then, the diagnoses raise more questions than answers.

Along the way, other losses quietly accumulate: energy, independence, and the ability to do things that once felt effortless. In some people’s stories, this cascade happens quickly. In others, it unfolds slowly over months or years. I’ve experienced both.But eventually, people with chronic illness(es) reach a moment when they realize their life has changed in ways they never anticipated.

The Loss No One Talks About

For Job, the most obvious losses are external: property, livelihood, and family. Though I do not downplay the horror and pain of Job’s losses, chronic illness often brings a different kind of loss. For me, I lost the body that I once trusted. I continually grieved the version of myself who could wake up and move through the day without calculating energy levels or pain thresholds. I missed (and still miss) the freedom of spontaneity—the ability to make plans without considering how my body might respond.

Chronic illness introduces a constant negotiation with your own limitations. And like Job, you may find yourself asking questions that have no immediate answers. “God, why did this happen? Why now? Why won’t You make it stop?” These questions do not make you less of a follower of Christ. They make you human.

One of the most powerful moments in Job 1 happens after the devastating news arrives. Job tears his robe and shaves his head—ancient signs of grief and mourning. Then he does something unexpected…he worships his Lord. Job says: “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). People often quote this verse in Christian circles as a statement of unwavering faith. But it’s important to notice something first. Job grieved before the words of verse 21 came out of his mouth. He did not suppress his sorrow nor pretend everything was fine. He acknowledged the depth of his loss before turning toward God. For those of us living with chronic illness, this is an important reminder. Faith in Jesus never requires pretending that suffering isn’t painful. Grief and worship can coexist. You can mourn what your body has lost while still holding onto the God who walks beside you.

Suffering is a Larger Part of the Story

One of the most profound truths revealed in Job 1 is something Job himself never sees. Readers are given a glimpse into the Heavenly conversation that precedes his suffering. God affirms Job’s faithfulness. Yet, Satan challenges whether Job would remain faithful if everything were taken away from him. This moment is significant because it reveals truths about suffering, faith, and God’s sovereignty that remain hidden from Job throughout the story.

Job 1:6 describes a scene in Heaven where “the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord.” This imagery reflects what many scholars call a Divine council, a royal court where spiritual beings appear before God. Among them is Satan, which means “the accuser” or “the adversary.” In this context, Satan functions almost like a prosecutor who questions the authenticity of human faith.

God initiates the conversation by pointing to Job:

“Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil.” (Job 1:8)

This statement amazes me. Before Job says or does anything in response to suffering, God publicly affirms his character. God Himself did not recognize Job’s faith but TRUSTED him with suffering. God knew that Job would praise Him despite his pain and trials. God knew that Job would focus on spiritual matters, such as things beyond the body, family, or possessions. Job would show future generations that he could see beyond his suffering on earth because he knew that he would spend eternity with Him. Wow.

Satan responds to God in verse 8 with a challenge:

“Does Job fear God for nothing?” (Job 1:9)

In other words, Satan suggests that Job’s devotion is transactional. According to this accusation, Job only serves God because God has blessed him. Satan continues by arguing that Job’s life is protected and prosperous because God placed a “hedge of protection” around him.

Then Satan makes a bold claim:

“Stretch out your hand and strike everything he has, and he will surely curse you to your face.” (Job 1:11)

Satan’s accusation is not only about Job but about human faith in general. The question is this: Do people truly love and trust God, or do they follow Him only when life is comfortable and blessed? God responds surprisingly. Rather than silencing the accusation immediately, He allows Job to be tested.

However, there is an important boundary.

God tells Satan:

“Very well, then, everything he has is in your power, but on the man himself do not lay a finger.” (Job 1:12)

This moment reveals several important truths. First, Satan is not acting independently. He cannot harm Job without God’s permission because his power is limited and controlled. Second, God sets clear boundaries on what can happen, and therefore, Satan cannot go beyond what God allows. Third, the test itself is meant to reveal the authenticity of Job’s faith. This part of the story reveals something deeply humbling: Job’s suffering is part of a larger story he cannot see, and that reality reflects something people living with chronic illness understand all too well. There are chapters of our lives where the “why” remains hidden. To this day, my doctors often do not have answers. Treatments for my illnesses are complicated and often do not fully work. So far, healing has not arrived as I’d hoped. Daily, my faith in Him has become less about understanding and more about trust.

God is Not Absent From Your Story

Living with chronic illnesses has reshaped my faith. My chronic pain and illnesses have not destroyed my faith but deepened it. When your body is fragile, you begin to see how fragile life itself truly is. You begin to rely on God in ways you never had to before. Simple things become sacred, like a pain-free hour or a day with enough energy to go outside. My faith has become quieter, but often stronger. It shows up in whispered prayers on difficult mornings, perseverance when symptoms flare, and choosing hope even when the road ahead feels uncertain.

At the end of Job 1, Scripture offers an important statement: “In all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing” (Job 1:22). Job did not fully understand what had happened to him. But he continued to turn toward God rather than away from Him. That doesn’t mean the journey ahead will be easy—because Job’s story is far from over. And the same is true for anyone living with chronic illness. You may still be waist-deep in symptoms and unanswered questions. Your life may look different from what you once imagined.

But Job 1 reminds us of something profound: God is present even in the chapters we would never have chosen. Your illness does not mean God has forgotten you. Your pain does not remove you from His care. And your story—like Job’s—is still unfolding.

Reflection Questions:

1. When you think about your life before and after illness, what losses or changes have been the hardest for you to process?

2. Job continued to turn toward God even in the middle of grief. What does faith or trust in God look like for you in this current season of illness or pain?

3. Job never saw the heavenly conversation behind his suffering. How might it change the way you view your struggles to remember that God may see a bigger picture than we can right now?

I lived with pain for years.

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And no one could tell me why.

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Doctors said it was stress.

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Or I don’t work out enough.

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Or it’s just in my head.

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You’re too young for arthritis.

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You look fine.

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Try yoga or drink more water.

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Then the psoriasis plaques appeared.

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They were red and itchy and painful.

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Both a dermatologist and a primary doctor said it was just eczema.

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I made the mistake of believing them.

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Then the joint pain started.

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In my fingers, hands and wrists.

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Then my jaw.

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Then my toes, feet and ankles.

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In my neck and lower back.

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In my knees, which radiated down my legs.

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After a decade, a rheumatologist diagnosed me with psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis.

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My case is complex, my pain is real and I finally felt validated.

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Treatment hasn’t been simple.

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The first treatment reignited my migraines.

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I had a bad reaction to the second treatment.

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And the third treatment is showing slow positive results.

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But no, it’s not just arthritis.

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No, it’s not just a rash.

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It’s an autoimmune condition that affects my entire life.

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But I’m still here.

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Finding joy.

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Still advocating.

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Still thriving.

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This is my journey with psoriatic arthritis.

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And if you are walking or rolling on a similar path, please know that you are not alone.

Some mornings begin before the light, not because I’m ready, but because my body is already awake. Pain doesn’t knock—it announces itself. My joints burn and stiffen. My muscles ache as if they ran a marathon while I slept. My head throbs with the familiar warning that today may be ruled by light, sound, and nausea. Even before my feet touch the floor, I am negotiating with a body that sets its own terms. And still, I remember: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). Near—even here.

Getting out of bed isn’t a single motion. It’s a series of careful decisions. Which joint will protest first? Will my skin sting where it’s already raw and inflamed? Will my head tolerate movement, or punish me for trying? Some days I reach for crutches. Other days, the wheelchair waits nearby—not as defeat, but as access. As freedom. As a way to keep going when my body says slow down but my life still says move. I remind myself that needing support does not mean I lack strength. “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

I used to rise without thinking. Now I pause. I plan. I brace. There is a rhythm to survival: slow, measured, intentional. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for my body to catch up to my will, like waiting for a storm to pass before stepping outside. Pain threads itself through the ordinary. Turning over can feel like dragging broken glass through my joints. Holding a cup can send lightning through my wrists.Small fiber neuropathy makes my skin ache from the lightest touch. Psoriasis flares leave me feeling exposed, tender, and painfully visible. And migraines arrive like thieves, stealing words, balance, clarity, and plans without warning. Yet even when my body feels like it’s betraying me, I cling to the promise that “nothing can separate us from the love of God” (Romans 8:38–39).

I remember being surrounded by people, laughter filling the room, while I quietly adjusted my posture, shifted my weight, swallowed pain, and smiled anyway. No one noticed. And sometimes, that’s the hardest part—not being seen, not because I want pity, but because explaining this kind of pain feels heavier than carrying it alone. Still, I trust that God sees what others miss. “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in Your bottle” (Psalm 56:8). None of this is unseen.

Time has changed shape. Sit too long, and tomorrow will punish me. Stand too long, and today already has. There’s no perfect position—only constant recalibration. Every invitation, every errand, every moment comes with mental math: Is there seating? Will I need my chair? How far is the walk? How bright is the room? How loud? What will this cost me later? In the uncertainty, I lean on this truth: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart… and He will make your paths straight”(Proverbs 3:5–6), even when the path looks nothing like I imagined.

The pain is relentless, but invisibility cuts deeper. People see me upright and assume I’m okay. They don’t see the accommodations, the mobility aids, the ice packs, the medications, the recovery time hidden between moments. They don’t hear the silent bargaining: Just let me make it through this hour. Just let me get home. Just let me rest without guilt. And yet, Jesus’ words meet me here: “Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Rest is not failure. It is invitation. Still, there is resilience here—quiet, stubborn, hard-earned.

I celebrate what others may overlook: a day without a migraine, a joint that cooperates, a flare that calms, a walk made possible by wheels or crutches. Using mobility aids didn’t take my independence—it gave it back to me. Adaptation isn’t giving up; it’s stewarding the body I’ve been entrusted with. “The Lord directs the steps of the godly”(Psalm 37:23), even when those steps look different than before.

I lean into the people who understand without needing explanations. The ones who don’t rush me, don’t question my rest, don’t measure my worth by productivity. Their presence reminds me that my body may be unpredictable, but my value is not. Their love reflects God’s own—a reminder that my body may be unpredictable, but my value is not. “You are fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14), even on flare days.

Living with multiple chronic illnesses means carrying pain that shifts, multiplies, and hides. It means grieving who I was while learning how to live fully as who I am now. It means strength that doesn’t always look strong. Courage that shows up quietly. Hope anchored not in healing timelines, but in God’s faithfulness. “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength”(Isaiah 40:31).

Every day I show up is an act of defiance. Every day I adapt is an act of wisdom. Every day I keep living—in His strength—is proof that I am more than my diagnoses. And that, to me, is true victory.

Alt text:
A woman sits in a motorized wheelchair against a light, textured background, looking off to the side. Above her is a quote in bold text: “There is no circumstance, no trouble, no testing, that can ever touch me until, first of all, it has gone past God and past Christ, right through to me. If it has come that far, it has come with great purpose.” — Alan Redpath.

There are days when this quote feels like a lifeline—and days when it feels almost impossible to believe. Especially now that multiple chronic illnesses and disability have reshaped my life in ways I never chose. Pain often keeps me from falling asleep and wakes me before the alarm. I even feel pain in my dreams. For over ten years, my body has limited what my heart longs to do: long-distance cycling, kickboxing, teaching full-time, etc. I have to cancel plans repeatedly and prayers often feel unanswered. If someone had told me that my life would look like this eleven years ago, I would have laughed in your face. No way. Not me.

For those of us living with chronic illness, chronic pain, or disability—especially when those realities are visible, misunderstood, or newly defining—we don’t need platitudes. We need His everlasting Truth that can withstand our daily realities. Last night, I read Alan Redpath’s quote (in the image above) and it blew me away. I read it over and over. I realized that Redpath’s words don’t deny suffering; they reframe it.

Nothing Comes to You by Accident

This quote doesn’t suggest that every hardship is good. It says something far more grounding: nothing is random. Before any circumstance reaches us, it has already passed through the hands of a sovereign, loving God. Not rushed. Not careless. Not unaware. That means your diagnosis (or lack thereof) doesn’t surprise Him. The moment I became visibly disabled wasn’t a disruption to His plan. Your limitations do not catch Him off guard. Your exhaustion, grief, anger, and questions are not signs you’ve failed spiritually. They are part of a story God is still actively writing.

As I read the Redpath quote for the first time, the words of Romans 8:28 came into my thoughts. Let’s review Romans 8:28, “And we know that in ALL things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to HIS purpose” (NIV). In Christian circles, Romans 8:28 is often misquoted or put in the wrong context. I’ve heard some teachers describe this verse as, “God will work all things for your good — what you need, want, and will ultimately make you happy in this life. Oh, and this will happen according to His purpose somehow.” Uh…what? So, what does this verse really mean?

Let’s break it down into parts:

• The "good” in this verse does not mean physical comfort, prosperity, or the elimination of pain in this life. Instead, “good” means the process of being conformed to the image of Christ (Romans 8:29), which often happens through suffering rather than by avoiding it. Your pain is not meaningless but is being used by God to produce endurance, character, and hope, ultimately leading to greater Christlikeness.

• God is NOT causing the evil or pain directly, but He is working in and through it, weaving broken pieces into a meaningful, purposeful outcome. This aspect of the verse takes time to process through prayer and reflection on His Word. It is not something that happens overnight. Please give yourself space and grace to digest this verse fully.

• This promise specifically applies to those who have believed in Christ as their Savior and are called according to His purpose. I have heard this verse paraphrased in non-Christian circles in order to let people know that God’s ultimate goal is to make them happy, healthy, and suffering-free on this earth. Nope, that’s not what Scripture says.

• Lastly, in Christian circles, I’ve heard this verse be used as a way to dismiss or trivialize deep pain, trauma, or grief. If you read the New Testament, you will find that Jesus NEVER dismissed or trivialized anyone’s pain or suffering while He was here on this earth. Enough said.

Purpose Doesn’t Always Look Like Progress

We often assume purpose means improvement: Healing. Relief. Answers. A clear resolution. But Scripture—and lived experience—tells a more honest story. Just as it says in Romans 8:28, sometimes purpose looks like endurance—learning how to live well in a body that doesn’t cooperate. Sometimes it looks like learning to receive help, mobility aids, accommodations, and grace without shame. Sometimes it looks like unlearning the lie that your worth is tied to productivity. For many of us, the greatest work God does isn’t through our strength—but through our weakness, especially when independence has been replaced by dependence on Him and others.

2 Corinthians 12:7-9 highlights this struggle well in the life of Paul, “⁷ or because of these surpassingly great revelations. Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. ⁸ Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. In this passage, Paul had a physical or spiritual ailment that he refers to as “his thorn” in scripture. We don’t truly know what this weakness was but Paul prayed about it. Oh, he prayed! Paul begged God to remove his thorn three times over.

How did God respond? ⁹ But He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” God said no—not out of cruelty, but out of love. By saying “no,” God indicates that personal limitations and hardships become conduits for Christ’s power. This particular verse has helped me remember that God's grace is not just for salvation, but a daily, sustaining presence that provides strength to endure, even if the suffering remains. Also, God's power is "made perfect" (fully displayed or completed) in human weakness. When I am weak, I rely less on myself and more on Him. His ways are always better than my ways.

Verse 9 says, “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” Paul learns to "boast" in his weaknesses, insults, and hardships, as they become "gateways" to experiencing Christ’s power, turning suffering into a testament of Divine strength rather than a defeat. So, my disability, chronic pain, chronic fatigue, multiple illnesses…can be a testament to His divine strength to a lost and dying world? Wow, what a humbling truth. Remember that suffering is not a sign of God's absence, but provides a way for God’s strength to be clearly shown in our lives.

When Faith and Suffering Collide

I’ll be honest. My process of learning that something has Divine purpose didn’t automatically make it easier—especially when disability, chronic illness, and chronic pain changed how I move through the world and how the world responds to me. But, please know that you can trust God and grieve. You can believe He is good and feel frustrated. You can be faithful and tired.

Psalm 34:18-19 says, “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. The righteous person may have many troubles, but the LORD delivers him from them all” (NIV). Rather than abandoning us in suffering, God is nearest when we feel broken. This verse tells us that God understands and feels our pain, offering healing and comfort. When we face many troubles, He promises that God will ultimately deliver us. It just may or may not happen on this side of Heaven. Even Jesus Himself wept. Jesus asked if the cup (His sacrifice on the cross) could pass. Jesus understands suffering from the inside out. If your trial has passed through Christ to reach you, then Christ is not distant from it. He is present in it. All you have to do is seek Him.

The Redpath quote invites a quiet kind of courage. Not the loud, performative kind. But the steady resolve that says:

This hurts—but it is not meaningless.

I may not see the purpose today—but I trust the One who does.

My life still matters—even when it looks different.

If what you’re carrying—pain, mobility loss, fatigue, grief—has come this far, past God, past Christ, and into your hands, then it is not the end of your story. It is part of a holy unfolding. And even here, especially here, you are not alone.

StROLLing with you in Christ,

Mary

Through Sharon’s death and my own struggle with multiple chronic illnesses/chronic pain, I was learning that there is nothing but unhappy frustration in trying to second-guess God’s purposes. Why God? Why did Sharon die? Why am I chronically ill? Why am I in pain? Why is someone else alive and healthy? There was no reason apart from the overall purpose of God.

We aren’t always responsible for the circumstances in which we find ourselves. However, we ARE responsible for the way we respond to them. In December 2024, I had to go on medical leave from teaching full-time due to chronic pain and fatigue. I found myself at home alone every day. I went through cycles of utter despair and during those months. Some of those cycles were honest grief such as grieving past versions of myself and the loss of my beloved teaching career. Honest grief is important to fully experience in order to heal properly and find some version of acceptance. But other times, it was just self-pity. Over time, God started shifting my perspective. I started looking to a sovereign God who has everything under control, who can use the experiences for our ultimate good by transforming us to the image of Christ, “And we all, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

Our Heavenly Father is an engineer of circumstances. Time and time again, He has used them to prove Himself as well as my loyalty. Not everyone recognizes this opportunity. I felt there was only a few people God cared for in such a special way that He would trust them with this kind of experience. This new understanding left me relaxed and comfortable as I relied on His love, excercising newfound trust. I finally saw that my multiple chronic illnesses are not a tragedy but a gift God was using to help me conform to the image of Christ, something that would mean my ultimate satisfaction and happiness—even moments of joy. The apostle Paul’s words comforted me because he said that his chains advanced His gospel, “Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel” (Philippians 1:12). As I read these words, I heard the Lord speak to my heart, “Mary, what is happening to you will advance God’s cause! Paul had his prison chains; you have your chronic illnesses. You can rejoice in suffering because He is allowing you to suffer on His behalf.”

When I view my suffering through this Heavenly lens, it is humbling to think that what has happened to me could indeed “turn out to the advantage of the Gospel.” Over the past two years, I’ve been sharing my faith with more people in a positive context, and I finally understood that the Word of God couldn’t be bound and chained, even if I was (2 Timothy 2:9). As each successive life problem has arose, it came in a context I understood. I can merely trust God. When I am struggling, I remind myself that all things come into my life according to Andrew Murray’s formula: by God’s appointment, in His keeping, under His training, for His time. And I had God’s promise that He would not heap on me more than I could bear.

As I began to see that circumstances are ordained of God, I discovered that truth can be learned only through application. 1 Thessalonians 5:18 says, “Give thanks in all circumstances.” But there are times when I don’t want to give thanks. Emotionally, it was something I just didn’t feel like doing. Yet, I learned that I could give thanks with my will, not my feelings. So, I began a habit of giving thanks, even when I didn’t feel thankful. After a while of “practicing gratitude,” I actually began to be thankful! It took me years to accept my chronic illnesses as something God has allowed for my ultimate good. In the last few months, I’ve read more and more on the sovereignty of God (The sovereignty of God is the biblical teaching that He is the supreme authority and has total control over all creation, ensuring that all things ultimately serve His purpose and plan). This doctrine has truly has been reassuring and its’ light has flooded my thoughts. I felt secure and safe for the first time in my life because I know God has control of everything in my life.

I’ve also been learning the value that God places on me, even in chronic illness and pain. For most of my life until this past year, I let society determine my value. For example, my identity was wrapped up in what I could achieve and how hard I worked in teaching. Once I stopped working a job, there was a gaping hole inside of me. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I focused on Him and let His truth begin filling that hole. There are as many worldly standards as there are people. We have to forget about what people say or think and recognize that God’s values are the only important ones. It was true. God knew that I would live in pain for years. He knew that I would be an ambulatory wheelchair user. He knew what I looked like. And none of these things really mattered. What counted was that I was His workmanship created in His image — and He wasn’t finished with me (Ephesians 2:10; Philippians 1:6). In the months that followed, I thanked Him for “me,” whatever I was in terms of mind, spirit, personality— and even body. I thanked Him for the way I looked and for what I could and could not do. As I did, the doctrine of His sovereignty helped everything fall into place, like the pieces of a puzzle. Not only was there purpose to my life at this point, but there was abundance of potential as well.

It has taken some time but I’ve learned to think of my body and wheelchair as the frame for God’s portrait of me. People don’t go to an art gallery to admire frames. Their focus is on the quality and character of the paintings. God is “painting” me in just the perfect way so He can enhance the character of Christ within me. This truth has given me a new perspective on using a wheelchair. It was once a terrible burden and a trial for me. Then, as God worked within me and my life, it became an amazing tool to improve my quality of life. Now, after using my wheelchair for a year, I actually see it as a blessing. For the first time in my life, it is possible for my wheelchair to be an instrument of joy in my life.*

*This article is inspired by some of Joni Eareckson Tada’s words.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

• Cancel plans you never had the energy for anyway

• Live in comfy clothes without explaining yourself

• Let meds, naps, and meals blur together (on purpose)

• Rest without calling it “falling behind”

• Rewatch shows because new information is exhausting

• Honor your body’s pace, not the calendar’s

• Do one small thing and call it enough

• Ignore productivity culture entirely

• Breathe, hydrate, survive — repeat

• Remember: rest is a legitimate end-of-year ritual

No resolutions required. Just slow living ❤️

-Chronic Pain

-Chronic Illness

-Chronic Fatigue

-Disability

-Autoimmune Disease

-Fibromyalgia

-Invisible Illness

-Wheelchair

-Mobility Aid

-Psoriasis

-Psoriatic Arthritis

-Endometriosis

-Migraine

-Flouroquinolone Associated Disability

☕ You don’t have to feel “festive” for your holiday experience to matter.

☕ You don’t have to revisit traditions that worsen symptoms or drain your energy.

☕ Showing love doesn’t require money, physical labor, or pushing through pain.

☕ Your worth is not tied to how much you can do, give, or participate.

☕ You are free to create new, accessible traditions that work with your body—not against it.

☕ Gratitude for what’s good and sadness about what’s hard can absolutely coexist.

☕ You’re not required to answer invasive questions about your illness.

☕ It’s okay to leave early when fatigue, pain, or sensory overload hits.

☕ You don’t have to attend every gathering just because you were invited.

☕ Slowing down is a protective, wise way to cope with flare season.

☕ Quiet, low-energy moments still count as celebration.

☕ You’re not responsible for keeping traditions going or holding everyone else together.

-Chronic Illness

-Chronic Pain

-Chronic Fatigue

-Disability

-Autoimmune Disease

-Fibromyalgia

-Psoriasis

-Psoriatic Arthritis

-Migraine

-Endometriosis

-Invisible Illness

-Wheelchair

-Mobility Aid

🎄 You don’t have to match anyone else’s pace, energy, or excitement.

🎄 You’re not required to feel cheerful just because it’s a festive season.

🎄 Not all family spaces feel supportive of chronic illness. Protecting your body and peace is valid.

🎄 If the holidays bring up old medical trauma or painful memories, it doesn’t mean you’re “regressing.”

🎄 You’re allowed to simplify your celebrations to match what your body can actually handle.

🎄 You can choose gentleness with yourself instead of frustration about symptoms.

🎄 You don’t owe a detailed explanation for declining invitations or modifying plans.

🎄 You’re allowed to scale back your schedule until it feels physically sustainable.

🎄 It’s okay if your energy disappears faster during this season.

🎄 It’s valid to grieve the holidays from years when your body felt stronger.

🎄 Holiday-triggered flare-ups, sensory overwhelm, and emotional flashbacks are not shameful.

-Chronic Illness

-Chronic Fatigue

-Chronic Pain

-Disability Awareness

-Dynamic Disability

-Autoimmune Disease

-Fibromyalgia

-Psoriasis

-Psoriatic Arthritis

-Endometriosis

-Flouroquinolone Associated Disability

-Mobility Aid

-Wheelchair

-Migraine

For many of us who use wheelchairs, they aren’t simply a replacement for walking—they’re a tool that lets us participate more fully in life and manage symptoms that would otherwise keep us on the sidelines.

My wheels support me by helping me:

-Keep pain and fatigue in check

-Protect my joints and prevent injuries

-Reduce my risk of falling

-Stay conscious (I often feel faint when I stand for more than a couple of minutes)

-Carry things without putting my body at risk

-Engage in conversations and social moments (standing and walking take so much focus that talking becomes hard)

… and honestly, the list could be much longer.

With my chair, I can go farther, do more, and do it safely. It brings more freedom, ease, and joy into my life.

So here’s to every other part-time walker or stander who rolls, too—your wheelchair use is completely valid, and it adds beauty to your life as well.

-Chronic Illness

-Chronic Pain

-Chronic Fatigue

-Disability Awareness

-Dynamic Disability

-Autoimmune Disease

-Fibromyalgia

-Invisible Illness

-Wheelchair

-Mobility

-Psoriasis

-Psoriatic Arthritis

-Migraine

-Endometriosis

-Flouroquinolone Associated Disability

The holidays can be a beautiful season. But if you live with chronic illness or chronic pain, they can also be a season where your body, energy, and emotions feel pulled in a dozen directions at once. There are more invitations, more expectations, more noise, more gatherings, more conversations, more decisions—and often, much less energy to manage it all.And that’s why boundaries aren’t optional for us. They’re essential.

Boundaries are wisdom applied to real limits. They are tools that help you steward your energy, protect your health, and stay grounded in peace during a season that can easily overwhelm even the healthiest person.

In this post, I am giving you something practical: scripts you can use instantly—because boundaries only help when you know how to communicate them. But first, let’s talk about why you never need to feel guilty for setting them.

Many of us grew up believing that “good Christian kindness” meant never disappointing anyone, always being available, always saying yes, always pushing ourselves a little further. But Scripture never asks you to abandon wisdom, break your body, or ignore limits to make other people comfortable.

In fact, Jesus Himself set boundaries:

• He withdrew from crowds to rest.

• He said “no” to certain requests.

• He chose solitude even when people wanted more from Him.

• He honored His human limitations without apology.

If Jesus modeled boundaries in His life, then it is not unspiritual for you to do the same. Healthy boundaries can help you show up fully where you realistically can—rather than running yourself into a flare-up that leaves you unable to show up anywhere. And if someone reacts negatively to your boundaries, that doesn’t mean the boundary is wrong. It usually means the boundary was needed.

What Holiday Boundaries Might Look Like

Boundaries look different for every person, but here are some examples you might need this season:

• Saying no to events that drain your body

• Limiting how long you participate

• Leaving early

• Opting out of hosting

• Declining spontaneous plans

• Asking someone not to comment on your body, symptoms, or medication

• Requesting a quieter room at family gatherings

• Saying no to travel or long car rides

• Limiting the number of outings per week

• Scheduling rest days around every holiday activity

• Choosing one meaningful event instead of five

A boundary is simply a choice that honors your limits, communicated clearly and kindly.

Scripts You Can Actually Use

Here are real, ready-to-copy phrases you can use with family, friends, coworkers, or church members.

When you can’t attend an event:

“I won’t be able to attend, but thank you so much for thinking of me.”

When someone asks you to do something physically demanding:

“That’s not manageable for me right now.”

When you need to leave early:

“I’m really glad I could come. I’m heading home to take care of myself.”

When you’re pressured to change your plans:

“I need to stick with what’s best for my health, but I appreciate the invitation.”

When you want to participate, but with limits:

“I’d love to join, but only for a short while. What time works to stop in?”

When someone dismisses or questions your needs:

“This is something that affects my health more than it may seem. I need you to trust that I’m making the best decision I can.”

When you need quiet during a gathering:

“I’m going to step into a quieter room for a bit—thank you for understanding.”

When you must decline hosting:

“I can’t host this year, but I’m cheering you on and grateful you’re taking it on.”

When someone asks for a last-minute favor:

“I don’t have the capacity for that right now, but I hope it works out smoothly.”

The Emotional Weight of Saying No

Saying no—even kindly—can feel heavy because you don’t want to:

• disappoint anyone

• seem ungrateful

• explain your symptoms again

• be misunderstood

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is honor your limitations rather than pretend you don’t have them. And when you choose boundaries, you choose:

• Less pain

• Less overwhelm

• Less resentment

• Fewer flare-ups

• More peace

• More presence

• More energy for what matters

• More space for Christ to meet you in stillness

Boundaries aren’t about restricting your life—they’re about expanding your endurance.

You are not required to meet every expectation placed on you. You are not required to attend every event. You are not responsible for managing other people’s disappointment. You do not owe long explanations. You do not need permission to protect your health. Your boundaries are valid because your wellbeing matters to God. And if someone cannot accept your limitations, that says more about their understanding than your faithfulness.

As you move through this holiday season, remember that Jesus never asks you to abandon yourself to celebrate Him. He invites you to re st, to breathe, and to stay close—right where you are.

He knew that I had multiple chronic illnesses before we got married and he still committed to love me forever. Wow. I am so incredibly thankful to God for my husband and for our love.

Though I've been grieving quite a bit in my life in the past year (loss of my mobility, my teaching career, navigating new diagnoses, etc). I've learned that grief and gratitude can truly coexist.

In my story, big and small disappointments constantly threaten to obscure the grace/goodness that God has tucked into my ordinary days.

Sure, I could feel ashamed of the fact that I can’t be a full-time teacher anymore, that I can’t walk unassisted, that I have to use a wheelchair, that I have to change plans often due to the unpredictability of my illnesses, etc. I could feel bitter toward all of the doctors and the current healthcare system that has failed me in the past and is currently failing me.

I could feel envy for all of the healthy people in the world that take their health for granted. I could be an anxious wreck, worrying about the next new symptom that might debilitate me or the next failed treatment.

Phil. 4:6-7 says, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

But over the years, through desperate prayers and lots of tears, I’ve found a more useful response. Anybody want to guess what that is? Yeah, gratitude. It may sound like I’m settling for less here, but I don’t think I am.

Settling for less would mean greedily reserving my wonder for the rare experiences and the few-and-far-between wow moments that God gives me in life. What a sad way to live!

Simply put, I’ve had to re-evaluate my standards for what deserves awe and gratitude in my life. 

I am grieving AND I am grateful.

Happy Holidays to all.

-- Mary

😣 Trick: Pain or fatigue that shows up uninvited and ruins your plans.

🍫 Treat: Listening to your body and honoring what it needs—rest, grace, and gentleness.

🥴 Trick: Flare days that seem to come out of nowhere.

🍭 Treat: Learning to pace yourself and build flexibility into your routines.

😔 Trick: Feeling misunderstood by others who can’t “see” your illness.

🍬 Treat: Finding community that gets it and reminds you you’re not alone.

💀 Life with chronic illness has its share of tricks—but every day you keep going is the sweetest kind of treat. 💛

#ChronicIllnessAwareness #ChronicPainLife #InvisibleIllness #TrickOrTreat #SpoonieCommunity

Let’s start with the basics — because understanding your health is one of the most powerful tools you have in managing chronic illness.

When you live with a chronic condition, so much of your life revolves around choices: which treatments to try, when to rest, how to manage medications, and even how to talk with your doctors. Each of those decisions depends on one thing — how well you understand the information you’ve been given.

That’s where health literacy comes in.

What is Health Literacy?

Health literacy means more than just reading medical pamphlets or understanding lab reports. It’s about being able to find, understand, and use health information to make decisions about your care.

It’s not about intelligence or education — it’s about communication. How clearly is your healthcare team explaining things? Do you feel comfortable asking questions when something doesn’t make sense?

True health literacy happens when information is shared in a way that makes you feel empowered, not intimidated. It’s about creating an open dialogue where your voice matters just as much as your provider’s.

A Personal Moment of Advocacy

I still remember a time when I sat across from a specialist explaining a new treatment plan. The doctor spoke quickly, using words I didn’t fully recognize — terms like “neuropathic modulation” and “enthesitis.” I nodded along at first, but inside, I felt lost.

Finally, I took a breath and said, “I’m not sure I understand what that means. Could you explain it in plain language?”

For a moment, the room was quiet — and then something shifted. The doctor slowed down, leaned forward, and began to break things down step by step. I left that appointment not only understanding my plan, but also feeling a renewed sense of confidence.

That experience taught me that asking for clarity isn’t a sign of weakness — it’s a form of strength. It’s a way of honoring both my body and the care I deserve.

Health Literacy in Everyday Life

You don’t need a medical degree to build stronger health literacy skills. You just need curiosity, courage, and the willingness to ask questions. Here are some examples of what that looks like day-to-day:

Every small step toward understanding your care better adds up to more confidence and less overwhelm.

Questions to Reflect On

👉 Have you ever nodded along during an appointment even when you didn’t fully understand? (You’re not alone if you have!)

There’s absolutely no shame in asking for help. Every question you ask is a step toward empowerment — and a reminder that you deserve clear answers.

Building Understanding Together

Throughout Health Literacy Month, we’ll explore ways to:

✨ Communicate clearly with your care team

✨ Understand your treatments and test results

✨ Make informed, confident decisions

Because you deserve more than just information — you deserve understanding. You deserve to know what’s happening with your body and why. You deserve care that empowers you, not confuses you.

Health literacy isn’t about reading skills. It’s about belonging in conversations about your own care. It’s about having your questions welcomed, your concerns heard, and your understanding respected.

Closing Thoughts

When you’re living with chronic illness, clear communication can be the difference between confusion and confidence. Between feeling dismissed and feeling seen. Between reacting out of fear and making informed choices rooted in peace.

This month, let’s grow in understanding — together. 💬✨

What’s one question you’ve learned to ask your healthcare provider to better understand your care?

Share it below — your example might help someone else find their voice, too.

#HealthLiteracyMonth #ChronicIllnessAwareness #InformedPatient #PatientAdvocacy #ChronicPainWarrior #Empowered Patient