Wednesday, December 17, 2025

Yesterday’s doctor’s appointment wasn’t dramatic.
There was no crisis.
No urgent turn of events.

And yet, I left carrying grief.

This is the part that rarely gets named. We talk about diagnoses, treatment plans, medications, numbers, and next steps. We talk about being proactive and positive and grateful for answers.

What we don’t talk about enough is the emotional reckoning that follows. The quiet moment when the door closes behind you and your body exhales something your mind didn’t plan for.

Because medical results are information, not a verdict.
But information still lands.

Even when you’ve done the work.
Even when you’re grounded.
Even when you “know better.”

Grief doesn’t ask permission.

Sometimes it arrives not because something is wrong, but because something is confirmed. Because the body speaks in ways we can’t negotiate with. Because the hope that things would be different, easier, lighter had a place to rest, and now it needs somewhere else to go.

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with progression.
Not panic.
Not despair.
Just the deep knowing that this is part of your reality now.

And that deserves space.

Boundaries are often talked about as something external. What we say no to. What we step back from. What we stop overextending ourselves for. But there are internal boundaries too. Emotional ones.

The boundary that says, I don’t have to rush past this.
The boundary that says, I can feel this without fixing it.
The boundary that says, Grief is not weakness. It is honesty.

We are conditioned to move quickly from feeling to doing. From disappointment to problem-solving. From sadness to silver linings. Especially when we live with chronic illness, because we’ve been told resilience means keeping it together.

But resilience also means letting yourself feel the weight of what your body is carrying without turning it into a personal failure.

You are allowed to grieve what your body didn’t give you yesterday.
And still be grateful for what it offers today.

Those two truths can exist at the same time.

As we move deeper into the holidays, this kind of grief can feel louder. The season asks for energy, cheer, presence, and participation. Meanwhile, the body may be quietly asking for rest, gentleness, and care.

That tension is real.

If you find yourself more emotional than expected, more tired than usual, or more tender around things you thought you had already worked through, know this: nothing is wrong with you.

This is what it looks like to listen.

And sometimes, listening means letting grief have a seat at the table, without needing it to leave before you move forward.

One step.
One flare.
One breath at a time.