One diagnosis changes your life.
Multiple diagnoses change the way you see the world.
After being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and lupus, fear became a constant companion. It wasn't always loud. It wasn't always obvious. Most of the time, it existed quietly beneath the surface, following me wherever I went.
I learned that chronic illness doesn't only affect your body.
It affects your thoughts.
Your plans.
Your sense of security.
Your confidence in tomorrow.
Before illness entered my life, I rarely thought about what could go wrong.
Now I thought about it all the time.
Every headache raised questions.
Every ache created concern.
Every unusual symptom made me wonder if something else was developing.
The fear wasn't always about what was happening.
Often, it was about what might happen.
Would my symptoms get worse?
Would I lose my independence?
Would I be able to continue working?
Would I see my children grow older?
Would I become a burden to the people I loved?
Those questions followed me everywhere.
They followed me into doctor's offices.
They followed me into hospital waiting rooms.
They followed me home at night.
They followed me into my prayers.
I became familiar with waiting rooms.
The uncomfortable chairs.
The quiet conversations.
The anxious faces of strangers waiting for answers.
Sometimes I would look around the room and wonder about the battles they were fighting.
What fears were they carrying?
What news were they waiting to hear?
Were they as afraid as I was?
The waiting was often harder than the appointments themselves.
Waiting for test results.
Waiting for phone calls.
Waiting for answers.
Waiting for certainty that never seemed to come.
Chronic illness teaches you that certainty is a luxury.
One I no longer had.
I wanted guarantees.
I wanted reassurance.
I wanted someone to tell me exactly what my future would look like.
Instead, I was forced to live one day at a time.
And honestly, I struggled with that.
I wanted control.
I wanted to know what was coming.
I wanted to prepare for every possibility.
But life doesn't work that way.
Neither does faith.
Faith requires trust.
Not when everything makes sense.
But especially when it doesn't.
There were nights when fear felt stronger than faith.
Nights when I cried myself to sleep.
Nights when I sat alone asking questions that had no immediate answers.
"Lord, how much more can I handle?"
"Why does this keep happening?"
"What comes next?"
I wish I could say I always responded with perfect faith.
I didn't.
There were moments when I felt frustrated.
Moments when I felt overwhelmed.
Moments when I felt exhausted from being strong.
Because people often celebrate strength without acknowledging the cost of carrying it.
Everyone saw me pushing forward.
Few people saw the tears behind closed doors.
Everyone saw me smiling.
Few people saw the fear I carried inside.
Everyone saw me surviving.
Few people saw how hard survival truly was.
Yet even during those moments, God never abandoned me.
Sometimes His presence appeared through family members who encouraged me.
Sometimes through friends who prayed for me.
Sometimes through healthcare professionals who showed compassion.
And sometimes through a quiet peace that arrived without explanation.
A peace that reminded me I wasn't carrying my burdens alone.
Looking back now, I understand that fear was never the enemy.
Fear was a teacher.
It revealed where I was placing my trust.
It exposed my need for control.
And it ultimately pushed me closer to God.
Because when you realize you cannot control tomorrow, you learn to lean on the One who already holds it.
Little did I know, however, that another storm was approaching.
A storm that would arrive suddenly.
Without warning.
A storm that would remind me just how fragile life can be.
The next battle wouldn't begin in a doctor's office.
It would begin with my heart.
And it would change everything.