One of the cruelest aspects of a chronic illness diagnosis is that it doesn’t just steal your health; it can feel as if it’s stolen your identity, your future. Over the course of several years, I’ve had to dramatically shift my ambitions more times than I can count thanks to my chronic illnesses.

A Dream Lost

Since I was a young girl, I always wanted to help people. My aspirations for the future included becoming a pediatrician, which I prepared for by studying hard, getting good grades, and filling my life with extracurriculars. I had a clear path ahead of me.

Naturally, getting an epilepsy diagnosis before high school hit me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly, my own body was working against me. Staying up late to study became a trigger. I earned stares on the school bus when a simple arm jerk from a myoclonic seizure hit a student next to me. Even trying too hard during a workout became dangerous.

My dreams of becoming a pediatrician vanished. How could I survive medical school if pushing myself mentally and physically was too much for my brain to handle? I spent many nights in tears, grieving the future I had lost and wondering if there was even a point in trying.

Searching for a New Path

I figured there were other ways I could help children. I considered teaching. But as I explored the required courses and did more research, a harsh reality set in: on a teacher’s salary, I risked being unable to afford the medication I needed to function.

So I pivoted again.

I had recently lost a considerable amount of weight with diet changes, and after taking a health class I found a new direction. I decided I could help others manage their health as a dietitian. It was the perfect way to help people without the rigorous, seizure-inducing demands of medical school.

Over the next few years, however, my health, attendance, and grades fluctuated wildly. I lied to my loved ones about how I was doing, not wanting them to know my life was going steadily nowhere. I was ashamed I had nothing to show for the last few years. Why couldn’t I be like everyone else? A dark, hollow feeling took over every aspect of my life.

A Cruel Reversal

Eventually, I gave myself a break from school and dedicated myself to exercise once more, determined to push through. I was working full-time, I had a supportive circle of friends and family, and I was finally regaining my strength. I had found stability and felt safe.

Then one August morning, all of that changed. Heart palpitations, dizziness, and crushing fatigue. Walking short distances felt impossible.

I had POTS.

I could no longer work, let alone complete previously-simple tasks. Brain fog and seizures made looking at a screen a monumental task. The life I had just carefully rebuilt was gone. No, please, I thought. Not again. I can’t go through all of this again.

Permission to Grieve

This second loss was a different kind of torture. I mourned the woman I was just a few weeks before—the one who was thriving and free. She died the moment I realized I could no longer lift my arms without feeling faint, and she was replaced by a sorrow so deep it sunk into my marrow.

I questioned everything. My ability to be a good partner. My capacity to one day be a good mother. I remembered the girl I once was, who dreamed of buying a home and retiring her parents, and I wept for her. It felt safer to stop dreaming altogether than to lose another imaginary life.

For the next couple of years, I lived life as a husk.

Thawing

My transformation came after a two-week hospital stay. As I wrote in my previous post, my time there gave me a new, profound appreciation for life. A level of gratitude that might not have been possible if I hadn’t first been at my absolute lowest point.

Before I could truly appreciate my present, I needed to properly grieve my past. I needed to hold space for the grief, to mourn the loss of the selves I had envisioned for so long. If I hadn’t, that sorrow would still reside within me, waiting to be let out.

Much like the seasons, my period of mourning was a long, cold winter, leaving me in a tundra of emotion. But as the frost finally began to thaw, I realized I could bloom once more—differently than expected, but bloom nonetheless.

So if you are holding onto the pain of a life you thought you would have, please give yourself permission to feel it. Don’t be afraid to mourn the self you envisioned before your diagnosis. It is okay, and it is necessary.

Once you do, you open the door to something greater: acceptance, emotional freedom, and the space to bloom again.

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What “past self” have you had to grieve on your journey? Let’s hold space for each other in the comments.