“Whatever the present moment is, embrace it as if you chose it. Don’t oppose it, you always work with it.” ~Eckhart Tolle
For years I thought strength meant pushing through. Work on that. We’ll keep it together no matter what. It does not show weakness. I don’t need help. It’s not slowing down.
Even when I was diagnosed with a chronic illness, I wore that idea like armor. I decided not to let it define me.
But in the end it was. It’s not because I was weak. But because I was a human. And that was the beginning of another kind of strength.
Diagnosis that didn’t suit my story
I was 32 when I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. It is a chronic inflammatory state, painful, unpredictable and can be tiring. There is no treatment.
At the time, I had three young children and longer than my arms. I was busy, stretched thinly and moved quickly.
The diagnosis did not land like a crisis. It landed in a more inconvenient way. I didn’t have time to get sick. There is no space for that. There is no story that it belonged to.
I started taking the medication, but the side effects were rough and the results were inconsistent. I quickly became obsessed with finding the “right” alternative therapy to help me manage my “right” diet, the “right” routine, and the “right” alternative therapy.
Issues of strength, control, and non-independence
Looking back, I see that control is my coping mechanism. Control my body. Control the story.
I didn’t want to be someone with chronic illnesses. I wanted to be someone who deals with chronic illnesses and can still play at a high level. Someone who can live their lives in their own words without the need for medication, help, or rest.
So, when things stabilized a little, I made a quiet decision: I stopped the medicine.
I told myself I could manage it naturally. I tried to adjust my diet, double my routine and control all the variables. But inevitably, the flare-up will return. And when they did it, I went back to steroids. They worked, but they made me mane disease. So I’m tapered. The cycle continued.
Somewhere in the middle of this, we moved the country for my husband’s job. I left my career ambitions, my social networks and my medical team. I began to quietly adapt to life with background symptoms: pain, fatigue, urgency.
I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t cancel things unless I had to. And when I did, I was worried that people thought I was flaky or rude or just didn’t care.
In fact, I was trying so hard to be “great” that hurt myself.
Turning Points: Meditation and Quietness
In the end, I was tired.
Not only physically, but emotionally, mentally, existentially. I was tired of the constant vigilance. I’m tired of trying to overtake my body. If I just tried hard, I’m tired of believing that I can conquer this with pure will.
I was building an identity about being capable, reliable and strong. It depends on the hyper. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t want anyone to need it, or it’s not particularly medicine. I felt like a weakness. And the weakness was unacceptable.
But that relentless self-sufficiency did not save me. It worn me down.
That’s when I found mindfulness. Not as a fix, but as a kind of quiet company. How to soften the grip I was controlling. How to meet myself as I actually did, not think I should be.
At first I treated mindfulness in the way I dealt with everything else: as a master. But over time, practice worked on me. It began to dismantle the war I declared to my body. I began to watch: my body had not failed me. It was talking to me. And I had never heard of it.
It changed everything.
Mindfulness helped me stop looking at my illness as something I want to fight, and started teaching me how to respond with self-compassion rather than control. Take care instead of criticism.
The diagnosis was still there. Symptoms have come and go. But something inside me started to soften. I no longer treated all flare-ups as personal failures or crisis of conquest. The illness was real, but perhaps it didn’t have to be war. I was not completely peaceful, but I had learned to pay attention. And then there was a call that changed everything.
A wake-up call that brought it all home
Over five years have passed since my last colonoscopy and based on my medical history, my primary care doctor recommended that I make one schedule. Of course, I agreed. I was fine – sturdy. I was training on my home treadmill for my upcoming marathon, where my body is still proud to do.
The procedure itself felt like it was a daily occurrence. But one night, around 8pm, the phone rang.
It was the doctor who performed the colonoscopy. He personally called me.
He didn’t sound casual.
He said I was in trouble.
If I don’t take my medicine right away, my condition will deteriorate dramatically and it will start to affect other systems in my body, my vision as well.
I was terrified. And humble.
This was not something I could overtake. This was not something I could discipline. This was my body and I was asking for urgent questions.
Not failure, but diseases become messengers
I took the medicine. This time, the correct type is. And I committed to it – not from the place of defeat, but from a deeper, careful alignment.
That was almost two years ago. Since then, my body has slowly started to heal. My latest colonoscopy – this year has shown dramatic improvements. The inflammation is reduced. Symptoms can be managed. I also well tolerate the medication, even with the added complexity of reactivated tuberculosis, but also the immunosuppressive side effects I am currently treating on another course of medication.
It’s not perfect. It’s not linear. But that’s honest. It’s mine.
And most importantly, I am not at war with my body anymore. I stopped being brave about what it was and began to respond with caution, clarity and compassion.
Because true strength does not push forward at any cost.
I’m listening. That is permitted. Even when it’s difficult, it stays with you.
Mindfulness didn’t fix everything. But it became an ally – sturdy and unshakable.
It taught me that I can’t control the storm, but I can pin myself in it. And during that mooring I found something I never expected: power.
It is not the power of power, but the power of a quiet and unwavering being. To fulfill your life under those conditions.
Knowing that I can be with what comes, and still being whole.
That’s the power I carry right now. Despite the illness. But it is shaped by it.
