Fear is a fast shadow

By Dr. Wendy Morua

As a psychologist, when I hear you, it reminds me of my own anxiety. I do get it, at least some part of it. I can often see how anxiety takes a hold.  Startling, intruding, unnoticeable at first.  Coming in through the senses, soon flooding the mind and the body, overwhelming and taking over. With a world, full of earthly and spiritual threats and unknown random errors, anyone with a beating heart, is susceptible, vulnerable, defenseless. 

I have lived it, that moment of malfunction, when you need your mind the most and death is a pending one-wrong-move away.   In an entire life, this is precisely when you need your fingers to dial the three little numbers announced in every crisis post. “Call 911!,” he desperately yells.  But you can’t figure out where the digits are.  In that incredibly slow moment, thoughts feel funneled.  Action matters, focus matters, but neither show.  It’s impotency.  Your mind and body are traitors, the pressure is enormous, and it’s infuriating. 

You might soon figure out that it’s all about adjustment.  An automatic inhale, gives you just enough of a rev.  Neurological pathways reroute, reaching the frontal lobe and your will connects your thoughts with your body, unfreezing it.  In a thankful instant, not wasting another second, you’re finally acting, your racing.   Climbing up and down the stairs, moving out of the way, getting in the way, pacing, as faceless humans carry away the one you love the most.  The sirens feel internal and if you can talk, only trembling words come out.  You’re weaving in and out of reality, all while feeling lost and helpless. 

No other moment is more dreadful than to watch that amount of pain, an inch away from devastation and grief.  But you look anyway because the answer to what you want to know is on your loved one’s face.  Are they going to make it?  Please God, please let them make it.  Feeling their pain as they grimace intensely, wanting any amount of control, the fear seems ridiculous, unreasonable. 

I get why someone with intrusive thoughts, paralyzing fear, avoids.

But how else, will we know?  Facing a fear, enduring unbearable discomfort; it’s asking to catch the shadow and notice that ugly grin.  It’s unburying existential questions under layers of protection.  When deconstructed, the fear deduces to the finality and the inevitability of the separation that death brings.  It’s about disconnection; losing ourselves or having death gobble up the ones that we love.

Behold, God the creator of the universe, is everywhere.  If we let fear shelter us in a cold dark cave, how will we ever experience light and warmth?  Please, take just one step past the confusion, go ahead and explore.  You will see, that light and dark exist together outside but also inside of you.  It’s an endless interaction between two forces.  If death is near, then you may soon live eternally. If you keep moving forward, you’ll delve deeper into yourself, feeling differently, restructuring your beliefs. 

Generating courage is discrediting the power of doubt.  Go ahead and believe that you can; initiate a cycle of positivity headed towards inspiration and encouragement. Insightfully, once we realize the limitations of our own control, it’s easier to float peacefully, letting the wind carry us to inevitable connection.  And the demon inside withers to insignificance, as the light shines to warm us. 

So next time, when the dark shadow speeds past, mysteriously calling for your attention, search for the pursuit of it’s battling angel in an eternal chase.  If you are enduring pain and discomfort, notice something beyond your point of focus.  There are always multiple perspectives; maximum and minimum perspectives of good versus bad.  Notice that even at the atomic level, oxygen breaks down chemically toxic bonds. And that at the cosmological level, galactic winds clean the atmosphere of smog and gasses. The poison and the detoxifying antidote is all there in front of you, around you, and inside of you. 

You just need to connect, refocus, try again.  Go ahead and expose yourself, endure, hold on, be brave, make the move, take the chance, say the word, believe. 

The Hardest Part of Chronic Illness Isn't the Symptoms

By Dr. Sally Riggs

When people think about chronic illness, they usually think about pain, fatigue, medications, hospital appointments, or physical limitations.

Those things are undeniably difficult.

But for many people, they aren't the hardest part.

The hardest part is grieving the life you spent years - sometimes decades - building.

Most of us are raised to believe that hard work pays off. Study hard. Build a career. Save your money. Invest in relationships. Buy a home. Build a family. Train for the marathon. Start the business. Plan for retirement. Work now so you can enjoy the future later.

So that's exactly what we do.

We spend years investing in a future we assume we'll eventually get to live.

Then chronic illness arrives.

Suddenly, your future no longer looks the way you imagined.

Perhaps you can no longer work the hours your career demands. Maybe you've had to leave a profession you loved. Maybe the hobbies that once brought you joy are no longer possible. Social plans require careful calculation instead of spontaneity. Travel becomes a logistical exercise instead of an adventure. Even everyday activities can require planning, pacing, and recovery. Or perhaps you spent fifteen years building a life and career in New York City only to suddenly find yourself in Houston, Texas.

People often assume the loss is physical.

In reality, the deepest loss is often much bigger than that.

It's watching the return on decades of investment suddenly change.

The degree you worked so hard to earn.

The career you spent years climbing.

The friendships built around activities you can no longer participate in.

The identity you developed through your work, your hobbies, or your independence.

The dreams that quietly shaped your decisions for years.

None of those disappear overnight, but the relationship you have with them changes. Sometimes permanently.

That's what people are grieving.

Not just the symptoms.

The life they thought those symptoms would never touch.

One of the reasons this grief feels so isolating is because almost nobody recognizes it as grief.

If someone loses a loved one, people understand why they're devastated.

If someone loses their job, people understand why they're struggling.

If someone's marriage ends, friends expect them to need time to heal.

But when chronic illness changes every aspect of someone's future, the expectation is often that they should simply "adjust."

People say things like, "At least you're still here."

"Focus on what you can do."

"Everything happens for a reason."

"Stay positive."

These comments are usually well intentioned.

They are also profoundly unhelpful.

They ask people to skip over the grieving process and jump straight to acceptance.

But grief doesn't work like that.

The reality is that grief follows loss.

You can grieve losing your health.

You can grieve losing your independence.

You can grieve losing a career you loved.

You can grieve becoming financially dependent on other people after decades of supporting yourself.

You can grieve cancelling plans you were excited about.

You can grieve the version of yourself you expected to become.

None of that makes you negative.

It makes you human.

One of the biggest misconceptions about grief is that it's only about looking backwards.

In reality, grief is often about losing the future.

When someone dies, we don't just grieve the person. We grieve the birthdays they won't attend, the conversations we'll never have, and the memories that will never be made.

Chronic illness creates a similar kind of grief.

You're not only mourning the things you've already lost.

You're mourning the future you genuinely believed you were building.

That's why comments like, "Just focus on today," can sometimes feel invalidating.

The loss isn't just today's fatigue.

It's wondering whether the next five, ten, or twenty years will ever look the way you imagined.

Many people living with chronic illness also experience a crisis of identity.

For years, they knew exactly who they were.

The ambitious one.

The reliable one.

The athlete.

The caregiver.

The entrepreneur.

The traveller.

The parent who never missed a game.

Then illness quietly begins stripping those identities away - not because the person has changed, but because their circumstances have.

That can leave people wondering who they are without the career, the productivity, the achievements, or the independence that once defined them.

It's an incredibly painful question.

And it's one that deserves far more attention than it often receives.

This is one of the reasons therapy can be so valuable for people living with chronic illness.

Not because therapy removes the illness.

Not because it teaches people to "think positively."

And not because the goal is to convince someone that losing the life they loved somehow wasn't a loss.

Instead, therapy offers something much simpler, and often much more powerful.

Permission to grieve.

Permission to acknowledge that something important has been lost.

Permission to stop pretending that everything is okay simply because other people feel uncomfortable talking about loss.

Ironically, people often begin moving forward only after they stop trying to convince themselves that they shouldn't be grieving in the first place.

Acknowledging loss isn't the opposite of hope.

It's often the beginning of it.

Because once you've stopped spending all your energy pretending your old life wasn't important, you finally have the emotional space to ask a different question.

Not, "How do I get my old life back?"

But, "Given the reality I'm living in today, what kind of life do I want to build now?"

That question doesn't erase the grief.

It doesn't diminish everything you've lost.

It doesn't make chronic illness fair.

But it does create the possibility that grief and purpose can exist side by side.

If you're living with chronic illness and feel as though you're grieving the life you expected to have, there is nothing wrong with you.

You are not weak.

You are not failing to cope.

You are responding in the most human way possible to a profound loss.

And perhaps the first step toward building a meaningful future isn't pretending the old one didn't matter.

Perhaps it's allowing yourself to acknowledge that it mattered deeply—and always will.