I’ve had my chest opened,
my back stitched and rebuilt,
My blood sugar lecturing me like an old uncle
who thinks he’s the only one who’s ever lived through anything.
My blood pressure climbs mountains for sport.
My kidneys file complaints.
Every morning, there’s a lineup of bottles
waiting for roll call,
each one convinced it’s the hero of the story.
And then there are the voices;
the well‑meaning, the worried,
the ones who love me so loudly
they forget I’m the one living in this body.
“Eat this.”
“Don’t eat that.”
“Walk more.”
“Rest more.”
“Have you tried…”
as if I haven’t tried
everything short of rewiring myself with spare parts.
I nod, because it’s easier than explaining
that "advice" is not the same as understanding,
and "understanding" is not the same as carrying
a heart that’s been restarted,
a spine that’s been seriously argued with,
a body that negotiates every day like a peace treaty.
But here’s the truth I keep for myself:
I want to feel better on my own power.
I want to find the things that help
because I chose them,
not because someone else handed me a script.
I’m learning to listen to my body
without treating it like a broken machine.
I’m learning that healing isn’t a command
but a conversation,
slow, stubborn, and honest.
,
Some days the pain is a whisper.
Some days it’s a roommate
dragging furniture across the floor at 3 a.m.
But I’m still here,
still walking,
still figuring out what works,
still claiming my right
to move at my own pace, cane or not.
Maybe that’s the quiet victory:
not conquering the pain,
not silencing the nagging,
but choosing my own path through it
one step, one breath,
one hard‑won bit of strength at a time.
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