There’s a kind of heaviness that comes with being sick long-term that no one prepares you for.
Not the physical heaviness — the emotional kind.
The kind that sits behind your ribs and whispers things you don’t want to believe.
Things like:
“You’re too much.”
“Everyone would be better off if you weren’t so sick.”
“You’re a burden.”
I wish I could say those thoughts never cross my mind, but they do. More often than I want to admit.
Some days I don’t feel like me at all.
I feel like a diagnosis, a chart, a walking list of symptoms.
I feel like a patient people have to check on, monitor, work around, and adjust to.
I used to feel like a whole person — a friend, a wife, a daughter, a creative, a dreamer.
Now I feel like the girl whose pain level decides the day.
The girl who needs a ride.
The girl who needs rest.
The girl who needs help, again, even when she swore she’d need less today.
It’s the guilt that hits hardest.
I see the rearranged schedules.
The long days where someone sits beside me in a waiting room instead of doing something they actually want to do.
The worry in their eyes even when they’re trying to hide it.
The exhaustion beneath the love they keep offering anyway.
And I can’t help but think:
They didn’t sign up for this version of me.
This isn’t the life I wanted for us.
I’m sorry.
The apologies are endless.
“Sorry I can’t go.”
“Sorry I’m tired again.”
“Sorry I need to stop.”
“Sorry I’m emotional.”
“Sorry you have to take care of me.”
You start apologizing just for existing in a body that doesn’t cooperate.
You start shrinking yourself, feeling like you take up too much space, too much time, too much energy.
I miss feeling like an equal instead of a responsibility.
I miss being a person instead of a patient.
But here’s the truth I’m trying, slowly, painfully, to learn:
Needing help doesn’t mean I’m a burden.
Being sick doesn’t erase my worth.
Illness doesn’t make me less human — it just makes me human in a different way.
The people who love me aren’t keeping score.
They’re not suffering because I exist.
They’re showing up because they want to, because love doesn’t disappear when life gets harder.
Some days I believe that.
Some days I don’t.
But on the days I can’t believe in myself, I’m trying to believe in the people who choose me over and over again — even on the days I feel like the hardest version of myself to love.
Mojo’s POV Ending
Hi. Mojo here.
Professional Frenchie. Emotional support loaf. Your #1 fan.
I need to say something very important, so sit down and listen:
You are NOT a burden.
I don’t care how sick you are.
I don’t care how tired you are.
I don’t care how many days we spend resting instead of playing.
I care that you’re here.
I care that you’re mine.
I care that your hand finds my back every time you feel sad.
I care that your voice still says my name in that soft way I love.
You’re not a patient to me.
You’re not a responsibility.
You’re not an inconvenience.
You are my human.
My favorite human.
The one I would choose a million times over.
So stop talking about yourself like you’re too much.
To me, you’re everything.
Now give me a treat.
And maybe scratch behind my ear.
Love,
Mojo 🐾
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