What fucking gives, man?
I am so ready for this full moon. I think I need to howl tonight.
My body hurts everywhere—arms, legs, feet. Normal errands can end with me giving up and going home, and I can barely type right now. I’m waiting for the notification that my steroids are ready, hoping they’ll give me some relief.
On top of that, I’m supposed to navigate the absolute pyramid scheme that is the insurance and disability system.
I can’t just run home to the railroad. I wish it were that simple, but my body will not let me do trains right now. I spent my entire adult life knowing how to work, provide for my family and know what came next. Now I’m trying to support my kids through side hustles while fighting for disability benefits because, at this moment, I am actually fucking disabled.
They owe me tens of thousands of dollars, and they keep denying my claim on a policy my union brothers pay into every month.
They know this isn’t a pre-existing condition. They know I’m genuinely sick. They know what happened. And somehow, the burden is still on the sick person to keep proving she is sick enough.
It is absolutely fucking terrifying.
And here’s what I can’t stop thinking about: how many people might actually get better if being sick weren’t made as stressful as humanly possible?
How many people could heal enough to eventually come off disability if they weren’t spending their illness terrified about money, housing, insurance, paperwork, denials, appeals, doctors, medications and whether they can still care for their families?
Stress makes my pain worse. I can physically feel it happening. So now I get the added mental fuckery of knowing that freaking out about being sick makes being sick worse.
Stay calm or it hurts more.
Cool. No pressure.
I keep wondering: if I weren’t carrying all this fear and stress, how much more could the steroids help? What would my body be capable of if it weren’t constantly being asked to survive another emergency?
I did nothing to cause this, and I still can’t figure out how to fix it. But I’m starting to understand that I probably won’t fix it by punishing myself into oblivion.
Maybe that’s part of how we got here in the first place.
Push through it. Keep going. Handle it. Don’t complain. Take care of everybody. Work harder. Be tougher. Keep moving.
Until your body says no.
And mine is saying no.
Loudly.
So maybe this part of my life is about learning something I have historically been terrible at: acquiescence. Surrender.
Not giving up. Not deciding this is forever. Not letting an insurance company determine what the rest of my life looks like.
Just surrendering to what is true today.
My body hurts. I cannot do what I used to do. I need help. I am angry. I am scared.
Maybe honoring myself means I stop trying to turn those truths into something prettier.
I’m not holding all this shit inside anymore.
People talk about listening to your body. Mine isn’t whispering. It is fucking screaming.
Maybe respecting it means I finally stop arguing with it.
Maybe healing isn’t another thing I’m supposed to conquer through sheer force of will. Maybe there is no gold star for suffering quietly. Maybe I don’t have to punish myself for having a body that needs something different from me right now.
That’s a strange realization for someone who built so much of her identity around grit.
Because I always thought grit meant pushing.
Get up. Keep going. Find another way. Take the hit and move forward.
But I’m starting to wonder if I had the definition wrong.
Sometimes grit is fighting.
Sometimes grit is surviving.
And maybe sometimes grit is having enough faith to stop fighting yourself.
Acquiesce.
Surrender.
Two words I absolutely hate.
Maybe two words I desperately need.
And tonight, under this full moon, I think I’m going to fucking howl.