I have been late when I wanted to be early. I have left dishes undone. I have turned in assignments late. I have left the party early (or not shown up at all).
I have taken out my frustration on the people I love.
I have made promises. I have broken them.
This is what chronic illness looks like today: a series of “I did my best” moments.
A series of “but it wasn’t quite enough” moments.
This semester I have learned to accept that I will not do everything I want to do as well as I want to do it. I won’t do everything I want to do, at all.
I will not move mountains. I may not even move mole hills.
Yesterday my best friend told me she thought she was “dropping the ball” on her responsibilities.
I told her maybe she wasn’t dropping it, just handing it off to someone else.
I am trying to listen to my own advice.
Our value is not measured by our productivity.
It’s not measured in the number of brave faces we wear.
And here’s the real kicker: our days shouldn’t be measured in how“good” they are.
I have had some bad days this semester, some bad weeks.
But that doesn’t mean those days, those weeks, had no value – that life wasn’t worth living in those weeks.
We are still human on the bad days. We are still remarkable on the bad days.
We are goddamn miracles, every one of us.
And we don’t have to prove to anyone, even ourselves, that we are worthwhile.
The dishes do get done, eventually.
The assignments get turned in.
There will be other parties.
But there will be only one life. I will not spend it feeling guilty.