“Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it.” ~Eckhart Tolle

For years, I thought strength meant pushing through. Getting on with it. Holding it together no matter what. Not showing weakness. Not needing help. Not slowing down.

Even when I was diagnosed with a chronic illness, I wore that mindset like armor. I was determined not to let it define me—let alone derail me.

But eventually, it did. Not because I was weak. But because I was human. And that was the beginning of a different kind of strength.

The Diagnosis That Didn’t Fit My Story

I was thirty-two when I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. It’s a chronic inflammatory condition that can be painful, unpredictable, and exhausting. There is no cure.

At the time, I had three young kids and a to-do list longer than my arm. I was busy, stretched thin, and moving fast—chasing achievement like it could protect me from everything uncertain.

The diagnosis didn’t land like a crisis. It landed more like an inconvenience. I had no time for illness. No space for it. No story in which it belonged.

I started medication, but the side effects were rough, and the results were inconsistent. I quickly became obsessed with finding the “right” diet, the “right” routine, the “right” alternative therapy to manage it all myself.

Strength, Control, and the Problem with Hyper-Independence

Looking back, I can see that control was my coping mechanism. Control over my body. Control over the narrative.

I didn’t want to be “someone with a chronic illness.” I wanted to be someone who could handle a chronic illness and still perform at a high level. Someone who could live life on her own terms—without needing medication, or help, or rest.

So when things stabilized a little, I made a quiet decision: I’d stop the medication.

I told myself I could manage it naturally. I adjusted my diet, doubled down on my routines, tried to control every variable. But inevitably, flare-ups would return. And when they did, I’d end up back on steroids. They worked—but made me manic. So I’d taper off. The cycle continued.

Somewhere in the midst of this, we moved countries for my husband’s job. I left behind my career ambitions, my social network, and my medical team. I started to quietly adapt to a life of background symptoms: pain, exhaustion, urgency.

I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t cancel things unless I absolutely had to. And when I did, I worried people thought I was flaky or rude or just didn’t care.

In truth, I was trying so hard to be “fine” that I was hurting myself.

The Turning Point: Meditation & Stillness

Eventually, I got tired.

Not just physically—but emotionally, spiritually, existentially. Tired of the constant vigilance. Tired of trying to outrun my own body. Tired of believing that if I just tried harder, I could conquer this thing on sheer willpower.

I had built an identity around being capable, reliable, strong. Hyper-independent. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t want to need anyone—or anything, especially not medication. Illness felt like weakness. And weakness was unacceptable.

But that relentless self-sufficiency didn’t save me. It wore me down.

That’s when I found mindfulness. Not as a fix—but as a kind of quiet company. A way of softening the grip I had on control. A way of meeting myself as I actually was, not as I thought I should be.

At first, I treated mindfulness the way I treated everything else: as something to master. But over time, the practice worked on me. It started dismantling the war I had declared on my body. I began to see: my body wasn’t failing me. It was in conversation with me. And I had never truly listened.

That changed everything.

Mindfulness helped me stop seeing my illness as something to battle and started teaching me how to respond—with self-compassion instead of control. With care instead of critique.

The diagnosis was still there. The symptoms came and went. But something in me had started to soften. I was no longer treating every flare-up as a personal failure or a crisis to conquer. The illness was real, but maybe it didn’t have to be a war. I wasn’t fully at peace, but I was learning to pay attention. And then came the call that changed everything.

The Wake-Up Call That Brought It All Home

It had been more than five years since my last colonoscopy, and based on my medical history, my primary care doctor recommended I schedule one. I agreed, of course. I felt fine—strong, even. I was training on the treadmill at home for an upcoming marathon, proud of what my body could still do.

The procedure itself felt routine. But one evening shortly afterward, around 8 p.m., the phone rang.

It was the doctor who had performed the colonoscopy—calling me personally.

He didn’t sound casual.

He told me I was in trouble.

If I didn’t get on medication right away, my condition could worsen dramatically—and start impacting other systems in my body, even my eyesight.

I was horrified. And humbled.

This wasn’t something I could outrun. This wasn’t something I could discipline away. This was my body, urgently asking to be heard.

Letting Illness Be a Messenger, not a Failure

I got back on medication. This time, the right kind. And I committed to it—not from a place of defeat, but from a deeper alignment with care.

That was almost two years ago. Since then, my body has slowly begun to heal. My most recent colonoscopy—early this year—showed dramatic improvement. The inflammation is down. The symptoms are manageable. I’m tolerating the medication well, even with the added complexity of reactivated TB, a side effect of the immunosuppression that I’m now treating with another course of medication.

It’s not perfect. It’s not linear. But it’s honest. It’s mine.

And most importantly, I’m no longer at war with my body. I’ve stopped bracing against what is, and started responding with care, clarity, and compassion.

Because real strength isn’t pushing through at all costs.

It’s listening. It’s allowing. It’s staying with yourself—even when it’s hard.

Mindfulness didn’t fix everything. But it became an ally—steady and unshakable.

It taught me I can’t control the storm, but I can anchor myself within it. And in that anchoring, I found something I never expected: power.

Not the power of force—but the quiet, unwavering power of presence. Of meeting life on its terms.
Of knowing I can be with whatever comes—and still be whole.

That’s the power I carry now. Not in spite of illness. But shaped by it.

“Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t, you’re right.” ~Henry Ford

We’ve all been there: happily ticking off life’s checkboxes, certain we’ve cracked the code, until—bam!—life decides otherwise. Divorce papers, layoffs, grief, or unexpected illness—life’s curveballs don’t discriminate.

For me, it was a sudden mystery illness at sixteen. What should have been a simple infection changed the trajectory of my entire life. Doctors were at a loss, tests offered no answers, and I was left navigating an uncertain reality, desperately clinging to control as my lifeline.

One day I’m cheering at the Friday night football game, and the next I’m navigating a seemingly endless string of endoscopies, colonoscopies, biopsies, EEGs, EKGs, psych tests, countless blood tests, and still no answers.

I remember the day it all went wrong.

I was in high school watching a movie at a friend’s house when we burned the popcorn. Annoying, sure, but not a cause for concern. Except for me, the room started spinning, and my head felt like it was going to explode, so I stepped outside to get some air.

Next thing I know, the cute boy I had a crush on found me passed out in the driveway. This was the beginning of chasing symptoms that were only getting more mysterious and increasingly worrisome.

Navigating a chronic mystery illness as a young adult felt impossible, devastatingly unfair, and inconsistent. One week I would think the worst was behind me, finally able to put my life back together, and the next I was blindsided once again by some new symptom.

My friends were getting jobs, going to parties, dating, and discovering who they were while I was curled up on the bathroom floor. By my twenties, leaving important meetings at work to throw up blood in the bathroom was my normal.

The hardest part was never knowing if I could trust my own body. Was I going to wake up healthy or in excruciating pain?

I spent years in victim mode, trying to “get it right,” believing if I tried hard enough I could control my way out of the problem. If I could just anticipate every twist, I’d never feel blindsided again.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. My health spiraled, my relationships suffered, and financial problems and self-medication replaced self-compassion and security. No amount of control shielded me from the inevitable messiness of being human, especially a human with a chronic illness.

Along the way, there were so many rock bottoms I’m not sure I could choose one pivotal moment. By the time I was approaching thirty, I had been on state disability and was taking so many meds that I was having paranoid, suicidal thoughts. It was clear that whatever uphill battle I was fighting wasn’t working, but I didn’t see another way out, and I was too young to give up. I think they call this being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

There was nowhere to go for advice or more answers, and that is the loneliest I have ever been. The unknown was sitting there, staring me in the face, playing a game of chicken.

Despite any evidence that I was going to win, I wasn’t going to back down either. So I walked away from traditional treatment plans, which weren’t working anyway, and focused on what I could control: my mindset and my attitude. It was time to learn how to make proverbial lemonade from a batch of rotten lemons.

To preserve the small amount of sanity I had left, curiosity became my lifeline. Since resisting or controlling reality didn’t work, what if I got curious about it instead? This wasn’t about blind optimism, toxic positivity, or magical thinking. Frankly, manifesting and cosmic trust felt too far-fetched for someone who didn’t know if they would be able to physically or mentally get out of bed.

I needed something practical, something that felt grounded and possible. “What if?” helped me suspend reality just long enough to see things in a different way. It shifted from a challenging self-experiment to my new guiding principle.

• What if my body wasn’t betraying me but teaching me something crucial?
• What if every upheaval wasn’t punishment but an invitation to deeper self-awareness?
• What if I could find a way to be happy, even if life wasn’t what I thought it would be?
• What if I wasn’t broken; I just needed to do things differently than other people?
• What if it didn’t need to be this hard?

Over time, curiosity helped me open a new reality, one where my biggest pain was also my greatest teacher. I was forced to practice sitting in the discomfort of the unknown and am all the better for it. Eventually, I was diagnosed with a mitochondrial disorder, but at the time, treatment options were limited, so my diagnosis didn’t provide any more certainty than before.

The road was long and bumpy, to say the least. I mean, there was an entire decade I was hopeless, jobless, and puking blood on the daily. But along the way, my medical journey forced me to embrace a new narrative, one where I didn’t see myself as sick. I changed my relationship to not only my body but also to how I look at life. What felt like a limitation was the key to unlocking my liberation—I just didn’t know it at the time.

While not a magic pill, this shift helped me heal and stay healthy for almost ten years. Little did I know that another curveball was waiting for me on my fortieth birthday.

After suffering mold poisoning due to a water leak in my apartment, my mitochondrial disorder came back in full force. I was puking blood on the bathroom floor and all. This time, I wasn’t sixteen, and I had the tools to reclaim my power when everything around me was falling apart. Instead of spiraling about my lack of control or the unfair circumstances, I had the framework to move forward.

This didn’t change my very real and painful challenges. It didn’t lessen the financial blow or logistical upheaval to my life. But it did allow me to traverse a relapse with the curiosity I needed to move forward calmly and confidently, despite this new uncertainty.

If you’ve struggled with Hashimoto’s, perimenopause, gut issues, chronic fatigue, back pain, depression, or any other unwanted diagnosis, maybe you can relate. That’s the thing about chronic illness—the symptoms may be different, but the pain of knowing how to move forward is usually the same.

My lessons were hard-earned, but they helped me transform pain into possibility when everything felt uncertain, and hopefully, they can help you too.

My three steps to navigating life’s uncertainties:

1. Curiosity is the door to possibility.

When life inevitably disrupts your carefully laid plans, allow yourself the space to grieve the loss of your expectations. Let yourself feel the pain because acceptance is key to moving forward. Then gently ask, “What if?”

This can feel disruptive at first because, if you’re like me, you’ll cling to the reality you know like a life raft in a stormy sea. But if you can’t even entertain a different outcome for a moment, then nothing will ever change.

• What if my body isn’t failing but asking me to slow down?
• What if ending this relationship allows space for a deeper connection?
• What if losing my job is forcing me not to settle for good enough?
• What if this situation is asking me to finally face a hard truth I’ve been hiding from?

This isn’t naive positivity; it’s a powerful cognitive shift. Curiosity disrupts habitual thinking and creates space for new truths you previously couldn’t imagine. When you explore different realities, you can start seeing opportunity where before all you saw was pain.

Action: List your current struggles. Beside each, write down one bold, curiosity-driven “What if?” question. It isn’t wishful thinking—it’s challenging yourself to open your mind to a new possibility.

2. Radical responsibility is your personal power.

We’re all storytellers, weaving meaning into the events in our lives. For years, my narrative was, “This isn’t fair,” “Why did this happen to me,” or “I’m sick, so something’s fundamentally wrong with me.”

While not great for my mental health, this narrative provided comfort because there is safety in certainty—and if you’re the victim of your own story, you don’t need to change. But comfort came at the cost of my agency. Even if it isn’t your fault, you are responsible for the state of your life because what you don’t change, you choose.

Over time, I recognized that while the limitations of my illness were real, my identity didn’t have to be defined by them. Radical responsibility doesn’t mean blaming yourself or anyone else for life’s twists. It means reclaiming your ability to choose how you interpret and handle those events.

I eventually chose to rewrite my narrative: my illness wasn’t proof I was broken; it was evidence of my resilience, a catalyst for growth, and my greatest teacher. This allowed me to create a reality where I wasn’t just enduring a chronic illness; I was thriving and learning how to become the best version of myself.

Action: Write down a belief that’s keeping you stuck. Rewrite it starting with, “I choose to believe… because…” Then decide if that belief is serving you, or if you want to make a different choice. Notice how this shift feels. You control the narrative, not the circumstance.

3. Community is the key to courage.

Facing uncertainty alone is overwhelming and counterproductive. Who you surround yourself with not only provides support; it shapes your reality profoundly. I learned quickly that surrounding myself with people who validated my struggles instead of my growth kept me spinning in cycles.

Statements like “Life isn’t fair,” “There is never enough,” or “That’s just how things are” are everywhere, but they become silent saboteurs. What you say and who you spend time with shape what you believe is possible for yourself and others.

Finding people, places, and hobbies that support your curiosity, challenge your perception of what is possible, and encourage your evolution are essential. I’ve been moments away from quitting countless times, only to be saved by those who reminded me of my strength and progress. I look at the people around me with deep love, gratitude, and respect because how they show up in the world reminds me of what’s possible.

Action: Reflect honestly on your relationships. List people who inspire courage and growth and those who reinforce limitations, even if they mean well. Prioritize nurturing the supportive connections.

The Takeaway

My experience navigating a lifetime of chronic illness has taught me that you can’t fight the inevitable, messy parts of life. They aren’t always fair (or fun), but you can find freedom instead of fear during the liminal spaces. Embracing uncertainty, however uncomfortable, has shown me that when everything is unknown, anything is possible.

If you’re skeptical, I understand—I’ve been there. But what if the unknown isn’t something to fear but something to explore? What if embracing uncertainty is the secret superpower you’ve been looking for?

Whether it’s dealing with chronic illness or any other unexpected plot twist life throws your way, stepping into the unknown isn’t easy, but trust me, it’s so worth it. On the other side is a life that is authentically, unapologetically yours—messy, imperfect, and profoundly liberating.

About Erin Brennan

Erin Brennan is a storyteller and filmmaker who believes the best way through life’s messiest moments is to invite fear in for a glass of wine. Erin’s work challenges you to swap certainty for curiosity. With a subtle shift in perspective, she invites you to find possibility in the unknown, if you’re brave enough to show up and say yes. Erin is currently working on her first documentary, asking: What if chasing your wildest dreams meant staring down your biggest fears? Her writing delivers tough love and unfiltered honest insights to help people get out of their own way to live life on their own terms.

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