Navigating the Fear of Missing Out (FOMO) with Chronic Illness

I’ve lived with chronic illness my whole life, but I didn’t really start feeling the weight of missing out until I was about 17—when chronic pain started dictating my choices. Suddenly, “yes” wasn’t my default answer anymore. Every invitation became a calculation, and every plan came with the silent question: Will my body let me?

And sometimes, the answer was no.

That’s when FOMO set in. Not just the lighthearted “oh no, I’m missing the party” kind. This was deeper. I was missing the memorable trips, the spontaneous nights out, the moments where inside jokes were born and bonds were strengthened. I was missing the times that knit people together. And when you miss enough of those, it can start to feel like you’re living in a different world than everyone else.

It’s not just the absence from the event, but the ache afterward—watching the photos go up, hearing the stories retold, realizing you weren’t part of them. And it’s the quiet wondering, “Will they think I don’t care? Will they stop asking?”

I’ve had to learn to sit with that ache instead of trying to shove it down. My feelings are valid, my grief is valid, and pretending otherwise only leaves me lonelier.

Coping, for me, starts with compassion—the kind that says, “I see you. I know this is hard. You’re not weak for needing to say no.” I let myself feel disappointed, and I don’t rush myself through it. It is disappointing. I can’t pretend it’s not.

But there’s also a truth I’ve learned in these years of experiencing FOMO: the people who matter will meet you in these moments. They’ll come to you. They’ll call. They’ll text even when they know you can’t respond right away. They’ll make space for you in ways that don’t demand you push past your limits. And honestly? That’s what strengthens relationships—not simply showing up everywhere, but being met halfway.

Practically, I do what I can to protect my energy. My days are planned down to the hour so I can balance the things I need with the things I want. I have a non-negotiable “wind-down” time every day. It’s my line in the sand where I step back and give my body the rest it’s been begging for. Without it, I burn out. And burnout means more days of saying no than yes.

Do I still wish I could do more? Absolutely. But I’ve stopped measuring my life by how many events I attend. Life is still happening here, in the subtle moments, in the intentional conversations, in the relationships that remain even when I miss the trip or the dinner or the celebration.

So if you’re living with chronic illness and feeling like you’re watching life from the sidelines, I want you to know this: you’re not invisible, even when you’re absent. Your worth isn’t measured by your attendance. And the right people will still see you, even when you can’t show up.