What My Illness Taught Me About Trusting Myself
I didn’t always trust myself.
In fact, for much of my life (especially in medical settings), it felt natural to second-guess the signals my body was sending me. I was taught to prioritize politeness over discomfort, to defer to authority even when something felt wrong, and to wait patiently and quietly even as pain controlled my life at times.
And then came chronic illness—uninvited, all-consuming, and impossible to ignore.
It began with symptoms that didn’t fit neatly into anyone else’s box. Pain that was “too much” for how little was showing up on scans. Fatigue that wasn’t relieved by rest. Issues that were hard to describe and even harder to prove. Appointment after appointment, I watched doctors tilt their heads and say things like “That’s odd,” or worse, “Are you sure?”
It was in those in-between spaces—the dismissals, the unanswered questions, the long waits—that I began to build something I never expected: a deeper relationship with myself.
Because if no one else could interpret what was happening inside me, I had to start listening more closely. And listening eventually turned into learning, and learning turned into trusting.
I started noticing the subtleties.
When I felt overworked. How my body held itself when I was overwhelmed, and learning how my body often knows that something is wrong long before my brain puts the pieces together.
There were moments I didn’t listen. Times I overrode my own needs to avoid conflict, disappointment, or doubt. And those moments have taught me, too. They remind me that I pay a price every time I abandon myself, and that price is too high.
Over time, I realized: no one else lives in this body. No one else has access to the full scope of my experience. So while collaboration with others (especially compassionate medical professionals) is valuable, the final authority on how I feel—and what I need—is me.
Trust didn’t come all at once.
It grew in the tiny moments I chose to rest instead of push. In the boundaries I set, even when they made others uncomfortable. In the appointments I walked out of because something felt off. In the ones I stayed for, because I could feel safety in the room.
Learning to trust myself hasn’t been about reaching some final goal. It’s an ongoing process, and something I choose to keep showing up for. There are only the choices I make day by day—to believe myself, to back myself, and to soften toward myself even when the world is sharp.
My illness didn’t just change my health.
It changed my relationship to me.
It taught me to listen when things don’t make sense yet. To advocate for myself when no one else will. To feel discomfort and still stay grounded in what I know. To trust that I am not weak for feeling, but that I am wise for honoring what I feel.
I wouldn’t wish this road on anyone, but I’m grateful for the way it brought me home to myself.
Because in a world that constantly asks us to explain, to prove, to shrink, and to wait for permission—learning to trust yourself is no small thing.
It is everything.
