At 6:41pm last night, I was on the bathroom floor bargaining with god and my digestive system. By 4am, I’d thrown up 5x and wasn’t sure if I was sweating from fever or effort. The sensory input was relentless.
There’s a special kind of dread when pain swallows your thoughts whole. No looping obsessions. No work replays. Just get through the next minute.
Because here’s the thing; chronic illness rearranges your life regularly. For example, I did not plan to write this… I had another article to share. But sometime after 4am I realized this may important for someone to hear.
You see, I used to spiral about email, leadership decisions, “what that message really meant.” You know, normal stuff. But when your body is revolting even overthinking calls in sick.
There’s just the next minute.
And the next.
You stare at the ceiling wondering if this is a flare or the finale. You try to remember if you took your meds, and not to hope too hard that it will pass any minute, because disappointment adds mental anguish with each spasm…
Then 7am hits and your body finishes its tantrum.
You’re not fully better, but the worst is over and your grateful your 9am is with a favorite human.
Chronic illness is weird like that.
You get incredibly good at being “fine.”
I’m sure I could win an Oscar for my performance in “High-Functioning Human.” People see me smiling, showing up, posting articles… and I am that person.
But I’m also a person who spent the last 12 years watching “normal” shift like sand under my feet.
Someone who’s sat in meetings hoping to make it to the end without an awkward exit; while inside I’m a hostage negotiator trying to keep my digestive system from going postal.
That is why SNAK isn’t just a framework for me. It’s how I stay.
Skills: Reading the early warnings in my body like a cypher. Stocking four types of electrolytes like a prepper.
Network: People who check in when I go silent. A cousin that sends frog memes in the middle of the night.
Activities: Movement that doesn’t punish. Creative outlets that remind me I’m more than a body. Rest.
Knowledge: Hard-won data about what I can eat, when I can push, and when I need to reschedule. Knowing on my worst days I am a person and NOT a problem to solve.
And listen, I’m not writing this for sympathy. These episodes I describe are relatively rare at ~5 a year (after recovery this was a daily battle, I’ll take the math.)
I’m writing it because a lot of others are out here living double lives.
Being the strong one, and also silently counting minutes until an attack passes.
Crushing deadlines while your body goes off the rails on a random Tuesday.
So next time someone’s not quite “themself”
Don’t assume they’re slacking.
They might just be surviving.
They might be the strongest person in the room.
They might be me, or you.
If you’ve led through pain no one saw, tell us in the comments what helps you push through?
For me, it’s remembering I have a 100% survival rate so far!
