Some Days Feel Smaller Than Others

There’s a version of me that still expects to move through life the way I used to.

The version that could work all day, go out afterwards, make plans without calculating energy levels or recovery time. The version that didn’t have to think about whether standing too long would mean being stuck in bed the next day.

Lately, life has felt very different.

The last few months have been incredibly difficult. My health has been challenging in ways that are hard to fully explain unless you’ve lived through it yourself. Around a month ago, I had a fall that really set me back physically, and since then, even getting through a normal day has felt heavy.

Most days involve three or four naps just to function. Some days I work from bed. Other days I need to use my chair around the house, something I still struggle emotionally to accept. There’s a quiet grief that comes with needing support in ways you didn’t expect to need it. Especially when your mind is still full of ideas, goals and plans for the future.

Because that’s the difficult part. I still want to do everything. I still care deeply about my work. I still have dreams for Kindling Minds. I still want to create, support people, build partnerships, and make meaningful change. That passion hasn’t disappeared.

But alongside it sits fear. Real fear.

Fear that my health will prevent me from sustaining the work I love. Fear of overcommitting and crashing afterwards. Fear of not knowing what my body will allow from one week to the next.

There have also been huge personal changes happening quietly in the background.

Going from being in a relationship for five years to suddenly trying to navigate separation while still living in the same house has been emotionally exhausting in ways I don’t think I’ve fully processed yet. It changes the feeling of safe. It changes your routines, your sense of safety, and sometimes your sense of self.

At the same time, this week, my support worker has been away on holiday, (a very well deserved holiday!) which has highlighted just how much invisible support goes into helping me navigate daily life. Without that support, leaving the house becomes near impossible. My dad kindly took me shopping last weekend, and his wife batch cooked enough food to last me all week, but even something as ordinary as getting groceries and cooking now relies on planning, energy, transport, support and recovery afterwards.

People often don’t see those layers.

They see the work getting done. The posts being shared. The workshops being delivered.

They don’t always see the recovery afterwards. Life can feel incredibly isolating when you can’t leave the house independently.

There’s something deeply difficult about needing support for things people often take for granted. Even needing help to shower or get to the bathroom can feel emotionally exhausting. Sometimes it leaves you sitting there wondering whether things are ever going to improve, or whether this is simply what life looks like now. And if I’m honest, sometimes that feels hopeless. Relying on somebody else for basic daily tasks can feel soul-destroying at times, even when the support is given with kindness and care.

My support worker is genuinely one of the kindest people I know. She never makes me feel like I’m asking for too much. She supports me physically, emotionally and mentally in ways I don’t think I could properly put into words. She brings calm into days that otherwise feel overwhelming.

But even with all of that support, there’s still a quiet voice in the back of my mind asking:

“Why can’t life just be what it used to be?”

I think that grief shows up in lots of ways. Sometimes it’s the loss of independence. Sometimes it’s the fear of becoming more unwell. Sometimes it’s very personal things people don’t often talk openly about, like weight, body image, confidence, and identity.

I’ve never been somebody who sat still for very long. I loved PE, sport, the gym, being active, being out and about. Movement used to be part of who I was.

Now, a lot of those things feel emotionally painful because my body no longer responds in the way it once did, and that’s hard to process. When your whole way of living changes, it impacts everything. Your hobbies, your routines, your confidence, your sense of self. Even the things you once loved can start to feel tied to grief rather than joy.

Over time, being unwell physically and struggling mentally has affected me in ways I never expected, including weight gain that I’ve found difficult emotionally. But I’m trying to approach that gently too. Not through punishment or shame, but through small steps, patience, and understanding that my body has been surviving a lot.

I think sometimes we underestimate how much chronic illness changes a person’s relationship with themselves. Not just physically. But emotionally too. And honestly, some things still terrify me.

I’ve been preparing to go into schools and deliver work, while also carrying anxiety. Trying to navigate that emotional weight while remaining professional has been difficult. It completely flattens me afterwards.

I think sometimes people assume resilience means pushing through everything without stopping.

But lately, I’m learning that resilience can also look like rest.

It can look like:

• Cancelling plans,

• Using my wheelchair,

• Working from bed,

• Taking naps,

• Saying “I can’t do that today,”

• Allowing your world to become smaller for a little while so your body and mind can keep going.

That doesn’t mean there isn’t grief attached to it. There is. Especially in a world that makes rest feel lazy and productivity feel like worth. The truth is, it’s okay to need rest days. It’s okay to need support. It’s okay if your body needs more recovery than other people understand.

What’s difficult is that the world isn’t always designed to facilitate that gently, especially outside the home. But I’m trying to remind myself that needing accommodations does not make my goals less valid. It does not make my work less meaningful. And it does not make me less capable of creating something important over time.

It just means I may have to build it differently.

More slowly.
More carefully.
More honestly.

And maybe there’s value in that too. 💛