Learning to Live Slower (Without Choosing To)

For me, slowing down wasn’t a choice. I slowed down because my body made the decision for me. At first, I resisted. I attempted to negotiate with my health. Surely, if I got a handle on my life by sleeping better and exercising more, I could fix this. Maybe, if just I tried harder and pushed myself more, things would return to normal.

I can assure you that if my strategy had worked and things had returned to normal, I wouldn’t be writing this blog.

Chronic illness begs that I accept limits I didn’t want and slow down timelines I didn’t plan. It has meant realizing that taking care of myself can no longer be optional and something I do after everything else is done. These days, taking care of myself is the work—and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done because it goes against everything I was taught. It also goes against every one of my instincts as a nurse, a woman, and a perfectionist. Somehow, I would have to learn how to turn off (or, at least, turn down) my default setting.

These days, my full-time job consists of allocating my very limited energy stores towards managing symptoms, scheduling medical appointments, attending medical appointments, driving to and from appointments, ordering medications, picking up medications, taking medications, resting, recovering, and maintaining some form of basic personal hygiene. Day after day, rinse and repeat. And don’t forget the recurring symptom flares thrown in to remind you to not get too comfortable. That leaves what little energy I may have left to move my body, keep up with chores and managing a household, caring for my pets, keeping human relationships, and participating in the occasional low-energy hobby. It’s like a cruel remake of “Groundhog Day”, where the only thing that really changes is how shitty you feel today.

I would be lying if I said there isn’t grief in this realization.

Grief for the version of myself who could move faster, do more, and say yes without paying a price. There’s also grief for the future I expected to unfold. No one really prepares you for the kind of grief that occurs from a million tiny losses collected over time.

Initially, slowing down felt like a personal failure. I was terrified of falling behind and I feared becoming small if I success was no longer my purpose.

But something surprising happened when I stopped fighting the slower pace that my body was desperately screaming for.

I had more time to think. I had more time to notice how I actually felt instead of how I thought I should feel. All of a sudden, I had the time to reflect on what mattered—and what didn’t.

Without the pressure to perform, I began to see how much of my identity had been built around productivity and approval. This was also when I realized that I had no idea who I was because I was so focused on what (not even who) I believed I should be. I realized that the life I was furiously clawing at was just a shiny image of external validation resting on a broken foundation.

Slowly but uncomfortably, I am trying to let that go.

Today, my life is smaller in most ways. It may also be quieter and clearer at times. But in every way, my life is more honest.

I’m learning that joy doesn’t have to be loud to be real, tiny wins can be celebrated, and big wins can be celebrated quietly. Achievements don’t have to impress for them to count. Progress shows up in simple routines, in rest that restores, and in the moments I used to run past and miss. I can say with complete honesty that the biggest achievements come in moments of not trying to prove anything—and in those moments, I’m beginning to actually like who I am for the first time in my life.

For me, becoming type C is about grieving a life I had, letting go of what I thought I wanted, and learning to accept what I was given—while also discovering that this new life might hold exactly what I didn’t know I needed.

What Is Type C?

If you grew up in the 90s like I did, you may remember the obsession many of us had with teen magazines. I remember skipping over all of the fashion articles and the posters of celebrities in search of my favourite section: the personality quizzes.

I’ve always been fascinated with sociology and what makes a person who they are. Of course, the quizzes published in the magazines weren’t to be taken seriously, but I’ve always been interested in what makes us all different.

Some of the most well-known personality types are what we call “Type A” and “Type B”. During my research, I found that these are less about personality traits, but rather how we relate to time, success, self-worth, and our environment.

Type A

The Type A personality will typically show a behaviour pattern of high drive, competitiveness, urgency and (you guessed it)—high achievement. People with this personality type tend to feel a strong desire to achieve and progress, they are often goal-oriented and self-disciplined, and feel a sense of time urgency. Interestingly, they have a tendency to associate self-worth with productivity and success, struggle to rest without guilt, and feel uncomfortable with stagnancy. Then there’s the tendency to push through stress, illness, and exhaustion. Although this personality may look like a cheat code to success, some of the hidden costs of being Type A include: chronic stress or burnout, anxiety around rest or slowing down, identity collapse during illness or loss, difficulty listening to bodily limits, and shame when productivity slows or halts completely. Check, check, check, check, and check. It is no surprise that Type A, “high-functioning” people become completely destabilized by chronic illness. When chronic illness says “effort does not equal outcome”, the Type A brain is screaming “if I only try harder, I’ll get better”.

When a Type A can no longer use achievement as a coping mechanism, they don’t just become tired and frustrated—they become completely lost and disoriented.

The true danger here is when the mismatch between a thinking pattern and a changed body is seen by the Type A as a personal failure.

Type B

Contrary to Type A, a person with a Type B personality has a tendency to be more relaxed and flexible. Although they can still be very driven, the difference is seen in what drives them; Type B is less driven by urgency and competition, and more driven by balance, enjoyment, and a sense of ease. Type B people tend to feel more comfortable moving at a slower pace, tolerate uncertainty more easily, find it easier to rest, and are capable of separating self-worth from productivity. They are, by no means, lazy, unmotivated, or unaccomplished, but simply don’t define themselves through success. The Type B may experience less stress, better work-life balance, and more enjoyment of the present. Within wellness culture, Type B is typically seen as the healthier and more desirable alternative to Type A.

And I so desperately wanted to be…well, Type B.

So, what is Type C?

I do want to briefly mention that there are actually additional personality types that exist: In this sense, Type C people tend to be analytical, logical, and stressed, whereas Type D people tend to be anxious, worried, and negative.

For the sake of this blog, my version of Type C (“C” for “chronic illness”) is something you become. It’s not something you’re born with or raised to be, but a way of living that emerges when the body sets limits that the mind didn’t plan for—through experiencing things like chronic illness, disability, burnout, grief, trauma, or long-term stress. In my experience, most Type C people used to be Type A’s—raised in achievement culture but unable to organize their lives around productivity, urgency, or control.

Instead, a Type C organizes their life around attunement—the practice of listening closely and responding accurately to yourself, your body, and the moment (the present). In simple terms, Type C attunement is the practice of responding to reality as it is—not as you wish it were. It’s not about giving up. Nor is it about being relaxed. It is about learning to live honestly and authentically inside your reality. Ultimately, Type C is shaped by bodily limits, unpredictability, forced slowness, and the dismantling of achievement as identity.

In practice, a Type C stops before exhaustion (not after), chooses rest now instead of collapsing later, notices emotional depletion as true fatigue, sets boundaries without self-judgement, allows rest without self-guilt or shame, understands that effort doesn’t always match results, practices energy preservation, accepts inconsistency, adjusts accordingly, and exists in the present. Outwardly, this may look like “doing less” to some; however, it is a form of self-trust and skilled regulation—and it is essential to our survival and wellbeing.

The Type C paces instead of pushing. Listens to the body instead of overriding. Plans loosely and revises often. Values sustainability over intensity. To a Type C, success is found in preservation (not in productivity or production). They live where effort meets personal limits and they choose honesty over denial. It isn’t laziness, resignation, lack of ambition, failure, or a wellness aesthetic, but a person who cares deeply about meaning, contribution, and integrity. A true Type C no longer sacrifices the body or mind in order to prove their worthiness—and it is a process, not an endpoint.

The process of becoming Type C may involve: grieving your former self, facing fear about the future, experiencing shame in slowing down, unlearning achievement culture, and even a complete identity crisis. However, there is often relief in no longer performing to capacity.

Type C is not less, it’s just a different way of being. It’s more directional, it’s quieter, and it’s honest. It is the unmasked self—the self who lives in alignment with your values, the self who takes care of you because you’re worthy of wellness, and the self who deeply matters to you—not because of what you achieve or produce, but just because you’re you and you’re here.

(And I am glad that you’re here).

Becoming Type C

I used to be so good at achieving. In fact, my entire life was built around it—“what’s next” was all I ever cared about.

Good grades. Clear goals. Big plans. A life built around constant momentum—what was next, what was bigger, what was better, and what comes after this. I knew how to strive and perform, and I believed I’d find fulfillment once I achieved the next thing—I was convinced that I’d find the ultimate happiness once I attained success.

Then my body stopped cooperating.

My chronic illness didn’t arrive as a single dramatic moment. Although I can pinpoint the exact moment in March 2020 when the illness began, it arrived quietly, then persistently, then completely. Fatigue deep in my bones that didn’t resolve with any amount sleep. Pain that didn’t make sense as an active person and at my age. A nervous system that suddenly refused to respond to willpower alone. The strategies that had always worked—discipline, grit, and the thought of the destination—stopped working.

At first, I just tried harder.

I treated my physical illness like it was a mental one. I treated the pain and fatigue like a temporary setback, something to outwork or out-think. I assumed I was clinically depressed because I was unable to keep up with life’s daily demands. I spent many days unable to get out of bed.

I had been here before. During my last year of nursing school, I was so burnt out from my full-time studies and working 3 jobs. I was also being bullied by my preceptor. I started taking Cipralex (an antidepressant) prescribed by a doctor at my university’s health clinic, which allowed me to push through until graduation. Once I graduated and quit two of the three jobs I was working, I was able to come off the meds.

“This must be depression”, I thought. So I started taking antidepressants and assumed I’d return to who I was before. Easy solution.

Unfortunately, the return never came. I still couldn’t get out of bed. In fact, the medications made me feel worse. I found myself becoming something else entirely.

I’ve since named it Type C. Not Type A, with its drive and urgency, and what I used to define myself as. Not Type B, relaxed and easygoing, and what I often wished I could be. But something quieter, slower, more fragile—and strangely more honest.

Type C lives in a body with limits. Type C plans loosely, rests often, and recalculates constantly. Type C feels apprehensive about tasks that others find simple, such managing to shower today. Type C measures competency in spoons (energy). Type C measures success in tasks completed today instead of goals achieved this year.

This shift is incredibly disorientating. Since my diagnoses, grief has been a constant companion—grief for the body I trusted and took for granted, the future I naively assumed, the version of myself who could do what I wanted without a myriad of consequences to follow.

We now live in a world where hustle culture is the new normal. Simplicity is seen as failure. Rise and grind is the expectation. If you’re content with your life, surely there’s something wrong with you. Working yourself to the bone is seen as a badge of honour. Busyness is used as a coping mechanism— if we’re too busy to feel emotional pain, we can simply ignore it. You’ll finally be happy when you achieve success and you can rest when you’re dead. And your value as a person is measured by what you produce—not by who you are.

There is shame in slowing down in a world that rewards speed and applauds self-sacrifice for greatness. There is fear in letting go of achievement when it once felt like the only proof that you matter. There is fear in stopping the performance. Listening to your body instead of constantly pushing feels wrong and unfamiliar. But, perhaps there is some relief to be found in learning that a smaller life is not necessarily an empty one.

This blog isn’t about inspiration, productivity hacks, or “finding the silver lining”. It’s about the messy middle: the identity shift—or crisis—that comes with a diagnosis. The reality is that we have no choice but to unlearn hustle culture as our default and go about the quiet work of building a life that fits the body you now have—because our lives simply depend on it.

I don’t have the answers, but I’m slowly learning to adjust. I am still grieving. I am still sad and I am still angry. I also feel deeply betrayed by my own body. And I’m trying desperately to learn how to live—and maybe even live well—inside this new constraint.

Here, reflection takes precedence over resolution.

I am becoming Type C in real time. If you are too—I invite you to stay awhile.