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.