The Duality of Our Reality

As a nurse, I am honoured to listen to others in their most vulnerable moments. My patients have taught be that each person is different and emotions vary widely. While it’s impossible to predict how we will feel in any given situation before we experience it for ourselves, what I know for certain is that there’s no right or wrong way to feel about something. What I’ve also learned is that more than one thing can be true at the same time—especially when it involves the human experience.

We are taught that emotions should be neat, consistent, and simple to identify. That if we’re grateful, there should be no room for sadness. If we’re coping, we shouldn’t be angry. If we’re moving forward, we shouldn’t still be grieving.

But real life doesn’t work that way.

I’m learning that I can miss the person I used to be and still feel peaceful in who I’m becoming. I can be heartbroken by what I’ve lost and grateful for the slower life that I have. I can be hopeful and still have days when everything feels exceptionally heavy.

In general, I’m someone who tends to look for the light. But it’s not possible to be optimistic all the time. I still have days when I feel sad. Days when I feel too tired to be strong. Days when I feel bad for myself. And that doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful. It doesn’t mean I’m failing at acceptance. It just means I’m human.

We are complex and life is complicated. And you are allowed to feel every emotion as they come and as they are.

There’s another part of this duality that people don’t often talk about.

There’s also an unspoken expectation that if I’m unable to work, I shouldn’t be allowed to be happy. As if not being able to work means I should only feel loss and suffer in silence. As if moments of peace or joy somehow make my illness less real.

I already feel like a prisoner in my own body. Sometimes, I’m even a prisoner of my home. I don’t see how forbidding myself from participating in what life has to offer is helpful or fair.

I am devastated that I can’t work in the way that I used to. My profession gave me purpose and a sense of meaning. I didn’t choose this. I miss independence, momentum, being around people, and the feeling of being useful in the world. The grief is real and it lives with me daily.

But there are parts of this slower life that I have to enjoy.

I enjoy listening to my body instead of constantly overriding it.

I enjoy having time to care for my needs.

I enjoy having freedom to find who I am.

I enjoy having space to think, to reflect, to be present.

Finding meaning or moments of joy in this chapter does not mean that I want to stay here. I would choose health if I could. It simply means I’m allowing myself to find the good in a reality I didn’t want or choose. The purpose of this blog isn’t to romanticize illness, but to highlight the things that haven’t been robbed. Making peace with parts of this life doesn’t erase what I’ve lost. It just means that I don’t want to let illness define it.

To anyone who looks at people who are living with illness or a disability and thinks, “But they’re still smiling. They’re still traveling. They’re still happy — how sick could they really be?”:

Joy isn’t a measurement of health.

One good day isn’t proof that we’re healed.

A moment of laughter doesn’t erase limitation.

Being able to move doesn’t mean there’s no pain.

A lack of complaining doesn’t mean there’s no suffering.

And being unable to work doesn’t mean we can’t live.

So smile. Take the trip. Find a new hobby. Do whatever it takes to make this life worth living.

We find joy not because we are fine, but because we have to.

Allowing ourselves happiness doesn’t mean we’re pretending — it’s how we survive being sick.

The reality is:

We can grieve while we grow.

We can hurt while we heal.

We can miss what we had and still appreciate what remains.

We can be sick and still be happy.

These feelings don’t cancel each other out—they exist together.

And they just tell more of the story that is allowed to be true.