The Things I Miss (And the Stories I Tell Myself)

Yesterday, I missed two things that mattered to me: An appointment. And my dad’s birthday.

And even though my body may have had its own reasons, the story my mind tells has been much harsher:

It’s not like you had anything better to do. It’s not like you were busy. It’s not hard to check a calendar. Maybe you’re stupid. Maybe you’re selfish. You’re lazy. You're unreliable. You let people down. You should have tried harder. Maybe you should cancel your upcoming trip; you don’t deserve it.

You just can’t do anything right.

This is one of the cruelest parts of living with chronic illness — not just the things you miss, but the terror that comes with memory lapses and the way you blame yourself.

When all you want is to be capable, responsible, and reliable, but all you feel is guilt, fear, and regret.

This irony is that I was so busy trying to be productive in taking care of myself that I ended up neglecting things that mattered.

I took all my meds, I was focused on getting my daily steps in, I submitted some medical forms that were due, I did some light housecleaning, I was purposeful about avoiding screen time and social media, and I spent the evening writing a blog post.

I wasn’t lazy; I was lost in a world of my own, trying my best to be the “perfect” patient.

And I actually went to bed feeling rather accomplished.

Little did I know, I’d be waking up today to the familiar aching feeling of failure.

I’m realizing that so much of this change isn’t about accepting new limitations — it’s about unlearning the old rules. The ones that say effort should always overcome reality. The ones that tell us we’re unworthy unless we show up perfectly.

Missing something hurts.

Missing something you care about hurts even more.

I didn’t miss them because I don’t care.

I have to keep telling myself it’s not a moral failure.

One of these days, I may start to believe it.

I can feel sad that I forgot.

I can wish yesterday had gone differently.

I can even feel angry about it.

But the battle is in fighting the urge to turn pain into punishment.

It’s in fighting the voice that says, “if you can’t do this right, why bother trying”.

It’s in truly believing I’m doing the best that I can.

And in showing up for myself again tomorrow, despite how I feel today.

I am still learning — slowly and imperfectly — that caring about people can mean surviving today so we can still be here for the next one.

While my inner critic is saying I’m careless — I have to remember I’m human.