“It is completely okay to mourn your old life. That ache isn’t weakness-it is grief, the quiet price we pay for the versions of ourselves we had to leave behind.”
-Skylar Carreker
Coming home from college, I longed for the contentment of our old familiar walking path. Instead, a freshly paved community trail became our unexpected backdrop for my favorite new routine. Every afternoon, my mother and I stepped onto that smooth asphalt, effortlessly weaving five miles into our day. The distance flew by, filled with long, winding conversations where we dissected our deepest dreams, aspirations, my shifting plans for the future, and everything in between. It became our sacred summer ritual- a pocket of time carved out exclusively for us. But within a single year, everything shifted.
By the following summer, my body no longer cooperated. My mobility changed drastically to the point where I could no longer manage even a quarter mile. The smooth path that once brought us closer together suddenly felt insurmountable. My walking became visibly unsteady, a frustrating vulnerability that felt painfully noticeable and embarrassing in public.
Some parts of my life changed forever during that time, and adapting to that new reality has been a heavy journey. More than anything, I find myself remembering a memorable walk with my mom. Our routine looks different now, and some doors have closed. I still hold tight to the echoes of those five-mile conversations. They remind me that the dreams we talked about are still worth holding onto. Even if the path to get there looks completely different than planned.
Even though it had only been a year since I graduated from college, I still vividly remember outings with my classmates on the Oxford Square and walking across the grove to class. I have always loved high heels-especially Jessica Simpson ones. My confidence to strut showed in my ability to navigate the height of those heels and maintain my poise. Back then, I loved the admiration and attention those heels brought me. Little did I know, it would foreshadow a twist just a year later with the sudden, challenging onset of drop foot. Suddenly, walking in essential tennis shoes became a struggle. Nevertheless, I decided to donate only some of my heels and keep the rest. I was determined to walk in them again. I refused to let my identity be dismissed entirely by a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. This journey makes my story both authentic and undeniable.
Emotionally, I was completely unequipped to handle my body’s sudden rebellion. Watching it fail to meet my basic needs triggered a dark shift inside me, turning grief into internalized anger and resentment towards others. I felt trapped in an uncontrollable limbo, an interim that eventually cost me my sense of self.
I refuse to believe I won’t improve, but hope does not lessen the weight of my physical limitations. Simple tasks, such as lifting my leg over the tub to shower, have become major obstacles. Even when my condition did not improve, I remained determined to focus on what I could control. Yet that mindset carries its own pressure: when circumstances remain beyond your control despite your best efforts, your self-esteem can suffer. Still, I have learned to face each day’s challenges with confidence and creativity, adapting as needed to move forward.
Grief isn’t a negative emotion; it’s a vital mechanism for adjusting and moving forward. We all experience grief at some point in our lives. Through this deeply human process, we can fold and turn new chapters as we evolve, because nothing stays the same. Acceptance is a crucial part of the journey. It lets us move forward, embrace what’s new, and face the challenges that will shape who we are. Ultimately, our identity rests on ethos, logos, and pathos: our character, our logic, and our deepest emotions.
Ethos refers to the distinguishing character, sentiment, moral nature, or guiding beliefs of a person, group, or institution. When chronic illness strikes, shifting this inner ethos can completely change how we process grief. Life becomes different, and those daily shifts naturally reshape our relationships, health, spirituality, and perspective on the world.
The diagnosis of a chronic illness brings about the ethos component because one may feel that the diagnosis is not correct (guiding beliefs) and ask the universe, “Why me”? This disruption often triggers a profound existential crisis, leading one to ask the universe the profound, questionable question of “What did I do?” As unfamiliar bodily changes conflict with long-held life plans, individuals must confront a harsh reality: life does not adhere to their innate sense of justice or the future they reasonably imagined for themselves.
Receiving a chronic illness diagnosis introduces a profound crisis of identity, upending an individual’s perceived trajectory. Unfamiliar bodily changes alienate the individual from their physical self, rendering previous life plans obsolete. Ultimately, chronic illness dismantles the human expectation of cosmic fairness, forcing patients to reconcile the stark contrast between the life they imagined and the reality they must now navigate.
Logos traditionally means “word,” “thought,” “principle,” or “speech,” and philosophers and theologians have long used it in this sense. Logos reaches the realm of logic, which favors denotational (diction) meaning over connotation (feeling) because it guides the reader toward sound reasoning, yielding valid inferences and a concrete conclusion from both logical and observational viewpoints.
Chronic Illness diagnosis about logos brings forth many objective points that the diagnosis can bring forth, such as the stages of grief: denial, pleading, bargaining, desperation, anger, anxiety, depression, loss of self, confusion, and acceptance.
Denial doesn’t center only on the person with the diagnosis; it impacts everyone around them, too. For instance, when I was diagnosed, my father instantly said, “Well, we can just cleanse this out of you with different cleanses.” Others might say, “You look fine,” “I would never have known if you hadn’t said anything,” or “Well, I don’t see the symptoms you mentioned.” Denial doesn’t just reside with the individual fighting a chronic illness; it also takes root in outside support systems like friends, neighbors, and family members.
Pleading often arises when an illness takes a difficult turn; a person may begin to plead with a higher power or the universe, believing they must change the situation. During this process, they might bargain for an alternative life or even a lesser circumstance than they are used to – offering a compromise that seems more reasonable than the painful reality they are currently facing.
Desperation in chronic illness can bring forth the other denominators of anger, anxiety, depression, loss of self, and confusion, which will ultimately lead to acceptance. Feelings of desperation may lead some individuals experiencing the illness to make impulsive decisions regarding medical treatment, which can result in additional complicated challenges.
Dealing with the diagnosis of a chronic illness can be challenging, but it can be understood through both logical and theological reasoning. The scientific aspects focus on the molecular and anatomical components of the human body that lead to disease. Conversely, the theological component involves aligning one’s reasoning with biblical truths. This scriptural framework offers an uncompromised, honest reality for believers, as beautifully illustrated in Colossians 3:23-24: “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.”
Pathos uses narrative to honor the profound weight of chronic illness, intentionally evoking raw emotions that reflect reality. By building emotional intensity toward the testimony’s climax and conclusion, I can forge a deep, unbreakable connection. This heightened emotional state transforms the final diagnosis and the subsequent loss of the past list into a deeply moving, unforgettable experience.
The 2020 novel The Anatomy of Grief explores the vast landscape of human loss, drawing on real-life events to examine both anticipatory and normal grief. It beautifully captures the different elements of mourning and highlights its non-linear evolution.
Dorothy P. Hollinger enhances how the brain, heart, and body can heal after loss. The word nonlinear means not linear, sequential, or straightforward; random (Merriam-Webster,2024). The emphasis on nonlinearity is proclaimed because, while grieving the form of one’s old life, the order will not be the same for every individual; I choose to think of the grieving process forward, meaning a different emotional battle every day; some days are great, and some days are not as great. Because my symptoms change daily, I could not face the same grief every day.
I have experienced a fragment of remission where life felt normal; I thought I was saying goodbye to the illness, and then when the relapse occurred and the symptoms worsened, it was like starting the grief all over again. I feel out of control, lost, and depressed. I feel out of control because I have always had to forget plans for my life, and I keep asking myself why and what I did. Nevertheless, I slowly and surely creep back into positive thoughts and leave hindsight behind. I instilled in myself the idea of creating a mark for myself that would commemorate my grief through The Sky Is the Limit Multiple Sclerosis Foundation.
Citation:
Odes, L.G., Steger, M.F., Delle Fave, Fave, A., & Passmore, J. (Eds.). (2017). The Wiley Blackwell handbook of the psychology of positivity and strength-based approaches at work. Wiley Blackwell.
Hollinger, D.P. (2020). The Anatomy of Grief: How the Brain, Heart, and Body Can Heal After Loss. Yale University Press.HTTPs://dpi.org/10.12987/9780300256086
