It never does!

When I crash, there are two voices. They are equally loud. They are equally convinced they’re right. And they absolutely cannot stand each other.

One says: We have to get this done.

The other says: I cannot move.

It’s like watching someone play badminton without dropping the ball, for hours…

When we’re chronically ill, chronically exhausted, chronically anything, the crash is not the hard part. In fact, it is the noise inside the crash that keeps going, keeps listing, keeps guilting, and keeps calculating what this horizontal moment is costing you.

The unavoidable truth is that the to-do list is real. The people counting on you are real. The consequences of not doing the thing are real. My anxiety (get-it-done voice) is not inventing problems (yes, shocking!). This is the reality of having responsibilities, very low energy, and a body that is barely making it.

On the other hand, the can’t-move voice is not a drama queen. Pushing at that stage will cost something I don’t have. It’s just borrowing from tomorrow. And tomorrow is already overdrawn.

This is what nobody tells you about rest when you’re running on empty all the time:

It’s not restorative. It’s not peaceful.

Accidental wisdom

I read Murder Mindfully by Karsten Dusse yesterday. Yes, a thriller. Yes! Genuinely fabulous, and somehow also the most unexpected self-help book I’ve picked up in years. Buried inside it is this idea, simple enough to be annoying: When you’re fighting with your wife, fight with your wife. When you’re doing the dishes, do the dishes. Don’t fight with your wife while doing the dishes.

Be where you actually are.

And I’ve been thinking about that a lot all day. Somehow, I think it could help me break that cycle. Because when I’m lying on the bed, I’m lying on the bed. If my mind is already at the desk, at the list, at the thing I haven’t done, I might as well physically be there. I’m not actually resting.

We are so used to multitasking (and yes, we know it's not real, but we do it anyway) that we don't notice when it's actively working against us. I'm trying to practice something simpler: one thing at a time. Mindfulness.

But when I actually stay, when I let myself just be the person on the floor for a minute, something changes. I am less exhausted, which means I conserve energy. There’s less fighting the fact of it. And somehow, that costs less.

So naturally, I tried to cram three weeks’ worth of living into 24 hours.

Big mistake.

Good day panic

There’s this thing that happens when you live with chronic illness or mental health conditions — when you have a rare good day, you panic. Not because it’s bad, but because you know it won’t last.

Your brain starts calculating: “If I feel this good right now, I need to get everything done. I need to make up for all the days I couldn’t function. I need to prove I’m not as sick as I thought.”

So you overstretch. You say yes to everything. You tackle the entire backlog of tasks you’ve been putting off. You make plans, clean the house, work late, socialize, and exercise; sometimes all in the same day.

You know your limits, but you ignore them because FOMO kicks in. Fear of missing out on feeling human. Fear that if you don’t use every minute of this energy, you’re wasting it.

The crash

Then comes tomorrow. Or the day after. Or sometimes the same evening.

The crash hits like an 18-wheeler. Your body presents the bill for borrowing against future energy reserves, and the interest is brutal. You feel flattened, like in Tom & Jerry. Brain fog rolls in. Pain flares up. The simplest tasks feel impossible.

And then the spiral starts: “This is going to last forever. I’ll never feel good again. Why did I think I was getting better? I’m back to square one.”

But underneath that despair is another fear that sounds completely contradictory: “What if this crash doesn’t last forever? What if I have another good day next week and I waste it again?”

You start doing terrible math in your head. “If I only get one good day per month, I can’t afford to rest during it.” Or “I’ve been useless for two weeks, so I owe myself 14 days’ worth of productivity in this one good day.”

But bodies don’t work like bank accounts. You can’t save up energy, and you can’t make up for lost time by doubling down when you feel better. Trying to balance the books just puts you deeper in debt.

The good day wasn’t a lie or a tease. It was real. But it was also finite, and pretending otherwise just makes the crash worse.

The double fear

When you’re in the crash, you experience two opposing fears simultaneously:

“This will never end.” The exhaustion feels permanent. You forget what a good day felt like. You convince yourself you imagined the improvement.

“This will end, and I’ll waste the next good day too.” You’re already planning how to handle the next burst of energy “better,” which usually means making the same mistakes again.

Both fears keep you stuck. The first one makes you despair. The second one makes you desperate.

Learning to not blow it

The hardest lesson is learning that a good day isn’t a free pass to ignore your limitations. It’s still a day within your chronic condition, just a better one.

This means using the energy you have, not the energy you wish you had. It means doing important things, not everything. It means enjoying feeling better without trying to make up for every bad day that came before.

Sometimes the most radical thing you can do on a good day is pace yourself. Rest when you need to, even when you feel like you don’t. Save some energy for tomorrow instead of spending it all today.

The good day still has value even if you don’t maximize every minute. Actually, it has more value because you get to wake up the next day without immediately paying interest on the energy you borrowed.

How do you handle the panic of a good day? What helps you pace instead of overdo?

“What if I mess up?” leads to “What if they think I’m incompetent?” which leads to “What if I lose my job?” which somehow leads to “What if I die alone, surrounded by cats?”

(Even if you don’t like cats.)

The problem isn’t that we ask “what if” questions. It’s that we let them spiral without actually answering them. We get stuck in the loop of worry without moving toward solutions or acceptance.

The power of writing it down

Here’s what happens when you write down your “what ifs”: you literally change how your brain processes them.

Your brain is wired to scan for threats. This is an ancient survival mechanism that kept our ancestors from becoming saber-tooth tiger snacks. But in modern life, this threat-detection system goes haywire. It treats a difficult conversation with your boss the same way it would treat a predator stalking you.

When anxious thoughts swirl in your head, they stay in your emotional brain (the amygdala), where they trigger fight-or-flight responses. But when you write them down, you engage your prefrontal cortex (the rational, problem-solving part of your brain). You literally move the anxiety from the panic center to the planning center.

Writing also forces specificity. Anxiety hates specificity. It thrives in vague, shadowy fears but withers when you drag it into the light and make it explain itself.

Step 1: Getting brutally specific

Here’s where most people get it wrong. They try to immediately reassure themselves or brush off the fear. Instead, get specific. Drill down. Map it out.

“What if I get fired?”

OK, define “fired.” How would that actually happen? What would lead to it?

“What if I make a mistake on this project and my boss loses confidence in me?”

What kind of mistake? How big? What would your boss actually do about it?

“What if I miss the deadline, the client gets angry, my boss blames me, and I get put on a performance improvement plan?”

OK, now we’re getting somewhere specific. What would you do if you were put on a performance improvement plan?

“I don’t know. I guess I’d try to meet the requirements? Or maybe look for another job?”

Right. And what would happen if you had to look for another job?

“It would be stressful and expensive, but I’ve job-hunted before. I have skills. I have references.”

See what happened there? We went from “What if I get fired?” (massive, overwhelming threat) to “I’d have to job-hunt, which would be stressful but manageable” (specific problem with possible solutions).

The key is to keep drilling until you hit something concrete. Don’t let your brain get away with vague catastrophes.

Vague: “What if something terrible happens at my doctor’s appointment?” Specific: “What if they find something abnormal in my bloodwork, refer me to a specialist, and I have to wait three weeks for results while not knowing if it’s serious?”

Vague: “What if I can’t handle my chronic pain anymore?”
Specific: “What if my pain gets worse during this flare-up, I can’t work from home effectively, I fall behind on deadlines, and I have to ask for accommodations?”

Vague: “What if my presentation is a disaster?”
Specific: “What if I freeze up in the first two minutes, lose my train of thought, and have to look at my notes while everyone sits there waiting?”

Now you can work with something real instead of wrestling with shadows.

Step 2: Mapping out the responses

Once you’ve got specifics, map out what you’d actually do. Not what you should do, not what a confident person would do — what YOU would actually do.

“What if I freeze up during my presentation?”

• I’d take a breath and look at my notes.

• I’d say something like “Let me gather my thoughts for a moment.”

• I’d start with the first bullet point on my slide.

• If it were really bad, I’d acknowledge it and move forward.

“What if I have to ask for workplace accommodations?”

• I’d research what’s available through HR.

• I’d talk to my doctor about what I need.

• I’d have a conversation with my manager.

• I’d document everything.

“What if the specialist finds something serious?”

• I’d ask a lot of questions.

• I’d bring someone with me to appointments.

• I’d research treatment options.

• I’d take it one breath at a time.

Sometimes the answer is “I don’t know.” That’s fine too. “I don’t know, but I’d figure it out when I got there” is still more helpful than “SOMETHING TERRIBLE WILL HAPPEN.”

Step 3: Go back and write down what really happened

Bad things do happen. But they’re rarely as catastrophic as our brains predict, and we’re almost always more capable of handling them than we give ourselves credit for.

The pattern I’ve noticed:

• What my brain predicted: Complete disaster with cascading terrible consequences.

• What actually happened: Minor inconvenience that I handled just fine (or nothing most of the time).

• What I learned: I’m more capable than my anxiety wants me to believe (anxiety was lying).

Your brain is trying to protect you by preparing for the worst-case scenario. But it also needs evidence that you can handle things. Give it that evidence by documenting reality, not just fears.

“What ifs” serve a purpose

My therapist showed me that these intrusive thoughts are not always pointless torture. Sometimes they’re your brain’s way of getting you to plan for something that has actually happened before, or could realistically happen again.

Not that it will always happen. But sometimes your anxiety is onto something, and the trick is channeling it into preparation instead of paralysis. Choose to go from spiraling to strategizing.

Anxiety version: “What if I have a panic attack at this event?” (Stays stuck in the worry loop, imagining disaster, feeling helpless)

Planning version: “What if I have a panic attack at this event? I’ll bring my anxiety toolkit, scope out the exits when I arrive, let my friend know I might need to step outside, and remind myself that panic attacks are temporary and I’ve survived every one I’ve ever had, even when I thought I didn’t, even when I just barely made it.” (Moves toward concrete actions)

The planning version moves you toward action. The anxiety version keeps you frozen.

When you make the writing-it-down process a habit, your brain starts to trust that you’ll actually think through problems instead of just panicking about them. The “what if” thoughts get quieter because they know they’ll be heard and addressed.

Your “what if” assignment

1. Pick your most persistent “what if.”

2. Write it down.

3. Then drill down until you hit specifics. Keep asking “What exactly?” and “Then what?” until you’ve mapped out the actual scenario your brain is worried about.

4. Then write down what you’d actually do if it happened. Not the catastrophic spiral, but the practical next step. Even if that next step is “I don’t know, but I’d figure something out.”

5. At the end of the day, go back and write down what actually happened.

Do this activity for a month.

At best, you’ll have a few plans. At worst, you’ll have material for a bestselling book. :D

What are your most pesky “what-ifs”? Try this and let me know how it works in the comments.

David Rush specializes in three-ball cascade juggling (the most basic juggling pattern that forms the foundation of all juggling). He failed three times before succeeding. On his first attempt, he had to stop after 3.5 hours when his wife went into labor. On his second, he made it 10 hours and 53 minutes before two balls collided. On his third attempt, he juggled for 10 hours and 27 minutes before a ball unexpectedly hit the floor, and he couldn’t even figure out what went wrong.

Even someone who has dedicated his career to perfecting the most basic juggling pattern (and who holds multiple world records for speed, endurance, and precision) eventually drops all the balls. He has to put it down.

So why do we expect ourselves to keep everything in the air indefinitely?

You can’t do more than 3

Randi Zuckerberg, former Facebook executive, has a name for this impossible juggling act: Work, Sleep, Family, Fitness, Friends - Pick Three.

That’s it. Not all five every day. Just three.

This framework went viral because it names what we all experience but rarely admit: you literally cannot do everything well simultaneously. My friends at recently wrote about The myth of doing it all, sharing how they’re all “floundering at all of it” in different ways. described how “it’s not even that I’m struggling to do it all, it’s that I’m struggling to do anything well.” admitted, “I kind of half ass it all” because the alternative (perfectionist management of chronic health conditions) is utterly exhausting.

Alive and (un)Well

The myth of doing it all

Welcome to Solicited Advice, our weekly column that celebrates the helpfulness in health. Because in a world where strangers at the grocery store love to tell you that a specific brand of magnesium will indeed “cure” what ails you (it probably won’t, so sorry), we’re all about passing on our lived experience in a way that ma…

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7 months ago · 9 likes · 3 comments · Alive and (un)Well BFFs

What if you can’t even pick one?

When you live with invisible illness, chronic pain, or mental health conditions, some days, even picking one might not be possible. Some days, just surviving and making it through the hour or the day is an achievement.

The framework still holds (modified for the Barely Making It club). Your “three” might now look like: rest, medication, and breathing through the hard moments.

The point is, we don’t actually just have three neat categories to choose from. Health isn’t ONE thing. You’re juggling mental health with physical health while getting the lunch box ready for your kid who’s rolling on the floor wearing black where the dog just shook fur everywhere (true story). You’re managing sensory overload, medication timing, work deadlines, and trying to remember if you ate today.

Being in a loud environment might bring you down so completely that you can’t pick anything from the traditional list. But you’re not “not picking anything.” You’re picking self-stabilization, recovery, baselining. You’re choosing survival mode, sensory regulation, and damage control. That’s still picking three things. And let’s be honest, in reality, we’re always juggling more than that, which is why we keep dropping.

Professional jugglers prove this point. The record for four balls is just 2 hours and 46 minutes. For five balls, 3 hours and 44 minutes. For seven balls, only 16 minutes. The most balls ever juggled? Eleven, lasting less than a minute.

The more you juggle, the more you drop, and the quicker you drop them. This is not failure or lack of skill. It is just physics.

The art of strategic dropping

Unlike David Rush juggling actual balls, we’re juggling work deadlines and family time, health appointments and household chores, relationships and personal dreams. And somehow we expect to keep all these balls in the air for decades without breaks or failures.

When we drop balls, we spiral into shame. We apologize endlessly and promise it won’t happen again. But what if we treated dropped balls as inevitable and strategic?

Rubber balls bounce back: Messy house, delayed emails, missed workouts, and takeout dinners

Glass balls shatter: Your health, important relationships, and core values

The goal is to be intentional about your pick.

What gets your energy today? And what can wait?

Just be human!

David Rush’s record is extraordinary precisely because it’s impossible to sustain. Even with MIT-level planning and years of practice, he hit human limits. We don’t expect ourselves to run marathons daily, yet somehow we expect superhuman life management.

You have permission to pick three priorities, let non-essential tasks slide, ask for help, and recognize that dropping balls doesn’t make you a failure. Maybe the most radical thing we can do is stop trying to be superhuman jugglers and accept that being human means some balls will always fall.

The real skills? Learn what matters most, recognize when you’re juggling too much, be strategic with your energy, and forgive yourself for having human limits.

What balls are you trying to juggle right now? Which three deserve your energy today?

Yet, when I enter that exam room and sit across from the doctor, my mind goes completely blank. I end up feeling stupid and inarticulate, just nodding along, or stammering for the 4 minutes I’m there.

If you’ve been through medical trauma (being dismissed, having symptoms minimized, feeling rushed, or being treated like you’re “difficult”), your brain learns to approach appointments in fight-or-flight mode.

You might:

• Go completely blank when asked direct questions

• Feel pressure to have perfect, organized answers

• Freeze up and then beat yourself up for “wasting” the appointment

• Leave feeling like you didn’t communicate what you needed to

• Replay the appointment a thousand times in your mind, where your responses are PERFECT!

Advocating for yourself is exhausting, especially with the short time you get, the physical and emotional discomfort in that situation, and the long gap between visits.

Simple phrases that can buy you time

Therapy taught me that when your nervous system is activated (when you’re in that freeze state), you can actually reset it just enough to think clearly (even if for a moment). You can shift the power dynamic from feeling interrogated to feeling like a collaborator in your own care.

When we’re triggered, that thinking part of our brain (prefrontal cortex) essentially goes offline, leaving us with fight-flight-freeze responses that aren’t helpful in medical settings. Creating space helps it come back online.

Most people do this with deep breaths, affirmations, etc. These mainstream strategies don’t help me when I’m that anxious. So, I had to figure out something that works for me.

Here are some phrases that help me create that space.

“Give me just a second to think about that.”

“I get really anxious in medical settings and my mind just went blank. Can you give me a moment?”

“Can you tell me what you’re seeing in my chart while I gather my thoughts about what I want to discuss?”

“I want to make sure I give you accurate information. Let me gather my thoughts.”

“That’s a good question. I need a moment to organize what I want to tell you.”

“I’m having trouble focusing right now. Can I take a breath and try again?”

“I know I have things to share with you, but I need a moment to remember what they are.”

“That’s a lot of information. Can I ask some questions to make sure I’m following?”

“I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. Can we take this one step at a time?”

“Let me write this down so I don’t forget.” (Then take time to write and think.)

“Can I have a moment to check my symptom diary/notes?”

What to do during your thinking time

Obviously, this doesn’t mean your nervous system reboots immediately. But you can give yourself small tools to help regulate in the moment.

Some people like to take a deep breath and look at their notes. Personally, I play that upbeat song, “Everything is Awesome,” from The Lego Movie in my head while I flip through my symptom list. I know it sounds ridiculous, but something about the cheerful melody helps counteract the medical anxiety.

Then I start with what feels clearest: “Okay, the main thing I wanted to discuss is...” or “Let me start with what’s been bothering me most.”

You might also ask for help organizing. “I have several things to tell you. Should I start with the new symptoms or the medication questions?”

Practice in a low-stakes environment

People have varying opinions about AI, but I’ve found practicing with ChatGPT’s voice mode really helps me build confidence with my responses before I need them in real appointments.

Here’s a prompt you can use:

“I want to practice using phrases that buy me thinking time during medical appointments. Can you roleplay as a doctor asking me questions about my symptoms, and I’ll practice using interrupting phrases like ‘Give me just a second to think about that’ or ‘I want to make sure I give you accurate information, let me gather my thoughts.’ Please be patient when I pause and don’t rush me to respond.”

The AI will ask you medical-style questions, and you can practice your phrases without any real stakes. No judgment, no time pressure, no fear of seeming difficult. Just repetition until these responses feel more natural.

You can even practice the harder scenarios: “Now pretend to be a doctor who seems impatient” or “Ask me rapid-fire questions like some doctors do.” Building that muscle memory in a safe space makes it easier to access these tools when your nervous system is activated.

I hope these strategies help you as much as they’ve helped me. You deserve health care that works at a pace your brain can handle.

What helps you feel more grounded during medical appointments? Share how you cope in the comments.

Hope is lighter. You can carry it without it weighing down your next step. It’s the quiet “maybe” you keep in your pocket.

Expectation is heavier. You reorganize your whole week around it. You start writing the ending before you’ve lived the middle.

In invisible illness, I’ve found that hope can make things softer. Expectation can make them brutal.

How are they different?

Hope is a desire with room for uncertainty. You believe something good could happen, but you know other outcomes are possible.

Hope acknowledges uncertainty as a fundamental part of the human experience. It doesn't demand guarantees. It doesn't throw tantrums when things don't go according to plan. Hope is that friend who encourages you to try out for the school play while also helping you brainstorm other creative outlets, just in case.

Expectation is a belief accompanied by a plan. You decide in advance what should happen and feel cheated when it doesn’t.

Expectations feel safer than hope because they give us the illusion of control. They let us plan, prepare, and mentally inhabit a future that hasn't arrived yet. But this safety is a mirage. The more tightly we hold our expectations, the more devastating it becomes when reality doesn't cooperate.

The tricky part is that you might think you're hoping when you're really expecting.

Sometimes what we call "hope" is really just expectation wearing different clothes. I think of it as fixed hope versus flexible hope. So this next graphic will seem very similar to the one above.

How to hold onto hope without letting expectation crush you

(AKA, how to keep the door open without building the whole house)

1. Set hopes in “maybes,” not “musts.”

Instead of: This appointment will give me a diagnosis.
Try: This appointment might bring me closer to answers.

Your brain will still lean toward optimism, but you’re not locking yourself into a single acceptable result.

2. Keep your plans neutral until the outcome is real.

Don’t book extra events or make changes to your life based solely on an anticipated improvement. Wait until you have the results in your hands (or the symptom change in your body).

3. Name the other possible endings.

Write down two or three alternative ways the situation could go (emotional cushioning). If one of them comes true, you’ve already made mental space for it.

4. Anchor to what you can control.

You can control: how you describe your symptoms, how you prepare for an appointment, how you rest after.

You can’t control: how a provider responds, whether a treatment works, how long a waitlist is.

Put more mental energy into the first list.

5. Have a “post-outcome plan” ready for either scenario.

• If it goes well → celebrate in a way that’s sustainable (not by overexerting yourself).

• If it doesn’t → have a comfort plan already in place (your show, your food, your person to vent to). This keeps the emotional drop from feeling bottomless.

This has changed the impact of everyday uncertainties, especially with things that are never in my control to begin with.

It’s allowed me to hope even when things feel hopeless. It reminds me that there’s always something to look forward to.

I’d rather put my energy into something that uplifts me. Wouldn’t you?

In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. And in some ways, it makes things worse.

It helps because it gives things a name. It turns the why am I like this? spiral into something tangible, something with an explanation.

A diagnosis can mean understanding, validation, a framework to work within instead of endless self-blame. It’s knowing that the exhaustion, the brain fog, the unpredictability are symptoms and not personality flaws. It allows you to piece things together, to connect the dots between struggles that once felt random and isolating. It gives you access to treatment, community, and the right words to explain what you’re experiencing.

But it also hurts.

Because once you have a name for it, the world sees you differently. The label becomes shorthand for everything they assume about you.

If it’s a mental health condition, it’s unreliable, unstable, difficult. If it’s a chronic illness, it’s dramatic, lazy, attention-seeking. The moment you put a name to your struggle, the world starts deciding what that means about you.

The letdown is, sometimes, even with a diagnosis, nothing changes. There’s no cure. No magic fix or roadmap to getting back to “normal.” You still have to live with it, except now you carry both the weight of the condition and the label that comes with it.

There’s also the other side, where we chase a diagnosis, hoping it will bring certainty, relief, or even just a sense of control.

Health anxiety makes every symptom feel like proof of something worse. We read one article, see one TikTok, and suddenly every experience feels like it fits. ADHD, borderline personality disorder, fibromyalgia — maybe it’s this, maybe it’s that.

My therapist says the label doesn’t always matter, that whether it’s BPD or ADHD or something else entirely, the work is the same. But psychiatry is strange like that —reluctant to diagnose adults, yet eager to categorize children. So we’re left in this strange in-between, searching for an answer that might not change a thing. In fact, most of the time, we’re just asking for an answer but never get one that comforts us.

So does it make a difference?

Yes. And no.

It helps me understand myself. It comforts me to a certain degree. But it also makes me feel like one more thing to be dismissed, one more thing to be stigmatized against. It gives me language for my pain, but it doesn’t make the pain go away. And sometimes, triggers health anxiety (which I am not a fan of), which makes me less credible as a patient when I really need help.

What are your thoughts on this topic? Let me know in the comments.

Treading this lightly,
Shruti.

And then, 12 days in, I lost my job.

It was the first time I’d ever lost something I had, and it sent me into a spiral of grief, self-doubt, and uncertainty. I didn’t know what to do, where to go, or how to move forward. But somewhere in that haze, I found an unshakable hope that things always happen to me for a reason and that something bigger will come my way.

It did. I got the chance to work again on a 0-to-1 project with my former employers, my favorite employers! It gave me something to be passionate about again, something familiar to ground me. Then came another full-time job to pay the bills and life kicked into overdrive. I was working around the clock, managing home, cherishing beautiful moments with my family, and feeling fulfilled.

Until I wasn’t.

Work took a toll on my mental health. I found myself stuck between wanting to give everything and not being able to, tripped up by interpersonal challenges, exhaustion, and a sense of disconnect. The rest of the year became a blur of trying to find balance, appreciating small things, and taking each day as it came.

The wins and the wonders

This year wasn’t all struggle, though. There were moments of joy, awe, and achievement:

• I manifested a big dream - traveling for work. My first solo trip ever took me to the USA (to Vegas and Green Bay). I made it back in one piece!

• I traveled back to India and realized that home isn’t a place; it’s the people you love. And sometimes, what once felt like home doesn’t anymore, and that’s okay.

• I started reading again. Audiobooks counted, and I made it through 87 books this year (7 in 2023, almost none since 2011). It felt like reclaiming a part of me that had been lost. Thank you to Parenting with Migraine for pulling me through!

• I witnessed magic in the skies with double rainbows, an eclipse, the aurora borealis, the mystery drones, and the most stunning sunsets.

• I saw Niagara up close, on the cruise and it was nothing short of incredible.

• I kept my plants alive.

• I saved some money (for the first time).

• One of my posts saw close to a million views (I never thought that would happen).

• Found my art style (For someone who was clueless, I finally found something that’s me — fully aware that can evolve or devolve).

Small wins became lifelines:

• I fought less with my husband (I deserve an award for this).

• I wrote, doodled, made art, and started a Substack.

• I made incredible posts for Neura Health! And also started creating posts for my 0-1 project, GetCopayHelp.

• I went bowling and tried ice skating (though I didn’t make it onto the ice because of loose skates and a twisted ankle).

• I indulged in a LOT of “me time,” amazing food, cocktails, and moments with friends and family.

• I felt very much inspired to create and was able to give myself to do without sinking in doubt, thanks to the founders of The Six Percent Club.

The challenges and the lessons

It hasn’t been easy (obviously). I’ve lived with near-daily anxiety attacks for the past three months. I’m feeling more uncertain about everything, more doubtful of my own skills and ability, more inadequate, more terrified of tomorrow, more depressed than earlier this year, and just less sure of who I am.

Winter has been rough, and the exhaustion has felt never-ending. My health has been okay overall, but new symptoms, flare-ups, and treatments have added to the fatigue. I’m trying to find ways to cope and manage my symptoms.

I also compromised on my mental health at work, pushing myself too hard, putting aside my non-negotiables with work culture, and coming dangerously close to burnout.

The weight of it all has been heavy. This year has taught me again that balance is something I can’t ignore. Also, how easy it is to slip back into old patterns, and blackholes can appear and reappear several times, and you know you’ll get through it because you did last time, even if you can’t see a way out.

It’s been interesting navigating the same path, but at a different altitude or plane than before with all that I’ve learned so far.

Word for 2024 - Endurance

This year has been about holding on, through uncertainty, anxiety, loss, and the relentless grind of daily life. Endurance isn’t glamorous, but it’s powerful. To me it defines the strength to keep going, to show up for the next task, the next challenge, the next day, even when everything feels heavy. So, endurance it is.

As this year ends, I can’t help but feel grateful. This last week especially, I’ve seen just how much I have to be thankful for. Even with the anxiety, exhaustion, and dread that creeps in as I look ahead to 2025, I’m grateful to still be here, to have experienced it all, to discover more aspects of myself, to life, and to just going with the flow.

I may not feel excited about what’s next (blame anxiety), but I’m definitely curious. Curious about what’s in store, about the lessons I’ll carry forward, about how I’ll keep growing. 2024 wasn’t perfect, but it was real, and I’m holding on to that as I move into another chapter!

Sum up your 2024 in one word.

Still savoring the last few hours of 2024 here in Ontario,
Shruti.

Saying “no” is hard. Like, weirdly hard. It shouldn’t be. It’s just one little word. But somehow, it carries the weight of a million unspoken anxieties.

“What if they think I’m selfish?”
“What if I disappoint them?”
“What if they get mad?”

My problem with saying “no” is not just about people pleasing. Not exactly. It’s not just about bending over backward for someone else’s approval or being a doormat. It’s more complicated than that.

When someone asks for something, I don’t think, I need them to like me. It’s more like, I should do this because that’s the kind of person I want to be. The reliable one. The supportive one. The one who doesn’t let people down.

With time, I started accepting that I didn’t know how to say “no.” Or I’m not good at it. Like I’m incapable of saying it.

But my therapist pointed out:

“Every time you say ‘yes’ to them, you’re saying “no” to yourself”

And here’s the kicker: apparently, I can say “no.” I do it all the time, to ME.

• I say “no” to rest because I should finish that thing first.

• I say “no” to joy because there’s always something more “productive” to do.

• I say “no” to my own needs because they feel less urgent, less important than everyone else’s.

Turns out, I’m pretty good at saying “no.” I’ve just been directing it at the wrong person.

So what about me? What about pleasing myself for once?

I wish I had a perfect answer for this, but the truth is, it’s hard. It feels selfish, even though it shouldn’t. It feels uncomfortable, like breaking in new shoes that don’t quite fit yet. But the more I think about it, the more I realize:

Saying “yes” to everyone else at the expense of myself isn’t kindness, it’s avoidance. It’s avoiding the messy, complicated work of valuing myself enough to set boundaries.

What if I started flipping the script?

What if I said “no” to the things that drain me so I could say “yes” to the things that fill me up?

What if I treated myself like someone worth pleasing too?

What iff-ing here,
Shruti.

We say it to ourselves when life feels unbearable, like it’s some kind of comfort. We say it to others, trying to deflect their pity or concern. And sometimes, we hear it from people who just can’t handle the awkwardness of our reality.

Sure, it could be worse.

I could have a new, terrifying diagnosis. I could be homeless. I could be living through an apocalypse where the only food left is unseasoned chicken breast (and I’m a vegetarian). Yes, it could always be worse.

But you know what? It could also be better.

It could be so much better.

I could wake up pain-free.
I could wake up with the energy to do more than just survive the day.
I could not have to explain why some days I’m fine, and other days I’m not.
I could exist without constantly masking how I’m really feeling just to avoid making others uncomfortable.
I could not feel guilty for needing more time, more space, or more support than others.
I could live in a world where we don’t have to break ourselves just to prove we deserve to belong, where people understand the thin line between “pushing through” and “burning out”.
I could live in a world where suffering is not a competition.

The lie of “it could be worse” is that it’s meant to silence both our pain and our hope. It tells us to stop complaining, to stop asking for more, because we should just be grateful.

And don’t get me wrong, gratitude is fine. It’s good even. I can be grateful for my good days, for the people who support me, for the fact that I’m still here, still fighting. But gratitude doesn’t cancel out the fact that I deserve better.

You deserve better.

Read this twice: You CAN ask for better.

And yes, it is difficult to ask for better. It means facing the fear of appearing weak, of being judged or rejected. It means challenging the voice inside that says you don't deserve it, that you shouldn't be a burden. It means overcoming past hurts and societal pressures that tell you to stay silent. It means finding the words to express what you really want. But, before all that, it means knowing what "better" truly is.

And it doesn’t have to be black and white.

You can feel grateful for the crumbs you’ve managed to gather while also being angry that the system is rigged to starve you. You can acknowledge that someone else’s pain exists without minimizing your own. You can hold space for the duality of “I’m glad it’s not worse” and “I still deserve more.”

Accepting “it could be worse” as a full-stop truth is just a way to keep us stuck. Stuck in silence. Stuck in systems that fail us. Stuck in a loop of convincing ourselves that asking for better is asking for too much.

So, next time that thought creeps in, stop and remind yourself:
Yes, it could. But that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be better. I CAN ask for better.

Whether "better" actually shows up... well, that's a tale for another time (and maybe another email). 😉

Taking a break from “better,”
Shruti.

My name is Shruti. I’m your chronically ill, anxiety-ridden, and perpetually exhausted host. You might know me from my Instagram where I try to inject humor and honesty into the often isolating experience of living with chronic conditions. But today, I'm taking things a step further.

Why this, why now?

Well, because I'm tired. Tired of the toxic positivity, the "just think positive" platitudes, and the pressure to pretend everything's okay when it's so blatantly not. I'm tired of feeling like I have to hide the messy, ugly parts of my life, the parts that make me feel like I'm barely making it through the day.

And I know I'm not alone. I see it in your comments, your DMs, the weary exhaustion in your sighs. We're all out here, having experiences that most people don't see, don't understand. It's time we had a space to talk about it, without judgment, without shame.

What kind of community is this going to be?

This isn't a place for inspirational quotes or miracle cures. It's a space for raw honesty, dark humor, and the kind of solidarity that only comes from shared experience. It's a place to vent, to laugh, to cry, to rage, to just be. We're creating a community where it's okay to not be okay, where "barely making it" is an achievement worth celebrating.

What to expect?

• Free subscribers: You'll get regular doses of real talk, relatable stories, and occasional bursts of dark humor delivered straight to your inbox. Think of it like a virtual hug from a friend who gets it.

• Paid subscribers: You'll unlock access to exclusive content like:

  • Deeper dives: More in-depth explorations of the challenges and triumphs of living with chronic illness and mental health struggles.

  • Community discussions: A chance to connect with other subscribers, share experiences, and offer support.

  • Early access & behind-the-scenes: Get a sneak peek at upcoming projects and a glimpse into my creative process.

  • And more! I'm always cooking up new ideas to make this space even more valuable for you.

About Barely Making It (and Me!)

I grew up in Southern India, surrounded by a loving family but with little exposure to the world of chronic illness. Migraine has been my unwelcome companion since I was just six years old, officially diagnosed at thirteen. It shaped my life in ways I never could have imagined, impacting everything from my education and career to my relationships and sense of self.

In 2019, I took a leap of faith and moved to Canada with my husband, daughter, and our perpetually sleepy beagle. It was a big change, but it also opened up new opportunities for connection and understanding. During the pandemic, I stumbled upon a whole community of people navigating the challenges of invisible illness. It was like finding a missing piece of the puzzle.

Finally, I felt seen, heard, and understood.

This newfound sense of belonging ignited a passion in me to create a space where others could experience that same sense of validation and support. That's how ChronicallyMeh was born, and now, "Barely Making It" is its newest chapter – my newsletter, my blog of sorts, where I share the messy, hilarious, and heartbreakingly real journey of living with chronic pain and mental health challenges.

I'm still figuring things out, still learning to navigate the ups and downs, still fighting for my health and happiness every single day. But I'm also discovering the power of vulnerability, the beauty of imperfection, and the strength that comes from connecting with others who truly get it.

What do I do?

Well, I wear a few hats! I write, illustrate, manage communities, and dabble in content and social media strategy. At my core, I love to make things, solve problems, and create products that have the potential to change the world. I was on a promising trajectory, building a career I was passionate about, but then... migraine stole the spotlight.

My brain had been struggling for a while since my attacks weren’t well-managed since I was 13. By the time I turned 25, it snowballed. The fog, the fatigue, the relentless pain... it all took a toll. I pushed myself harder, terrified of falling behind, of losing what I'd worked so hard to build. I ignored my body's signals, crossed boundaries I didn't even know existed, and ultimately burned out.

For four years, I was sidelined. I couldn't think clearly, couldn't make decisions, couldn't even choose an egg for breakfast. It was a dark and disorienting time, made worse by the stigma surrounding migraine and my own internalized ableism. I was also grappling with complex trauma, anxiety, and depression. It felt like my world was crumbling.

But slowly, through therapy, self-love, and a whole lot of hard work, I started to find my way back. I'm not at my dream job yet, and I certainly don't have it all figured out. But I'm in the process.

Creating ChronicallyMeh and now "Barely Making It" is part of that process. It's my way of reclaiming my voice, reconnecting with my creativity, and making a difference in the world.

I want to write again. I want to believe I can illustrate again. I want to create something meaningful that helps people feel comfortable being themselves, just being... I want to help people thrive, not just exist or survive.

This is my beginning (it’s never too late to start over).

So, are you ready to join the club?

If you're tired of pretending, if you're craving connection, if you're ready to embrace the messy, beautiful reality of your life, then hit that subscribe button. Let's build a community where we can all feel seen, heard, and understood.

Can't wait to have you along for the ride!

With a heavy dose of validation and a sprinkle of sarcasm,
Shruti.

P.S. If you haven't already, come hang out on Instagram, Threads and TikTok for extra doses of meh-ness and solidarity.