Part 3: When the Body Breaks and the Soul Still Stands
There was a time I wore strength like armour.
Polished. Unbreakable.
On the outside, it looked like I had it all handled —
Motherhood. Marriage. Disability. Life.
But behind the scenes, I was crumbling in a body I barely recognised.
I used to think I had to protect people from my truth.
I smiled when I wanted to scream.
I said, “I’m fine,” even when I couldn’t get out of bed.
Because becoming disabled in adulthood doesn’t just break your body.
It breaks your certainty.
It chips away at the identity you once held so tightly.
You mourn the version of yourself that moved freely.
The one who didn’t count steps or calculate pain versus energy.
The one who said “yes” to late nights and long drives without worrying about bathrooms, chairs, or whether you could make it home without collapsing.
And then there’s the outside noise.
The stares.
The unsolicited “you should try yoga” advice.
The loaded silence of people who suddenly don’t know how to include you.
But here’s the thing:
This is my story.
This is my body.
This is my pain.
And I don’t owe anyone a polished version of how I get through it.
What makes it easier — so much easier — is having friends who don’t flinch.
The ones who still roast me like they did before everything changed.
The ones who are still their sassy, compassionate, smart-arse selves —
Not out of ignorance, but because they know I don’t need to be wrapped in bubble wrap.
They love me as I am:
Unfiltered. Unsteady. Unapologetically complex.
And when I hit a wall so hard they were genuinely worried —
Kelly & Becky flew to my house. No questions, no drama.
Just walked in, a little chirpy from the beverages on the plane ride.
They cracked a joke, and pulled my head out of my butt
No questions. No drama.
Just walked in, cracked a joke, and pulled my head out of my butt.
That’s friendship. That’s Family
Not performative concern or pity.
But truth. Loyalty. And showing up when it really counts.
I’m slowly learning to let that love in.
To stop pretending.
To let people see the raw edges as well as the resilience.
Because both exist.
Both are real.
And both are worthy.
This isn’t the life I planned.
But it’s the life I choose.
A life with softness, sass, and the kind of soul-deep friendships that hold you steady when everything else breaks.
So next time someone calls me brave just for existing in this body?
I’ll smile and say:
“I’m not brave.
I’m just done pretending.”
