When the Body Remembers: A Reflection on Pain, Survival, and Chronic Illness

I don’t talk about this part of my life very often, but it’s something that’s shaped who I am—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Chronic illness and trauma are deeply intertwined for many of us, and I wanted to share a piece of my story, not just for awareness, but to remind anyone reading that they’re not alone in the weight they carry. This post is a reflection on pain, healing, and the way our bodies hold onto the things we’ve survived.

I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia in 2016, just after leaving a deeply abusive marriage. Doctors told me my body had become so used to living in pain that it didn’t know how to stop. The threats were gone, but the hurt stayed—settling deep in my muscles, my bones, my nervous system. It was as if my body finally had the space to speak, and it screamed.

But that wasn’t the beginning.

Years earlier, during one of the worst beatings, I suffered what they later called “minor cerebral atrophy.” At the time, no one really explained what it meant, just that some of my brain tissue had changed. My mother believes it may have been there all along—possibly connected to my missing chromosome or being on the autism spectrum. I’ve often felt like that was her way of refusing to hold my abuser accountable. And for a long time, she blamed me for the abuse. Said it was partially my fault. I’ve said my share of colorful words in response, but forgiveness wasn’t immediate. It took time. It took tears. It took silence, and distance, and a lot of questioning myself.

In 2019, I developed peripheral neuropathy—burning, tingling, and numbness in my limbs. It started after taking hormone treatments for PCOS. They said it wasn’t related. They blamed my anxiety. My mom disagrees. It’s always a loop of theories and contradictions.

And then, in 2023, I lost Makayla. That year broke something in me. My diabetes worsened—my body gave up in places my heart already had. I’m now on 2,000 mg of Metformin, 4 mg of Glimepiride, and take 400 mcg of folic acid daily. I still resist insulin. Not because I’m stubborn (though maybe a little), but because it feels like crossing a line I don’t want to face. Like one more surrender.

This reflection isn’t a cry for sympathy. It’s a reminder—to myself, and maybe to you—that the body keeps score. It holds pain. It protects. It speaks. It sometimes breaks. But it also heals, and adapts, and holds on even when you think you’ve let go.

I’ve survived abuse. I’ve survived grief. I live every day with the shadows of what happened, etched into my nervous system, my blood, my brain. But I’m still here. Writing. Feeling. Loving. Even laughing some days.

And that matters.

This post contains mentions of domestic abuse, medical trauma, and grief. Please take care while reading, and know that your well-being comes first.