Dear Friend,
Some mornings I wake up and think, “Oh wow, we’re doing this again?” My hips already in full protest, my hands shaky like I’ve been caught in a lie my body knows but won’t confess. There's a quiet mutiny underway beneath my skin—but hey, good morning to you too, Pain.
Yesterday was May 12th—Fibromyalgia Awareness Day. Not exactly a holiday you toss confetti for, but for those of us living with it, it matters. I was diagnosed officially last year, but like so many others, I’ve lived with this fog longer than most people live in their starter homes. It’s not just pain. It’s the invisibility of it. The gaslighting. The “but you look fine”s. The “have you tried yoga?”s. (Bless them. But no.)
Somewhere between the doctor visits, the prescriptions, the “we’ll try this and see,” I started wondering: is anyone listening? And if they are, do they understand what it means to feel betrayed by your own body while still being expected to work, smile, socialize, produce, perform, and if you can squeeze it in, heal?
Fibromyalgia isn’t cute. It’s a nervous system gone rogue. It’s your brain turning up the volume on every ache and calling it a symphony. It’s explaining your condition like a TED Talk while the person across from you is still thinking, “Isn’t that just, like, muscle pain?”
But here's the thing: I’m still here.
Still choosing joy where I can find it—some days it’s a dog video, some days it’s a second nap.
Still choosing softness in a world so sharp it could cut glass.
Still choosing to laugh when the universe is like, “Let’s give her something spicy today—like burning knees and global instability!”
The truth is, chronic pain can be achingly lonely. Not in the poetic, rain-on-a-windowpane kind of way—but in the soul-deep, am-I-the-only-one-still-stuck-here? kind of way. Plans get canceled. Texts go unanswered. People drift, not out of malice, but out of discomfort—because they don’t know what to say, or they quietly believe healing should be linear, visible, and preferably photogenic. And so, you learn to smile when you’d rather scream. You laugh at jokes even when your insides feel like a demolition site. And some days, your most faithful companion is the hum of the ceiling fan and the ache that won’t quit. It’s not self-pity. It’s reality. And admitting that doesn’t make you weak—it makes you profoundly, beautifully honest. Because this kind of survival? It takes a kind of strength most people will never understand.
And I know I’m not the only one living with invisible wars. Maybe your battle isn’t fibromyalgia. Maybe it’s grief. Or burnout. Or the ache of being unseen in a relationship, a job, or a world that seems hellbent on speed, success, and “suck it up.” Maybe you’re just tired of pretending your soul isn’t starving for rest.
If that’s you, pull up a chair. You’re in good company. This is a space where we tell the truth. Where we stop auditioning for someone else’s version of worthy. Where we let the armor fall—just for a bit—and say:
“Yes, I’m still here. I hurt. I’m tired. I’m unsure. But I’m still here.”
Let that be enough today.
And if all else fails, there’s always tea, stretch pants, and a playlist that makes you feel like the main character (which you absolutely are).
With gentleness and solidarity,
Tasha Monroe
