Learning the meaning of resilience, even when you don’t feel ready

The strongest version of me almost didn’t make it — not the version people worry about, but the one they admire. The one who keeps going, keeps showing up, and keeps figuring things out no matter what’s falling apart behind the scenes. That version of me was dangerously close to disappearing.

There was a period when everything in my life started collapsing at once, and I kept telling myself I was handling it. My child was struggling in ways that scared me, with big emotions and bigger reactions. All I could think about was that I needed to fix it. If I didn’t get it under control, I believed, something worse would happen.

At the same time, I felt myself fading in my own relationships — not in an obvious way, just quietly. It’s like I was there but not being fully seen.

So I did what I always do: I poured myself into everyone else. I showed up for my community, organized fundraisers, took on responsibilities that weren’t mine to carry. I made myself needed everywhere I could, because somehow that felt easier than facing what was happening in my own life.

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Meanwhile, my health was getting worse

I’d just started a new treatment for my multiple sclerosis, and my body was shifting in ways I couldn’t ignore. I was losing my ability to write or type at times. Other symptoms followed, and still, I avoided it. I didn’t want to see more doctors, and I didn’t want any more diagnoses. I couldn’t handle more reality than I was already trying to survive.

Even the smallest things started to feel impossible. My specialty pharmacy kept calling about my hereditary angioedema medication, for example. I was having more frequent attacks, and I knew I was running out of medication. I knew I needed to reply, but I just didn’t.

It wasn’t because I didn’t care or understand the risk. But just answering the phone felt like a monumental task I didn’t have the strength for. I think that’s a type of avoidance we don’t often talk about, when we know what needs to be done but still can’t make ourselves do it.

I told myself I was pushing through

Pushing through things has a limit, and when you hit it, the crash isn’t subtle. My bipolar disorder certainly didn’t ease me into anything. Instead, it swung hard into mania, and I couldn’t come down. My mind was moving faster than I could keep up with, and from the outside, it probably looked like I was doing more, being more, and handling more.

But I wasn’t. There was no stability in it, no control. And then it dropped fast into a crash that left me completely unsteady mentally, emotionally, and physically. I woke up in the hospital.

Even then, I wasn’t fully honest with the doctors. I did tell a friend the truth, though, because I knew they wouldn’t let me hide behind “I’m fine.” Deep inside, I knew I wasn’t fine. And here, I think we get to the difference between denial and resilience.

Denial is knowing something is wrong and doing everything you can to avoid it. Resilience is facing it anyway, even when you don’t feel ready.

After that, nothing magically fixed itself. I went back to therapy after having missed several appointments. I started new medication that flattened everything — no highs or lows, just … nothing. That scared me, too, because I’m someone who lives through feeling things. I lead with my heart. Yet suddenly, that part of me felt gone.

But I stayed

Today, I’m working with a full mental healthcare team. It’s not just one person; it’s a team. Different people focus on different parts of me. One person told me something I’ll never forget: “You could quite literally save the world,” they said, “but you can’t sign your name on a piece of paper.”

I’d built a life around being strong in big, meaningful ways while falling apart in the smallest ones. That’s what this kind of breakdown looks like. It’s not just falling apart, but rather losing the ability to function in ways that don’t make sense to anyone watching from the outside.

Here’s the part I didn’t understand before: I actually wasn’t holding everything together. I was being carried by people who showed up when I couldn’t, people who didn’t need perfect explanations and didn’t disappear when things got heavy. They just stayed.

Chronic illness teaches you about strength; everyone talks about that part. But it also teaches you that sometimes strength isn’t about pushing through; it’s letting yourself be carried until you can stand again.

I’m not all the way there yet. But I’m also not where I used to be. And for now, that has to be enough.

Note: Angioedema News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Angioedema News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to angioedema.