Every morning, the first thing I notice is the pain. It’s always there, a constant presence that I’ve learned to live with. Living with chronic pain feels like carrying an invisible weight—one that only I can feel, but it affects everything I do and the lives of those around me.

I used to love going out with friends and attending family gatherings, enjoying the things that made life exciting. But now, have to think carefully about every event which fills me with a bit of anxiety. The fear of having to cancel last minute because of the pain is always  in the back of my mind. When I do cancel, I’m not just dealing with the pain; I’m also managing the disappointment in my friends’ voices. They don’t always understand. It’s hard to explain something that’s invisible.

Over time, some friends have stopped inviting me to things. The invites that once came frequently have become fewer, and that’s been tough to accept. It’s made me feel more isolated at times more disconnected from the world outside. I see my family and friends on social media, posting pictures from events and activities I used to love. It’s a bittersweet experience—on one hand, I’m happy for them, but on the other, it’s a reminder of the things I don’t  do anymore.

Scrolling through social media in general can be especially hard. I see people living the life I used to enjoy—weight lifting, dancing, traveling. I used to be that person who said yes to everything. But now, saying yes often means pushing my body past its limits, and I know I’ll pay for it later. It’s frustrating, and it adds to the sense of loneliness.

I’ve realized, though, that I can’t keep these feelings to myself. I’ve started to be more open about my condition, explaining to friends and family why I sometimes have to cancel plans, even if I was “fine” the day before or a couple hours before. It’s not an easy conversation, but I’ve found that being open helps. I’m always open to answering questions, and providing educational resources, hoping to close the gap that chronic pain has created.

Counseling has also been really helpful. My therapist helps me put my feelings into words and reminds me that it’s okay to grieve the life I once had. Through therapy, I’m learning to accept my limitations without letting them define me. I’m finding ways to stay connected, even if it’s not in the same way I used to.

I still feel like I’m missing out on life at times, and that’s something I’m regularly coming to terms with. But I’m also finding new ways to experience joy, even with the limitations I have. It’s a different life than I imagined, but it’s mine, and I’m doing my best to make it work.