“Whatever the present moment contains, accept it as if you had chosen it. Always work with it, not against it.” ~Eckhart Tolle

For years, I thought strength meant pushing through. Getting on with it. Holding it together no matter what. Not showing weakness. Not needing help. Not slowing down.

Even when I was diagnosed with a chronic illness, I wore that mindset like armor. I was determined not to let it define me—let alone derail me.

But eventually, it did. Not because I was weak. But because I was human. And that was the beginning of a different kind of strength.

The Diagnosis That Didn’t Fit My Story

I was thirty-two when I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. It’s a chronic inflammatory condition that can be painful, unpredictable, and exhausting. There is no cure.

At the time, I had three young kids and a to-do list longer than my arm. I was busy, stretched thin, and moving fast—chasing achievement like it could protect me from everything uncertain.

The diagnosis didn’t land like a crisis. It landed more like an inconvenience. I had no time for illness. No space for it. No story in which it belonged.

I started medication, but the side effects were rough, and the results were inconsistent. I quickly became obsessed with finding the “right” diet, the “right” routine, the “right” alternative therapy to manage it all myself.

Strength, Control, and the Problem with Hyper-Independence

Looking back, I can see that control was my coping mechanism. Control over my body. Control over the narrative.

I didn’t want to be “someone with a chronic illness.” I wanted to be someone who could handle a chronic illness and still perform at a high level. Someone who could live life on her own terms—without needing medication, or help, or rest.

So when things stabilized a little, I made a quiet decision: I’d stop the medication.

I told myself I could manage it naturally. I adjusted my diet, doubled down on my routines, tried to control every variable. But inevitably, flare-ups would return. And when they did, I’d end up back on steroids. They worked—but made me manic. So I’d taper off. The cycle continued.

Somewhere in the midst of this, we moved countries for my husband’s job. I left behind my career ambitions, my social network, and my medical team. I started to quietly adapt to a life of background symptoms: pain, exhaustion, urgency.

I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t cancel things unless I absolutely had to. And when I did, I worried people thought I was flaky or rude or just didn’t care.

In truth, I was trying so hard to be “fine” that I was hurting myself.

The Turning Point: Meditation & Stillness

Eventually, I got tired.

Not just physically—but emotionally, spiritually, existentially. Tired of the constant vigilance. Tired of trying to outrun my own body. Tired of believing that if I just tried harder, I could conquer this thing on sheer willpower.

I had built an identity around being capable, reliable, strong. Hyper-independent. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t want to need anyone—or anything, especially not medication. Illness felt like weakness. And weakness was unacceptable.

But that relentless self-sufficiency didn’t save me. It wore me down.

That’s when I found mindfulness. Not as a fix—but as a kind of quiet company. A way of softening the grip I had on control. A way of meeting myself as I actually was, not as I thought I should be.

At first, I treated mindfulness the way I treated everything else: as something to master. But over time, the practice worked on me. It started dismantling the war I had declared on my body. I began to see: my body wasn’t failing me. It was in conversation with me. And I had never truly listened.

That changed everything.

Mindfulness helped me stop seeing my illness as something to battle and started teaching me how to respond—with self-compassion instead of control. With care instead of critique.

The diagnosis was still there. The symptoms came and went. But something in me had started to soften. I was no longer treating every flare-up as a personal failure or a crisis to conquer. The illness was real, but maybe it didn’t have to be a war. I wasn’t fully at peace, but I was learning to pay attention. And then came the call that changed everything.

The Wake-Up Call That Brought It All Home

It had been more than five years since my last colonoscopy, and based on my medical history, my primary care doctor recommended I schedule one. I agreed, of course. I felt fine—strong, even. I was training on the treadmill at home for an upcoming marathon, proud of what my body could still do.

The procedure itself felt routine. But one evening shortly afterward, around 8 p.m., the phone rang.

It was the doctor who had performed the colonoscopy—calling me personally.

He didn’t sound casual.

He told me I was in trouble.

If I didn’t get on medication right away, my condition could worsen dramatically—and start impacting other systems in my body, even my eyesight.

I was horrified. And humbled.

This wasn’t something I could outrun. This wasn’t something I could discipline away. This was my body, urgently asking to be heard.

Letting Illness Be a Messenger, not a Failure

I got back on medication. This time, the right kind. And I committed to it—not from a place of defeat, but from a deeper alignment with care.

That was almost two years ago. Since then, my body has slowly begun to heal. My most recent colonoscopy—early this year—showed dramatic improvement. The inflammation is down. The symptoms are manageable. I’m tolerating the medication well, even with the added complexity of reactivated TB, a side effect of the immunosuppression that I’m now treating with another course of medication.

It’s not perfect. It’s not linear. But it’s honest. It’s mine.

And most importantly, I’m no longer at war with my body. I’ve stopped bracing against what is, and started responding with care, clarity, and compassion.

Because real strength isn’t pushing through at all costs.

It’s listening. It’s allowing. It’s staying with yourself—even when it’s hard.

Mindfulness didn’t fix everything. But it became an ally—steady and unshakable.

It taught me I can’t control the storm, but I can anchor myself within it. And in that anchoring, I found something I never expected: power.

Not the power of force—but the quiet, unwavering power of presence. Of meeting life on its terms.
Of knowing I can be with whatever comes—and still be whole.

That’s the power I carry now. Not in spite of illness. But shaped by it.