There’s a kind of grief that comes when your life changes so much you barely recognize yourself. It’s my entire way of living. I grieve the freedom I used to have, the career, the way my body once moved without hesitation. I could drive wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Summers were spent camping and kayaking, winters sledding and building snowmen with my family. I was able to move freely, to play with my kids, ride my bicycle, to enjoy life without pain holding me back. That’s the life I miss. That’s the loss I carry.
Now, everything has flipped. Chronic pain has taken away that version of me. The days of long shifts and steady paychecks are gone. Instead, every routine task is a negotiation with my body—can I make it through a shower without collapsing from the burning and tingling in my legs? Can I stand at the sink long enough to brush my hair without my back forcing me to hunch over in pain? Even the smallest victories leave me drained.
I wrestle with the independence I once took for granted. Asking for help doesn’t come naturally. Instead, I push myself too far and then feel frustrated and angry when no one steps in. It’s a cycle tied up in my past trauma, but also in the stubbornness that refuses to let go of who I used to be.
Art is the one thing I still have. But it no longer feels like “extra.” It’s no longer just a creative escape at the end of a long workday. Now, it’s my survival plan. I’m trying to turn my designs into a business that can help replace the some of the income I lost when I became disabled. It’s daunting—how do you replace a full career with digital art files and crafts?—but it’s the path I am taking for now.
At the same time, I’m still a mother and a wife. I try to show up for my family, to handle laundry and help with homework, even on days when pain makes me very short-tempered. The truth is, the constant discomfort can make me irrational and rude, and I hate that about myself. I try to remind myself every day that it’s a NEW day to try again. When I’m wrong, I try to apologize to my kids because they deserve to know that even parents make mistakes. I want them to see that strength isn’t about being perfect—it’s about owning your flaws and trying again.
Some days the grief wins. I get lost in TV shows or distractions because the weight of this “new normal” is too heavy. Other days I’m overwhelmed by all the ideas in my head that never quite make it out because pain steals the time and energy. But even in those moments, I hold onto the belief that I can try again tomorrow, even if it looks nothing like the life I once imagined.
I’m preparing to test a spinal stimulator soon, hoping it might give me some sort of relief. But no matter what happens, I’ll keep pushing forward and working hard on this small business—one design, one listing, one blog, one step, at a time.
To everyone who reads these blogs, supports my work, or buys a design—thank you. You’re helping me bridge the gap between the life I lost and the future I’m trying to build. And if you ever have a design idea, send it my way. Sometimes all I need is that spark to keep moving forward.
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