Stretched Thin: Chronic Illness, Work, and Loneliness

 

The past few weeks have been incredibly difficult. Chronic illness always brings its own kind of isolation, but lately, it has felt sharper—more present. I feel stretched so thin I might just disappear altogether. And if something had to give, of course, it was work.

Not that you could even call it a “job” in the traditional sense. I work on a zero-hours contract, solely on call time and commission because my condition fluctuates too much for a set schedule. Even with that level of accommodation, I almost lost my job this week—if you can call it that. I woke up to an email threatening to suspend my account if I didn’t log in. So, I put everything on hold, cancelled a doctor’s appointment, and worked, because I had no choice. But I still have to attend a respiratory appointment later this week—an hour away—and all things considered, that’s non-negotiable.

It’s exhausting, and not just physically. My social battery is utterly fried. I expected that, to a degree. The afterparty for the show was always going to be difficult, but I wasn’t prepared for just how much. I lasted 40 minutes before I had to leave. And now, having somewhat decompressed, I’m left with that all-too-familiar emotional fallout. The feelings of inadequacy, the stress, the comparison to other young women who seem to move through life with ease, while I struggle just to keep my body functioning. And of course, the stress manifests in my digestion—because why wouldn’t it?

I’ve been thinking about this in the context of  How to Live Well with Chronic Illness and Pain by Toni Bernhard. She writes:

"The body may be limited, but the mind is free to explore new ways to find meaning, joy, and connection in life."

I try to remember that. But the reality is, when my body is struggling, my mind follows. Then there’s Quiet by Susan Cain, where she talks about how introverts—especially sensitive ones—experience social exhaustion much more acutely:

"Solitude matters, and for some people, it’s the air they breathe."

 

That resonated deeply. Solitude does matter. But there’s a difference between solitude and loneliness. And loneliness is something I’ve been sitting with a lot lately.

It’s particularly painful when certain friends only seem to show up when I’m at my worst—when I’m in the trenches, clawing my way out. Not because they genuinely want to help, but because it makes them feel better about their own situation. It’s a lonely kind of realization. And alongside that, I’m trying to unlearn old thought patterns that tell me I’m only worthy when I’m pushing through, achieving, or making other people comfortable.

But in the spirit of leaving this on a lighter note: I’m still here. I’m still trying. And I know I’m not alone in this. If you’ve felt stretched too thin, if you’re battling that same loneliness, you’re not alone either.

Here’s to protecting our energy, setting boundaries, and knowing our worth.

Take care,
Clare 💙✨