Reclaiming Stillness: How Mindfulness and Gratitude Journalling Changed My Life with CVID 🌸





There are seasons in this life when the body becomes a mystery. When your immune system is as unpredictable as the wind, and your energy wanes without warning, it can feel like you're constantly trying to outrun a storm you didn’t summon. For me, living with CVID (Common Variable Immunodeficiency) has meant learning to anchor myself—not in what I do, but in how I am.


Mindfulness, and the sacred daily ritual of gratitude journalling, have not only tethered me to the present but redefined how I experience it.

Let me begin with the truth: when I stop journalling, I get ill. It’s not anecdotal—it’s practically diagnostic at this point. When my pages go blank, it’s usually because I’m running on empty, ignoring the subtle nudges from my body and soul until they crescendo into a crash. It's not just a habit. It's my health radar.

Each day, I keep a bullet journal—a quiet, powerful container of presence. I write four simple things:

  • One affirmation to set the tone.
    Today’s was: “I deserve to prioritise my health.”

  • One thing I did successfully, even if it’s just managing a phone call or doing a proper skincare routine.

  • One thing that brought me joy. Sometimes it’s a cat blinking slowly at me. Sometimes it’s a perfectly steeped cup of Lapsang.

  • One thing I am grateful for. Always something. Even on infusion days. Especially on infusion days. Today I am grateful for the antibiotics I was given and for my dr. This isn't going to be a permanent infection and she wanted to step in in order to prevent it from getting worse!

These gentle reflections aren’t just words. They are bricks in the foundation of a self that refuses to be defined by limitation.

When I first read How to Be Present, it felt like someone handing me the manual I never received after diagnosis. The book speaks of retraining the brain—of choosing not to live in the grief of what has been lost, or the fear of what might be, but instead standing, however shakily, in the now. And that’s where healing begins—not just physically, but mentally and spiritually.




Meditation has become my companion in this. Not the performative, Instagrammable kind. I’m talking about sitting in silence when every cell in your body screams to do something to justify your existence. When I meditate, I am teaching my nervous system that stillness is safety, not failure. That rest is not idleness. That I am not unworthy because I can’t work full-time in a crowded café or lift boxes in a warehouse, or on a shop floor or as a waitress in a kitchen... I tried...

Accepting that I can’t do what others can do—especially when it comes to traditional work—has been a bitter tincture to swallow. Productivity guilt is a parasite, and in this world, where worth is so often equated with output, being chronically ill can feel like being invisible. But these practices—this mindfulness, this gratitude, this presence—remind me that my life has depth, even when it lacks hustle.




There is dignity in quiet resilience. In noticing the light shifting on the windowsill. In allowing a good day to be enough.

Mindfulness is not a luxury—it is survival for people like me. And journalling isn’t just ink on paper—it’s the practice of showing up for myself when the world won’t. It has changed my life, and I know it can change yours.

With love and light,
Clare Alexandra

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

CVID & The Journey to My Diagnosis: A Story of Illness, Perseverance, and Discovery

Image
The Journey to My Diagnosis: A Story of Illness, Perseverance, and Discovery In my first year of university, I entered the music program full of excitement, ambition, and plans to pursue my dream of becoming a classical singer. But my journey quickly turned into a frustrating and confusing series of illnesses. It all started with a simple throat infection, or so I thought. I was just 20 years old, and when I visited the campus doctor, I was told that I should be able to fight it off. I was given antidepressants and sent on my way with no real explanation or further investigation. But the infection didn’t go away. It worsened, and soon it spread to my voicebox. I was prescribed 250mg of penicillin, but still, the infection lingered. My coursework became harder to keep up with as my health deteriorated. I requested extensions, but it wasn't long before I had to resit my second year under medical circumstances. I was constantly sick, and the antibiotics just kept coming., and they a...
Read more

Stretched Thin: Chronic Illness, Work, and Loneliness

Image
  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 fo...
Read more

🎭 Playing Nadia, Healing Me

Image
 It's been a while... I have been busy, burnt out, joyful, stressed... chasing my tail and playing an absolute dream role... Playing Nadia Kovlova in Give Us a Sign has been an unexpected balm. She’s half Vlada Bulkakova, half Anna Chapman, with a sprinkling of that one inscrutable blonde Russian model on Instagram who always looks like she’s judging your fashion choices from a marble balcony. There’s something delicious about leaning into that stereotype—mocking my own Eastern European roots with a wink and a smirk in a sympathetic way. It’s been cathartic, even empowering. And lately, I’ve needed that. Because offstage, things haven’t exactly been velvet and roses. Just before I was told by the consultant that my lungs were miraculously clear, I’d had not one but two appointments with a nurse who could only be described as a battle axe in orthopedic clogs. She looked me dead in the eye and said I’d never get better. That pseudomonas would take me out faster than the CVID. Th...
Read more