Before I was diagnosed, I felt like I belonged everywhere without even thinking about it.
At work, I was the reliable one. With friends, I made the plans. In my family, I was the strong one who didn’t need much. Then one sentence from a doctor changed everything.
After the diagnosis, I didn’t feel like I fit into my old life anymore.
At work, people didn’t know what to say. I was invited to fewer things. Some of my tasks were given to others “to help.” I know they meant well. But each change felt like a reminder: you are different now.
At home, my family looked at me like I might break. I stopped sharing how scared I was because I didn’t want to worry them more. I smiled even when I didn’t feel like smiling. I had to explain myself all the time — why I was tired, why I canceled plans, why I got upset, why I seemed distant.
The hardest part wasn’t just losing my health. It was losing the person I used to be.
I always believed I would grow old without thinking much about it. That certainty was gone.
Sometimes I felt like I was standing in a hallway between two rooms. One room was my old life — laughter, plans for the future, a body I trusted. The other room was an unknown future I wasn’t ready for. I stood in the middle, not fully part of either one.
But over time, something changed. Belonging started to look different.
It showed up in small moments — a nurse who remembered my name, a friend who just sat with me without trying to fix anything. It showed up the day I looked at my scar and didn’t turn away.
Slowly, I began to belong to myself again. I realized belonging isn’t about going back to who you were. It’s about making space for who you are becoming. I am different now. But I am still here. And I am learning that belonging begins when you stop trying to return to your old self — and start accepting your new one.
Maria