Priya writes

I never identified as a person living with a chronic illness, even though I spent a significant part of my childhood and teenage years battling migraines and epilepsy episodes. Part of it was simply not having the vocabulary to articulate that identity. But beyond that, there was the overwhelming stigma of speaking openly about health “issues” in Indian society—especially as a young woman of marriageable age. Talking about these things was a complete no-go; it could spoil “prospective matches.” That’s a discussion for another time.

So when, five years ago, I was hit by the then little-known Covid virus, I had no inkling of how catastrophic my life would become. Beyond the collective trauma we all experienced globally, millions of us became “people living with Long Covid.” Suddenly, I found myself in unfamiliar territory—my body and mind no longer felt like my own. At the peak of my Long Covid crisis (which I won’t go into in detail here), I battled over 20–30 symptoms. But more than anything, I struggled to stay afloat, to find hope.

I also struggled to accept—and still do, some days—that I now live with a chronic illness that has no treatment, no clear end date. Confronting that reality brought a deep sense of pain. A grief for the life I might have had. Endless, haunting questions: Could I have done something to avoid this? Should I have done something differently?

When the realization hit that this was my new normal, it shattered me. I didn’t know how to navigate it. I wrote about it, joined Long Covid support groups, started one in India, and kept speaking up. I never saw myself as a patient advocate, but soon, I found myself in that role. And yet, I still struggled to explain my condition to family and friends. How do you describe autonomic dysfunction? Or POTS, a condition most people have never even heard of? More importantly, how do I explain that my chronic illness leaves me severely disabled some days—but not every day?

It took a long time to sit with these questions and accept my reality. I am now a person with a chronic illness and an invisible disability. That is a part of me.

But with that acceptance came something else—the relentless praise for my “resilience.” People began calling me a “warrior.” I know they mean well. I know they want to acknowledge my struggles, my pain. But those words land differently when you’re still living in the rawness of grief, when every day feels like a battle you never signed up for. Resilience, in the way it’s often framed, implies strength, triumph, overcoming. But what if there is no overcoming? What if there is only enduring?

There is an unspoken expectation that disabled and chronically ill people must either be inspirational or invisible. That we must either “fight” through our condition with an unbreakable spirit or quietly fade into the background so our pain doesn’t make others uncomfortable.

But the truth is, I am neither of those things. I am not a warrior. I am not inspiring. Some days, I am just surviving. Some days, I am deeply, unbearably exhausted. And some days, I am simply existing, as I am, without the energy to prove my worth through struggle.

I don’t want to be called strong for something I never had a choice in. I don’t want to be praised for my perseverance when the alternative was disappearing entirely. And I don’t want to hear, “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made it.” Because the truth is, I nearly didn’t make it either. I wanted to give up many times. The only reason I kept going was my family. And because, despite everything, I realized—albeit late—that I am a sucker for hope, for life, for living.

And so, I keep living to the best of my ability, day in and day out. Not because I am brave. Not because I am inspiring. But because I exist, and I deserve to—without needing to prove my resilience to anyone.

I am no warrior. I am just an exhausted millennial trying to navigate a super dysfunctional world.