Priya writes

Living with chronic pain feels like carrying an invisible weight that no one else can see. It’s an ache that settles into your body and somehow becomes part of your everyday life. I’ve sat in enough doctors’ rooms now to know the pattern. The tests come back “normal.” The symptoms don’t fit the textbook. The doctor gives a sympathetic look but no real answers. There is nothing more frustrating than hurting every day while the people who are meant to help can’t tell you why it’s happening.

And on top of all of that is long COVID.

The fatigue shows up like a wave I can’t outrun. Some days it feels impossible to even stand up. Then there is the brain fog, which feels like someone turned down the clarity of my mind. Simple things suddenly become complicated. There are days of breathlessness, heaviness, and those sudden crashes that force me into bed for hours. It feels like my body has been rewired into something unfamiliar and unpredictable. Some days the chronic pain is louder, some days the long COVID symptoms are louder, and sometimes they take turns just to keep things interesting.

So I manage. I take the meds. I track everything. I try to ration whatever energy I have. I live with a heat bag practically glued to me. Nights and days blur into one long attempt to soothe the ache enough to function.

And through all of it, I smile.

I smile because explaining it all is exhausting. I smile because the people around me have their own lives and worries. I smile because it feels easier to pretend that I am holding everything together. On the outside I look fine enough. Strong enough. Like I am coping. But that version of me is often just a mask I put on so I can move through the world without having to justify my pain.

Inside, I am tired. I am frustrated. I feel the sadness and depression creep in on the harder days. I want to be strong, but I am also human, and sometimes I just want to stop being the brave one.

Living with chronic pain and long COVID is not only physical. It is emotional and lonely in ways that are hard to put into words. It tests your patience and your hope. But every day I still get up and find a way through it, even if it is messy and imperfect.

Maybe that is its own kind of strength. Quiet, unseen, and real.

If you are living with something similar, I see you. You are not alone.