Sitting here on New Year’s Eve, watching my husband sleep. Got that familiar pit in my stomach about writing one of those hopeful New Year’s posts. You know the ones. “This is our year!” Yeah… said that for the last four years straight. Though I guess some things have changed – my therapist (best decision of 2024) would probably tell me to acknowledge that (ha!).
Being a parent and partner while dealing with chronic illness is just… there aren’t even words sometimes? It’s watching someone you love struggle with stuff that used to be so simple. It’s the look on your kid’s face when you have to bail on another movie night. It’s hiding in the bathroom to cry because you don’t want them seeing how much it hurts you too. But lately, I’ve found some weird comfort in knitting of all things? Like, who knew moving yarn around could be so calming? My first scarf looks absolutely ridiculous but hey, progress is progress.
The worst part? Those good days. They mess with your head so much. Like today – we had a decent morning and my brain immediately went “Maybe this new treatment is working???” Some call it “cautious optimism.” I call it hope. It’s like that annoying house guest who won’t take a hint and leave. But maybe that’s not always a bad thing?
Our marriage looks nothing like what we planned. Sometimes it feels like we’re both just caretakers for this third thing that moved in – this illness that just… takes and takes. Some days we’re like a pro team with the meals, kids and schedules. Other days we’re just two people trying not to scream into the void. But we’re learning. Found some new ways to connect – like him sharing his latest research with me while I knit (when I’m not cursing at dropped stitches).
People sometimes ask how we do it. Honestly? Better than we used to, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. Therapy’s starting to help with the guilt and communication stuff. Some days we’ve got it together, other days absolutely not. Turns out “in sickness and in health” hits differently when you’re actually living it. It changes everything – how you love, how you parent, how your whole family works.
So here comes 2025… and you know what? Maybe it’s okay to hope a little. Not for huge miracles, but for small wins. For more good moments between the hard ones. For finding more weird little joys (seriously, who am I becoming with this knitting obsession? 😂).
To anyone else dealing with this: I see you. I see that fake smile when people hit you with the “new year, new you!” stuff. I see how carefully you plan your hopes now, trying to keep them small enough that disappointment won’t destroy you. I see how exhausted you are. How much you’re carrying that nobody else sees. But I also hope you find your equivalent of knitting – that random thing that gives you a moment of peace. Or at least divert your attention away from the rabbit hole of social media and the online world.
Maybe 2025 will be different. Maybe it won’t. Honestly? I’m still scared to hope sometimes. But we’ll keep going either way. Not because we’re special or super brave or whatever. Just because… what else can you do when chronic illness crashes on your couch and won’t leave? You figure it out. You find new ways to cope. You learn to celebrate tiny victories.
So here’s to another year of… whatever comes next. To loving harder than we knew we could. To that stubborn hope we can’t quite kill (and maybe shouldn’t want to). To therapy wins and wonky scarves and all of us out here just trying our best.
And if things finally do get better? We’ll be here. And if they don’t? We’ll still be here. This illness can’t take away the one thing – our choice to love. We choose it every single day, through all of it. We still get to choose how we carry this load, even on the heaviest days.
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