Hallelujah — the awkward phase has officially passed, and we are finally back in the swing of the reality show I like to call our life.

The best-friend energy has reignited, the laughter is back (so much laughter), and dinners no longer feel like the sad sitcom montage where I’m alone, eating pasta, and having a full-blown conversation with the dog about my day. (Okay… I’ll admit I still do that. Most evenings, actually.)

The kisses have returned, the little discreet touches — those tiny reminders that he loves me — the comfort of company, the feeling of being wanted again. I won’t lie, after four months alone, I’d fully adapted to my pillow-fort of solitude. Getting used to being cuddled again and not having my own space in the bed is a journey. But I’m getting there.

And then, of course…

SEX.

Oh yes. Sexy time. The touch. The orgasms. My God, the ORGASMS.

It’s safe to say that, in terms of my relationship, I’m in a good place. My love language is absolutely physical touch (with a side of words of affirmation) — and while he could work on that last one a bit, he is meeting my needs in more ways than one. Those four months apart suddenly feel almost nonexistent.

But right on cue… my Crohn’s disease decides to spice things up.

Every single morning, I wake up in pain — the kind that radiates through every inch of me. It’s getting harder to cope, physically and mentally. Crohn’s has over 30 different symptoms, and 99% of them are invisible to everyone except the ones who truly know me. They see it in my eyes, past the fake smile, past the “I’m fine.” The struggle is real as fuck.

This week, I had an incident at work with someone I thought understood me — someone I believed recognised the sacrifices I make, not just for the young people I care for or my team, but for the leadership above me. I bend my chronic, terminal illness around their needs, their schedules, their expectations. But they proved, quite simply, that they don’t understand at all. It was a sharp reminder that most people don’t.

But then… should I expect them to?

How do you even explain a life like this when half the time you can’t find the words yourself?

Despite everything — despite the pain, despite the way my body is screaming for true rest — I don’t stop. I don’t slow down. I don’t give myself permission to choose me. Because deep down, I fear that if I do… I’ll let people down. I’ll be too much. Too difficult. Too “baggage.”

Why would anyone want to stay in the life of someone who suffers the way I do?

(My anxiety fan club is responsible for that line of thinking — they live in my head rent-free like the cast of Inside Out, so there’s not much I can do except argue with them daily.)

And I guess that’s the real question behind all this:

When do we know it’s time to put ourselves first?

When do we stop prioritising everyone else’s comfort over our own health?

When do we fight the stigma that says we’re weak, incapable, less than?

Why do we feel the need to constantly prove ourselves when our lives are already daily proof of strength?

I don’t know if I have the answer.

But I know I’m tired.

And I know I deserve rest.

And maybe — just maybe — admitting that is the first step.

Good night.

Sleep tight.

Vivi ❤️