What “fine” really feels like when your body is at war

Some days, fibromyalgia feels like a lie.

Not because it isn’t real…

But because of how invisible it is.

On the surface, I look “fine.”

Put quotes around that— FINE.

I can post. I can smile. I can show up to an event, a meeting, a moment.

And people see that version of me and assume that’s the whole story.

But underneath?

My body is screaming.

Pain sitting at an eight.

Confidence barely holding at a three.

Cognitive fog that makes me feel like I’m not even fully in the room I fought to get into.

And that’s the part people don’t see… the fight it took just to show up.

Because showing up isn’t casual for me.

It’s calculated. It’s costly.

It’s knowing that whatever I give in this moment…

I’m going to pay for it later.

I remember when this all started.

July 2019.

Right after losing my child… and my job.

Grief was already sitting heavy on my chest, and then one day I woke up and I couldn’t move.

My legs felt like they were being squeezed from the inside out.

Not sore. Not tight.

Crushed.

For about 30 days, movement itself felt like punishment.

All I really remember is getting to the bathroom. I don’t even remember eating.

It was survival.

When I finally became a little mobile again, I noticed something wasn’t right.

Walking hurt.

Thinking felt slower.

My memory… off.

My sharpness… dull.

Even my confidence started slipping.

At first, I thought it was grief.

I thought it was just my body responding to loss.

But months passed…

And something still didn’t feel right.

Six months in, I knew… this wasn’t just emotional.

This was something deeper.

It took two years to finally get the answer: fibromyalgia.

Faith has been the only thing that’s stayed steady in all of this.

Not perfect. Not easy. But present.

There were moments where I asked God,

“Why me?”

Moments where I didn’t understand how this could be part of my story.

Moments where I didn’t feel strong, I just felt tired.

But even in that… I kept showing up.

Because I believe in my purpose.

And that belief? It carries me when my body can’t.

There’s something strange about this journey.

Because on one hand, it hurts.

Some days it feels unbearable.

But on the other hand… there’s a kind of glory in it.

Because I know I’m giving everything I have even when I don’t have much.

There are people with full energy, full health, full capacity…

And they’re not showing up the way I am.

Meanwhile, I’m fighting just to keep my eyes open… literally.

Right now, as I write this, my eyes burn.

They feel strained, heavy… like I’ve been awake for 24 hours.

And still… I’m here.

I’ve learned something through all of this:

Sometimes survival doesn’t look strong.

It looks like doing what you can… and hoping it’s enough.

And sometimes faith doesn’t sound like praise.

Sometimes it sounds like silence.

Or frustration.

Or even, “God, I don’t understand.”

But I still say thank you.

Not every time. Not perfectly.

But I try.

Because I believe this didn’t come to break me.

I believe it came to warn me.

After years of being in fight-or-flight…

After pushing my body past its limits…

Maybe this was the signal.

Maybe this was God saying,

“Slow down. Something isn’t right.”

And even when it’s overwhelming…

Even when I don’t want to say it…

I still believe there’s purpose in this pain.

I may not be 100%… but every day I show up like I am—and that’s the real fight.