I never expect a hospital stay to be easy, but this last one felt different from the start. It was longer than any stay I’ve had before, and that alone took a toll. Days blur together in hospitals. Time stretches in strange ways, and the longer you’re there, the heavier everything feels.
Even now, my body remembers it before my mind does. The constant noise, the interrupted sleep, the feeling of never fully resting. Fear has a way of settling in quietly, pretending it’s under control, until it suddenly isn’t.
Physically, I was exhausted in a way I hadn’t experienced before. My body felt fragile and heavy at the same time. Simple movements took effort. Each test felt like another reminder that my body was struggling, and there were moments when I honestly wondered how much more it could handle.
Emotionally, it was just as draining. Hospitals can make you feel very small. You’re surrounded by people, information, and activity, yet it’s easy to feel alone in it. There were moments when the fear felt overwhelming, when the uncertainty weighed more than anything physical I was dealing with.
What ultimately made the biggest difference was being transferred to a specialized hospital that could actually help me. Looking back, that transfer changed everything. Without it, I probably wouldn’t be here now. That’s not something I say lightly. Being in the right place, with the right care, mattered in ways I’m still processing.
Once I arrived there, things began to shift. I felt more seen. More understood. Like the full picture of my health was finally being taken seriously. It didn’t erase the fear, but it eased it enough that I could breathe a little easier.
This experience changed me. A long hospital stay has a way of stripping things down to the basics. What matters. What doesn’t. How fragile and precious life really is, especially when you live with chronic illness.
If you’re reading this from a hospital room, or after a stay that left you shaken, please know you’re not alone. Feeling scared, worn down, or overwhelmed doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human.
I’m home now, still recovering, still tired in ways sleep doesn’t fully fix. But I’m also deeply grateful. Grateful for the care that came when it mattered most. Grateful for the chance to keep going. Grateful for this quieter space to begin healing.
I’m still here. And that means everything.