It was around 3:15 PM on March 31st, 2017. Lying on the operating table under spinal anesthesia, during my C section -wide awake and acutely aware, I overheard the sharp, tense exchange in the room: “BP is dropping, we’ve got a bleeder.”
Without missing a beat, I spoke up: “If I need ICU post-op, it has to be ICU-5. Even though it’s a respiratory ICU.”
The anesthetist shot back, “Will do, but for now, can you please stop talking?”
I never ended up needing post-op ICU care that day, but that moment captured the absolute, unshakeable faith I had in my team back then—a faith that remains fully intact today. Even now, whenever it comes time for my weekly infusions, the respiratory HDU is the only place I choose to be.
There is something truly remarkable about my team (aside from the fact that everyone happens to have a fantastic face card). At the mere blink of an eye, we would do absolutely anything for one another. Sure, there are days when we are at each other’s throats—bickering over complex cases, debating clinical approaches, or arguing fiercely about global politics. But if there is one thing I know with total certainty, it is this: when I need them, they show up. Every single time.
The rest of the hospital staff often whispers that our unit deals with “demanding” and “difficult-to-handle” patients. I see it differently. It isn’t that our patients are difficult; it’s that our team has raised their standard of care so high that anything less feels like a compromise. We teach them to expect excellence because we demand it of ourselves.
On my infusion days, my team treats me like royalty. To my incredible team reading this: I see every single detail, and I hold it close. I won’t forget how you gently force me to take it easy when my instincts tell me to keep pushing. I won’t forget how you quietly take turns sitting by my bedside, week after week after week. I won’t forget the protein shakes lovingly brought by my wonderful colleague, or the silly, senseless jokes my juniors crack just to keep the room light and the energy bright.
This is the beauty of a chosen family—the people you intentionally invite into your sacred inner circle.
Beyond the hospital walls, my personal inner circle of friends is equally tight; I could easily count them on one hand. Over the last few years, as I’ve navigated intense physical and emotional ordeals, this group has served as my actual spine. I count myself profoundly lucky—because for every single person who has ever backstabbed me, I have four others ready to stab the stabber. My friends infuse my life with genuine light. We share an unspoken pact: the family you build and nurture comes above anything and everything else in this world. Life isn’t just manageable with them around; it is a genuine blessing.
These rare individuals have learned to read the subtle, quiet signals of my pain. They offer deep, comforting presence without ever requiring me to explain, perform, or justify my reality. They are the ones who cheer loudest for the small, unseen victories that the rest of the world overlooks, giving me the rare grace to rest without a shred of guilt. They are the first people I text when I manage to hike 1,700 feet or slip into a pair of heels after two long years. And the sweetest part? They respond with the kind of unbridled enthusiasm you’d expect if I had just won a Nobel Prize.
Living with a chronic condition means carrying an invisible weight that very few will ever fully comprehend. In the shadow of daily physical fatigue and emotional strain, identifying these empathetic souls and actively protecting your connection with them becomes a matter of survival.
While retreating into solitude and silently battling through the storm is one way to cope, I refuse to glorify the struggle. I am neither interested in performative strength to appear invincible, nor performative struggle to elicit pity. I am simply navigating a quiet, everyday reality. Survival isn’t a show to be put on for an audience; it is a personal truth to be lived.
Surrounding yourself with a dedicated inner circle—your true “ride or die” supporters—remains the most transformative way to heal. Having people who genuinely cherish you, show up in your darkest, unglamorous moments, and stand steadfast by your side turns isolating hardship into collective resilience.
When your body feels like an unpredictable battleground, a trusted inner circle becomes a sanctuary of unwavering stability. Ultimately, allowing yourself to be loved, seen, and supported through long-term illness is not a sign of surrender—it is an act of profound courage. Together, you build a foundation so solid that no matter how steep the climb gets, you know you will never have to walk it alone.
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