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I remember the moment so clearly—sitting in my doctor’s office, hearing the words that finally validated everything I had felt for years:

“You’re living with a serious disability.”

It was a strange mix of relief and fear. Relief because, finally, someone understood. What should have felt like the start of relief only marked the beginning of an even harder battle—a fight to prove to the government that my disability is valid, and that my right to live with dignity shouldn’t be questioned.

For years, I fought to keep up with my career, even as it destroyed me physically, mentally, and emotionally. It was a constant battle—my mind driving me to push forward, while my body was screaming for me to stop. But no matter how hard I fought to keep going, my body was slowly shutting down. I didn’t fit into societal norms, but my trauma convinced me to blend in and keep pretending. The more I pushed, the worse my body became.

Eventually, it wasn’t a choice anymore—stepping away from my career was a decision between living or dying.

Little did I know that my battle for validation in being differently-abled was beginning an entirely new chapter.

When I submitted my paperwork for SSDI, I was sure the government would see what my doctors had seen. “It’s only a matter of time,” I thought. “This will help me create a healthier way to support myself while finding a new purpose.” But months later, the letter arrived: “You do not qualify for disability benefits.” It felt like a slap in the face, a cruel reminder that my fight for validation was far from over. My doctors finally saw my suffering, but the system refused to believe it. I read it through tears, knowing that this was just the next battle in my fight to survive.

At first, I wasn’t deterred. I had learned that many people are denied the first time they apply. “It seems like they just want to see who’s willing to fight for it,” my therapist reassured me. “Don’t give up. You clearly have a disability, Kristina.”

As the weeks turned into months, I struggled to adjust to my new reality. My physical limitations kept me from doing much. Each day was consumed by managing chronic pain from endometriosis, IBS, and fibromyalgia. I was also battling the emotional aftermath of PTSD and PMDD. And the non-epileptic seizures—when my body would go numb, and I’d pass out—became a constant reminder of my nervous system’s fragility.

Every day was a fight to stay alive.

Losing my career—the very thing that had defined me—was devastating. My identity had been so tightly wrapped around being the breadwinner. I grew up believing that productivity equaled worth, even though my trauma had always made me feel unworthy, no matter what I achieved.

One day, my husband handed me an envelope. “It’s from the disability office,” he said. “Maybe it’s good news.” I sat hunched over the small table in our RV—this RV was the last possession I owned after losing nearly everything else. My hands trembling due to the neurological disorder, I prayed as I carefully opened the letter.

Tears streamed down my face. My body began to give in to the seizure, and I slurred the words to my husband: “I need help. I’m going to pass out.” He gently guided me to the couch, barely three feet away, where I could fall safely. My head swayed as my body shook, and I could feel myself fading into unconsciousness. As the darkness set in, I focused on the rise and fall of my chest, trying to remain calm.

When I came to, the tears returned. “How do they expect me to work like this?” I whispered, defeated. My nervous system was so fragile now that any overstimulation triggered these seizures. I had learned that this wasn’t just in my head as many doctors had implied for decades—years of emotional trauma had wreaked havoc on my body in ways that medical professionals weren’t trained to understand. For so long, I had felt crazy as test after test came back “normal.”

But now, after deep healing and study, I understand my body more than ever. Nearly four decades of unresolved trauma have caused dysfunction in every system. The government may not recognize it, but I know my truth.

I filed my second appeal to the disability office and now wait, once again, to see if a judge will review my medical records and agree with my doctors. Only time will tell. I’ll be going on three years of no income, trying to figure out how to survive.

The irony of my life is that I love working—I’ve always wanted to contribute and feel productive. But every time I try to set up an interview or take on contract work, I’m reminded of why I can’t. My body demands more rest than most, and pushing through only leads to more suffering. I’m living in a body that no longer responds to the drive and ambition I’ve always had. My mind and body are constantly at odds with each other, and I’m still learning to find balance.

Rest isn’t just a break for me—it’s a requirement for survival. My mind wants to be active, engaged, and creative, but my body constantly forces me to slow down. The disconnect between what I want to do and what I’m physically capable of is one of the hardest realities I’ve had to face.

Every time I push beyond my limits, my body pushes back even harder. It’s a constant cycle of trying, failing, and crashing, reminding me that I’m not the same person I used to be. Accepting this new reality has been one of the toughest challenges of my life. I’m learning that rest is part of healing, but it doesn’t make the grief of losing the career and independence I loved any easier.

Now, as I wait for yet another decision from the disability office, I’m reflecting on the deeper truth I’ve uncovered throughout this journey: the need to honor my body and mind, no matter what the government or anyone else believes about me. I know my reality. I know I’m differently-abled, and I know that working full-time isn’t something I can do again. I refuse to let the system gaslight me into questioning that truth.

Despite the challenges, my desire to contribute and help others hasn’t changed. But now, I’m redefining what that looks like. Instead of pushing myself to fit into a mold that’s not made for people like me, I’m focusing on building something new—something that allows me to help others heal while also creating financial independence for myself and my daughter.

This world may not be built for people like me, but I’m carving out a path that honors my limitations and still allows me to thrive. My story isn’t about pushing through at all costs; it’s about finding a way to live that aligns with my truth. I want to give hope to others who are struggling, to validate their experience when they feel gaslit by a system that doesn’t understand them.

I won’t give up, not on my health and not on my purpose. My journey has led me to a deeper understanding of what it means to truly live, and now, I’m working to share that truth with others—so they can find healing and purpose on their own terms, just like I have.

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