There’s something that’s been sitting heavily on my heart, and yesterday it finally found words. It’s related to a topic that affects many people: Chronic Pain.
For the first time in a long time, my medication was adjusted. It doesn’t sound like much, but for me, it was the difference between being trapped in bed due to chronic pain and being able to get behind the wheel. So yesterday, I took my son to the dollar store.
His favorite place in the whole world. He’s a lot like me; his brain is a constellation of thoughts, wild ideas, inventions, patterns. He walks down those aisles like a tiny engineer calculating how to stretch each dollar to its absolute limit. It’s his domain. And for once, I got to be there present, not in pain. Not watching from the sidelines while chronic pain held me back.
The experience itself was uneventful. No big moments. No major revelations.
But the drive back home, that’s when something cracked open in me.
The Grief and the Ghost
We were on one of those winding Georgia roads, the kind that makes you feel like you’re in a postcard: sunlight leaking through tall trees, patches of shadow and light moving across the windshield. And out of nowhere, this wave of grief just took me under.
I had what felt like an out-of-body experience. Memories hit me like a movie reel:
Climbing Angel’s Landing with trembling legs and fire in my chest.
Walking the stage at graduation, heart swollen with pride.
Marrying my best friend, barefoot in the sun, joy spilling from every inch of me.
Laughing until my stomach cramped, until the world blurred with happy tears.
Gliding down mountains wrapped in snow and silence.
Running wild through forests that felt like freedom.
Paddling through creeks, chasing light, chasing peace.
Not just alive but awake. Not just surviving but fully living.
And suddenly I wasn’t just a body in a car. I was the ghost of who I used to be, hovering above myself, longing. Longing for that version of me who wasn’t buried under the weight of chronic illness and pain. Who didn’t have to earn every moment of freedom.
I felt that ache in my throat, the kind that builds before sobbing starts, the kind you get when a sad movie finally breaks you. But this wasn’t a movie. This was my life. And the pain wasn’t cinematic. It was cellular.
Perspective vs Perception
And then I had this thought:
Is this how I see my life now? In fragments? In loss? In the perception of what’s been stolen from me by chronic illness?
Because here’s the thing: Perception is a tricky thing.
It tells you the worst parts louder than the good.
It tells you what’s broken, not what’s survived.
It focuses on the pain, not the pulse that still beats underneath.
And then there’s Perspective.
And if you’re lucky or maybe just cracked open enough, you can shift from one to the other.
If I pull back, even just a little… I can see it.
A life well-lived. A love that defied every odd.
Babies, I was told I’d never have.
A body that still gets up, even when it shouldn’t.
A mind that won’t give up, even when the world tries to quiet it.
A soul that’s stubborn, sharp, and still so full of wonder.
That’s Perspective. It doesn’t erase the pain.
It just reminds me that pain isn’t the only truth.
That grief, while real and sharp, is also proof that I had something worth missing.
That my life, even now, is still unfolding, even with chronic pain.
Living in the Perspective of Pain
So maybe this is what it means to live in the perspective of pain rather than the perception of it.
Perception says:
This hurts. This is hard. This is too much.
Perspective says:
This hurts… and I’m still here.
And that shift? That little crack of light between the two?
That’s where hope lives.
Maybe things won’t ever go back to how they were.
Maybe this version of me, bruised, grieving, altered, is the one that stays.
But I can still drive my son to the dollar store.
I can still marvel at the trees.
I can still cry and call it sacred.
You Are Not Alone
And if you’re reading this and you feel stuck in the spinning wheel of sadness, pain, and chronic pain memories, I want you to know:
You’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
You’re just caught between perception and perspective.
Sit in the grief if you need to.
Let the tears come.
But when you’re ready, even if it’s just for a second, try to see your life from a little further away.
Because in the right light, even the shadows start to look like grace.
Wishing you comfort, peace, and a quiet kind of courage this weekend.
With all my love,
Catt @thezebranetwork.com
