Trying to watch a scary, violent, gory film when you are an empath is its own strange experience. On the surface, it sounds simple. You either like horror or you do not. You either press play or you do not. But for me, it is never that straightforward. I want the story. I want the meaning. I want to understand the characters and the psychology and the why behind it all. What I do not want is the intense physical reaction that hijacks my body the moment things turn dark.

Pre-Chronic Illness, I used to look at people with chronic illness and feel a deep sense of admiration. I thought they were brave in a way I could never be. Strong in a way I did not possess. I would say things like there is no way I could ever survive being chronically ill. I hate taking paracetamol. Imagine needing pain medication every single day. I would fall apart.

Living with chronic illness in the UK is not something you ever plan for. It slowly becomes part of your identity, your routine, and your relationship with the world around you. One day you are managing life as you know it, and the next you are learning new words, new limitations, and a new way of existing inside a body that no longer works the way it used to. When chronic pain is involved, that adjustment becomes even more complex, more isolating, and often more invisible to everyone else.

There is a moment that most special guardianship and kinship carers recognise instantly. It is the quiet realisation that life has shifted on its axis. One day you are a grandparent, aunt, uncle, older sibling or family friend. The next you are navigating school runs, trauma responses, social workers, court paperwork and a level of emotional responsibility you never planned for.

I wish someone had told me what life as a kinship carer really looked like before I stepped into it. They don’t. They prepare you with forms, court dates, meetings with social workers, and endless advice about what the law says you can and cannot do. What they don’t tell you is what it feels like in the quiet moments, in the chaos, in the grey areas between love and fear.

I remember the moment the phrase Special Guardianship Order was first said to me. It was like someone had handed me a book in a language I’d never learned but was suddenly expected to speak fluently. I had lived through court hearings, adoption chats, kinship care referrals, late‑night Googling, endless forms, and the very real fear of choosing the wrong path for a child I loved with every fibre of my being. At that time, it felt like every instinct I had was whispering and screaming at the same time.

As a chronic ill person living with chronic pain, my approach to self-care is significantly different from that of someone without a chronic illness. While self-care is important for everyone, those of us managing conditions like ME/CFS, fibromyalgia, spinal stenosis, or other chronic pain disorders have unique challenges and considerations that shape how we care for ourselves each day.

Our house is full. Not just full, but bursting at the seams in the best possible way. Full of people, full of noise, full of stories being lived out all at once. Some days it feels like controlled chaos, and other days it feels like a deep exhale. What it always feels like, though, is home.

I want to write this because there was a moment where everything we had worked so hard for almost fell apart, and the reason it did not is because of the ASGSF programme. Without it, I am certain our SGO placement would not have survived. This is not exaggeration. This is our lived reality.

Living with ME/CFS and Fibromyalgia has completely changed how I experience everyday life. Things that once felt neutral now come with consequences, and cleaning is one of the clearest examples of that. Cleaning is often framed as a basic life task, something routine and unremarkable. For me,

I have this bad habit of catching sight of my own hands when I am absolutely not prepared for it. Usually, when I am doing something deeply glamorous, like scrubbing toothpaste off the sink or trying to fish the last biscuit crumb off my jumper. And every time, without fail, there is that little jolt of shock. A tiny internal gasp. Like, excuse me, when did my hands decide to age faster than the rest of me?

When ME CFS was first mentioned to me, it wasn’t even in a dramatic or definitive way. It was more of a quiet suggestion, almost a passing comment, like something to tuck away for later. At the time I didn’t really know what it meant. I knew the words, but I didn’t understand the weight they carried. I went away and did what I always do when something doesn’t sit right in my head. I researched. I read.

Living with chronic illness has shaped my life in ways I never could have imagined. Over the years, I’ve navigated the unpredictable reality of ME/CFS, chronic pain, and fibromyalgia, facing challenges that tested my resilience and reshaped my priorities. One of the biggest shifts along this journey has been how I view friendship

As a Special Guardian (SGO) and kinship carer to my teen daughter, I have become deeply aware of how important it is to nurture a positive body image and healthy self-esteem. This is not something I ever expected to think so much about, but when a child has experienced early childhood trauma, even seemingly ordinary stages of development can feel layered and complex. My daughter’s journey has taught me that body image is not just about appearance. It is about safety, belonging, and feeling secure in who you are.

Living with a chronic illness changes everything. It changes how you see your body, your mind, and the world around you. Conditions like ME CFS, chronic pain, or fibromyalgia aren’t just physical; they shift the very way you experience life.

Before my illness, I measured myself by what I could do.

When I first realised my special guardian child was not doing well in school, I felt a mix of worry, guilt, and constant anxiety. I’m a Special Guardian to my little girl, and like many children under special guardianship, school was not a safe or supportive place for her, at least not at first.

When I first stepped into kinship care, I did not feel brave or capable or ready. I felt overwhelmed, frightened, and quietly unsure whether I was about to break myself trying to hold everyone else together. Kinship care often begins in crisis, and when you are in the middle of it, there is very little space for reassurance. Over time, and through many conversations with other kinship carers,