As 2025 draws to a close, I have been thinking a lot about heading into 2026. For me, the new year is not just a fresh calendar, but a chance to reflect, reset, and plan ways to make life with chronic illness a little easier and a lot more joyful. I am waiting for a few important appointments and a jaw operation, but as always, I am left waiting. No dates yet, no confirmations, just the usual uncertainty. It can be frustrating, and at times it feels like life is on hold. But I also know that planning how I will navigate the year ahead, with the tools and strategies I have and those I hope to introduce, is empowering.

Mornings are… a lot. If you live with a chronic illness, you probably already know that the way your day starts can make or break everything that comes after. And when I say “start,” I don’t mean bouncing out of bed at 7 a.m. with a green juice and a jog. I mean that blurry, heavy, sometimes painful moment when you open your eyes, and your body hasn’t gotten the memo that it’s supposed to function today.

I’ve left this a bit late this year, but recently I found myself thinking about what item might help support me next year. That thought quickly turned into something else, a Christmas wish list. Because while wish lists are fun, when you live with chronic illness, they also become strategic.

I am eternally grateful for the speaker option on my phone, and that’s not an exaggeration. It’s not a convenience for me. It’s a lifeline. It’s the difference between being connected to the world and being shut out of it.

There was a time when holding my phone was automatic.

I never really understood how much space hobbies take up in a “normal” life until mine shrank down to the size of a bedroom.

Before chronic illness barged in like an uninvited guest who refuses to leave, my life was full of movement. Work, errands, friends, little spontaneous adventures — all the usual things you don’t realise are luxuries until they’re suddenly gone.

Before ME/CFS, I never really thought about allergies. Hay fever season would come and go, a bit of sneezing, maybe some watery eyes, but nothing dramatic. I could eat what I wanted, drink what I wanted, and fill my house with scented candles like a normal person.

Now? Not so much. Somewhere along the line, my body decided it hates everything. It’s like my immune system’s taken it upon itself to cause me additional challenges.

When people talk about medication side effects, they often mention the obvious ones first: fatigue, nausea, dizziness, and weight gain. What I rarely heard anyone talk about, before I began experiencing it myself, was how profoundly uncomfortable and disruptive chronic dryness can be, dry mouth, dry nose, and dry eyes that linger day after day. It sounds mild compared to the dramatic lists printed on leaflets, but when you’re living with it, dryness can influence everything from your confidence and concentration to your ability to enjoy a meal or get a good night’s sleep

Earlier this year, I was diagnosed with severe degenerative jaw disease (TMJD), I can only open my mouth one finger width. Living in constant jaw pain has changed everything, from talking and eating to smiling. Here’s my story of coping, pain, and finding small moments of relief.

I’ve been on a journey these last six years, a long, exhausting, and painful downward spiral with my health. When I look back, it feels like I’ve been living in survival mode, just trying to get through each day. Along the way, I lost so much of myself.

When I have a flare-up or a relapse, it wipes me out completely. There’s no easing into it, no gentle warning, just a sudden, overwhelming wave that crashes over me and drags me under. In those moments, I’m pretty much housebound and bed-bound. Even staying awake feels like a battle I barely have the strength to fight.

Navigating life with a chronic illness is a mammoth task, made even more challenging when you throw long-term medication into the mix. As someone managing fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (ME/CFS), I’ve developed a toxic yet close relationship with my medication. On the surface, they offer hope. Relief. The possibility of feeling “normal,” even for just a few hours.

So I decided to clean my bathroom cabinet out. It seemed like a small project, something that most people could tackle in a matter of minutes. But for me—living with chronic pain—it turned into a monumental task. What should’ve been a quick chore became a delicate balancing act between determination and self-care.