How Chronic Illness Made Me a Better Designer, Personal Trainer (and Human)
Chronic illness flipped my life inside out.
What started as mystery symptoms and relentless fatigue eventually spiraled into a life-altering diagnosis — one that’s still pending and still being re-analyzed. I thought I was going to lose everything: the creative life I’d built over 15 years as a hairdresser was about to change, and I knew it. But I didn’t know how much. So I leaned into what I could do. I focused on the many parts of me that hadn’t disappeared — my creativity, my resilience, my curiosity. I got certified as a personal trainer, dove deep into understanding autoimmune disease, and began learning how to heal myself through movement. Along the way, I started helping others do the same. As my world slowed down and narrowed, something unexpected happened — I began to evolve even more. I didn’t just become someone different. I became someone better.
When the Hustle Broke Me
There was a time when I measured my worth by my productivity — and honestly, I still have to remind myself to break free from that mindset. I took on too many clients, over-trained my body, and pushed through flares with a smile (even during times I didn’t realize I was in a flare). Especially now, deeper into this autoimmune experience, I still catch myself thinking, “I feel good today — I better get everything done while I can.” But as many of us know, that’s a double-edged sword. Eventually, the crash came — hard. My body said no. Repeatedly. And louder each time. In the quiet space of burnout and pain, I had to face an uncomfortable truth: I couldn’t keep living like I wasn’t sick. And honestly? I didn’t want to anymore. I thought I had already pivoted — adjusted, adapted, rebranded. But the funny thing was, I wasn’t just supposed to pivot. I was supposed to do a full 360 — a total transformation, not just a redirection.
Redefining My Work
As a hairdresser and creative, I stopped taking “anyone and everyone” and started working with people whose missions aligned with mine — bold, heartfelt, often messy humans trying to build something real, or simply needing a pick-me-up and a safe space to unravel. Chronic illness taught me to listen more deeply — to design, coach, and create with soul. It taught me how to hold space for others because I’ve learned how to hold space for myself. I’ve gained a hard pass to toxic gym culture, unrealistic expectations, and the “no pain, no gain” mentality. I coach the way I needed to be coached — with compassion, flexibility, and zero shame. It also taught me that I can’t do everything — and I don’t have to. I had to let go of what my body used to do and start aligning with what it needs now. That means choosing things that bring me joy, reduce pain, and make my body sing — not cry. That meant semi-retiring from hairdressing, and taking a step back from what I’ve always known — to step into something new, something unknown, but something more aligned.
Becoming More Human
Pain made me more patient. And instead of just pushing through it with a couple Tylenol, I started asking why the pain was there. I became more curious, more in tune. (Though let’s be real — if all I needed now was Tylenol, I’d be SINGINGGGGG.) Fatigue taught me to slow down and notice nuance. To rest. To stop apologizing for needing a break. Brain fog taught me to communicate more simply and directly — or honestly, not at all. To be still. To be quiet. And to learn that silence is sometimes its own kind of wisdom. I’ve started really listening to my body. Every reaction has a root cause. It’s not just a random flare or “bad day.” There’s a signal. And finding the root — whether through medication, holistic support, or straight-up doing nothing — has become part of the work. Because whatever helps you get through the day is valid. Whatever helps you feel more like yourself, more human — that matters. I used to be afraid that being “too human” would turn people away. But showing up fully — flaws, flare-ups, and all — has built deeper trust, stronger connections, and a hell of a lot more meaning.
Take This With You
You don’t have to wait until you're falling apart to slow down. Listen to your body. Redefine what success looks like. Honor what you can do — even if it's different from yesterday.
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