The Dual Diagnosis Diaries: I’ve Been Strong for Too Long

I was never a crier.

I prided myself on being strong.

I showed up for the people I loved, even when I could barely gather the strength to show up for myself.

For most of my life, I carried things quietly. I pushed through. I smiled. I handled what needed to be handled. I convinced myself that strength meant keeping it together, even when everything inside of me felt like it was falling apart.

But over this past year, something has shifted.

I have become more sensitive.

I find myself crying for no apparent reason at all.

Crying when I think about the past.

Crying when I think about the future.

Crying when I hear certain songs on the radio.

And every time it happens, I ask myself:

What is this?

Is it grief finally exposing itself?

Is it depression?

Is it menopause?

Or am I simply entering my soft girl era?

Honestly, I do not know.

What I do know is that chronic illness does not only affect the body.

It affects the mind.

It affects your emotions.

It affects how safe you feel in your own body.

It affects how much you trust tomorrow.

Living with Crohn’s Disease and Myasthenia Gravis has required me to be strong for so long. I have had to mask pain, fatigue, fear, frustration, uncertainty, and sometimes even grief. I have had to keep going when my body was begging me to stop.

For most of my life, I bottled up my feelings.

I rarely showed vulnerability.

I convinced myself that being strong meant carrying everything on my own.

And I didn’t just carry what I was going through.

I carried what everyone else was going through too.

I was the sounding board.

The protector.

The problem solver.

The confidant.

The one people called when they were hurting.

The one who listened.

The one who showed up.

The one who held everyone else together.

And let’s not forget my career.

For more than two decades, I showed up there too.

I pushed myself beyond my limits.

I worked through fatigue.

I worked through pain.

I worked through infusions.

I worked through doctor’s appointments.

I worked through procedures.

I worked through hospitalizations.

I worked through uncertainty.

I rarely took time off.

In fact, most of the time I only took time off when I had a medical procedure scheduled and had no other choice.

I never really took time for myself.

There was always another property that needed attention.

Another resident who needed help.

Another employee who needed guidance.

Another crisis that needed solving.

Another deadline that needed to be met.

So I kept pushing.

I kept producing.

I kept performing.

I kept proving that I could handle it.

People often tell me how strong I am.

What they don’t see is the cost of that strength.

The exhaustion.

The pressure.

The loneliness that sometimes comes from being the person everyone depends on.

Looking back now, I realize I spent so much time taking care of everyone else that I rarely stopped to ask myself what I needed.

I gave people a safe place to land.

But I never created one for myself.

I did it willingly because I loved the people in my life and I cared deeply about the teams I led.

But as I look back now, I find myself asking a difficult question:

Who was all of those things for me?

Who was my sounding board?

Who was my protector?

Who did I call when I was scared, overwhelmed, exhausted, or struggling to breathe?

Who held me together when I felt like I was falling apart?

The truth is, I don’t know that I allowed anyone to be.

I became so accustomed to being the strong one that I never gave myself permission to need support.

I never gave myself permission to fall apart.

Maybe that’s why these emotions feel so overwhelming now.

Maybe years of unspoken fears, suppressed emotions, buried grief, and unanswered questions are finally demanding to be heard.

Maybe the tears aren’t coming from what is happening today.

Maybe they are coming from everything I never allowed myself to feel yesterday.

The truth is, chronic illness comes with losses that people do not always see.

The loss of certainty.

The loss of control.

The loss of independence.

The loss of the life you thought you would have.

The loss of the person you used to be.

Because when you live with chronic illness, you don’t just grieve your health.

You grieve the version of yourself that existed before your body changed.

Even when we adapt.

Even when we overcome.

Even when we find ways to keep moving forward.

There is often grief hiding beneath the surface.

Maybe these tears are not weakness.

Maybe they are release.

Maybe they are years of holding everything in finally finding a way out.

Maybe my body and my heart are both asking me to stop pretending that I am okay all the time.

I am learning to give myself grace.

I am learning to give myself space to be emotional.

I am learning that crying does not make me weak.

It makes me human.

Creating this blog has helped me more than I expected.

The Dual Diagnosis Diaries has given me a place to express myself.

A place to share what I am going through.

A place to say the things I often hide in real life.

This blog has become its own form of therapy.

In fact, I cried while writing this post.

As I typed these words, tears rolled down my face.

Not because something terrible happened today.

Not because I received bad news.

But because for perhaps the first time, I stopped long enough to acknowledge everything I have been carrying.

The illnesses.

The responsibilities.

The expectations.

The grief.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

The pressure of always being the strong one.

Sometimes healing begins the moment we stop pretending we are okay.

It forced me to admit that carrying chronic illness is not just physically exhausting—it is emotionally exhausting too.

For years, I have focused on surviving.

On working.

On showing up.

On being strong.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve spent so many years surviving that I never learned how to process what survival was costing me.

Maybe now I am learning how to feel.

Maybe now I am learning that healing requires more than simply enduring.

Maybe now I am learning that I don’t always have to be the strong one.

Even if no one reads a single post, writing here is helping my mental health.

It is helping me process.

It is helping me breathe.

It is helping me let my walls down, one post at a time.

It is giving me permission to be honest about the parts of this journey that are difficult, messy, and sometimes heartbreaking.

For the first time in my life, I am beginning to understand that taking care of myself is not selfish.

It is necessary.

These days, I prioritize mental health days.

I schedule vacations.

I schedule staycations.

I intentionally create space to rest, recharge, and simply breathe.

Not because everything on my to-do list is finished.

Not because there are no more demands on my time.

But because I am finally realizing that I deserve the same care, compassion, and grace that I so freely give to everyone else.

I am learning how to prioritize me and my needs.

And if I’m being honest, that has been one of the hardest lessons of all.

For so many years, my identity was tied to being the strong one.

The dependable one.

The one who always showed up.

Now I am learning how to show up for myself.

While I am still a work in progress, I am learning to give myself permission to rest without guilt.

To say no when I need to.

To protect my peace.

To honor my limitations.

To celebrate my progress.

And most importantly, I am learning how to show up for me the same way I have always shown up for others.

And I am learning something else.

I am learning to allow myself to cry.

To shed the tears.

To stop apologizing for them.

For so many years, I viewed tears as something to suppress.

Something to hide.

Something that got in the way of being strong.

Now I see them differently.

The tears are not a sign that I am breaking.

They are a sign that I am healing.

Every tear carries something.

Pain.

Fear.

Grief.

Disappointment.

Exhaustion.

Relief.

Acceptance.

Sometimes I do not even know why I am crying.

I just know that I need to.

And for the first time in my life, I am giving myself permission to do exactly that.

Because the tears are therapy too.

They are part of the release.

Part of the healing.

Part of the process of letting go of everything I have carried for far too long.

Because I have been strong for too long.

Maybe now, I am learning that healing also requires softness.

Maybe this isn’t depression.

Maybe it isn’t menopause.

Maybe it isn’t grief.

Or maybe it’s a little bit of all three.

Whatever it is, I am learning to stop fighting it.

I am learning to sit with it.

I am learning to honor it.

I am learning to feel it.

And for the first time in a very long time, I am learning that strength is not always found in holding it together.

Sometimes strength is found in allowing yourself to fall apart, trusting that you can put the pieces back together again.

For the first time in my life, I am learning that being strong and being vulnerable are not opposites.

Sometimes vulnerability is the strongest thing we can do.

And sometimes healing begins with something as simple as allowing yourself to cry.

Quote to Remember

“For years I focused on surviving. Maybe now I am learning how to feel.”

Another Quote to Remember

“When you live with chronic illness, you don’t just grieve your health. You grieve the version of yourself that existed before your body changed.”

One Final Thought

“The strongest people are often the ones who have spent years carrying burdens no one else could see.”

Living with one autoimmune disease is challenging. Living with two requires resilience. Welcome to The Dual Diagnosis Diaries, where I share the realities of navigating life with Crohn’s Disease and Myasthenia Gravis—one day, one treatment, one setback, one victory, and one lesson at a time.