One of the hardest parts of living with chronic illness has nothing to do with medications, doctors’ appointments, infusions, procedures, or even symptoms.
It’s managing expectations.
More specifically, managing the expectations we place on the people we love.
One of the most painful realities I have encountered on this journey is realizing that the people around me — the very people I would move mountains for — do not always show up for me in the same way that I show up for them.
That realization can sting.
For much of my life, I have been the helper, the fixer, the caregiver, the problem solver, and the “call me if you need anything” person. Need a ride? I’m there. Need someone to listen? I’m there. Need support during a difficult season? I’ve probably already shown up with food, advice, emotional support, and a backup plan. 😂
So when chronic illness entered the chat and suddenly I was the one in need, I think part of me expected that same level of support in return.
Recently, as I prepared for surgery to remove my PowerPort, I found myself trying to figure out how I was going to get to and from the hospital. Not because I had failed to communicate and plan ahead, but because what started as Plan A quickly turned into Plan B. Then Plan B turned into Plan C. Eventually, after several changes and disappointments, I found myself operating on what felt like Plan X.
The fact that some of the very people I am constantly there for could not assist me with something as simple as getting to and from the hospital hit me like a gut punch.
I don’t often ask for help. In fact, asking for help has never come naturally to me. But when I do ask, unfortunately, this outcome seems to be more common than not.
Each disappointment on its own may seem small, but over time those moments accumulate. Eventually, you begin questioning whether asking for help is worth the vulnerability that comes with it.
The fact that I was preparing to undergo surgery, had clearly communicated how much this procedure affected me, and still found that those I expected to be there had made themselves unavailable was deeply unnerving.
Surgery, regardless of how routine others may perceive it to be, is still surgery. Knowing that I was facing a medical procedure and feeling as though I was largely navigating it alone left me feeling vulnerable, disappointed, and, if I am being completely honest, a little abandoned.
As I sat with those feelings, I realized that my hurt wasn’t really about the ride.
It was about what the ride represented.
It represented feeling supported.
Feeling valued.
Feeling like the people I pour into would, when needed, pour back into me.
And when that doesn’t happen, it hurts.
It forces you to reevaluate not only your expectations, but sometimes your relationships as well.
As I sit here writing this diary entry, “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers keeps playing in my head. Apparently, my brain has once again selected today’s soundtrack. 😂 While the song is beautiful, chronic illness has taught me that not everyone is capable of being the person you can lean on.
Some people want to help but simply do not know how.
Some people become overwhelmed by illness.
Some people are dealing with struggles of their own.
And some people, if we’re being honest, were only meant to walk beside us for a season.
Learning this has been difficult because, for me, love and support have always been actions. I show love by showing up. So when others don’t do the same, it can feel personal.
But I am slowly learning an important lesson:
People can only give from what they have in their own emotional, physical, and mental cups.
That does not excuse hurtful behavior or repeated disappointment. Boundaries still matter. Accountability still matters. But understanding that everyone has different capacities has helped me release some of the resentment I was carrying.
I’ve also learned that support doesn’t always arrive wrapped in the package we expected.
Sometimes support is the friend who sends a quick text to check in.
Sometimes it’s the person who sits quietly beside you during a difficult moment.
Sometimes it’s the online chronic illness community made up of complete strangers who somehow understand your experience better than people who have known you for years.
And sometimes, support looks like learning to show up for yourself.
That may be the hardest lesson of all.
Because if chronic illness has taught me anything, it is that I cannot pour endlessly into everyone else while leaving nothing for myself.
I am still learning to adjust my expectations.
I am still learning that reciprocity and love are not always expressed in the same ways.
And I am still learning that protecting my peace is not selfish.
It’s necessary.
Perhaps the lesson isn’t to expect less from people, but to be more discerning about who we entrust with our expectations.
And while this journey has taught me that not everyone will show up, it has also taught me to cherish deeply those who do.
If you are walking this chronic illness journey and feeling disappointed by those around you, know that you are not alone. Grieving the support you hoped for is real. But so is finding unexpected sources of love, connection, and strength along the way.
And sometimes, the people who show up the most are the ones you never saw coming.
Thank you for taking the time to read this entry from The Dual Diagnosis Diaries. Whether you are living with chronic illness, supporting someone who is, or simply seeking understanding, thank you for being here and for allowing me to share my journey.
Founder • Author • Advocate • Future Wellness Coach
Kia Lorice
The Dual Diagnosis Diaries 💜
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