The Mask We Wear

If you saw me this week at the office, in the grocery store, or even just sitting on my porch; you probably saw exactly what you expected to see. You saw a woman holding it together, answering the “How are you?” with a practiced smile and a steady, “I’m doing okay.”

But lately, I’ve realized that “I’m fine” has become a heavy suit of armor. I put it on every morning before I face the world, and I don’t take it off until I’m behind closed doors. On the outside, everything looks stable. On the inside, my body is screaming, my heart is thumping a frantic rhythm in my ears, and I am navigating a canyon of exhaustion that most people can’t even imagine.

The Invisible Marathon

There is a unique kind of loneliness that comes with a slow-moving diagnosis like Myelofibrosis. Because I’m not in a hospital bed today, and because I don’t look like the world’s image of a cancer patient, the urgency around me has started to fade. When the news was fresh, the support was a flood. But as the weeks turn into months of waiting for a transplant, the silence grows.

To the outside world, I’m in a holding pattern. To me, I am running a marathon just to stay upright in my chair. Tasks that used to be mindless like walking to the car, bending over to tie my shoes, or simply catching my breath while sitting still; now require a conscious, grueling effort. My body is a factory trying to run on 20% power while the world expects 100% output.

The Battle of the Mind

When the physical fatigue sets in, the mental battle begins. I find myself in these dark lulls where I wonder if I’m exaggerating. I hear the voice of the doctors who dismissed my symptoms, and I start to blame myself. Is it just my weight? Am I just out of shape? I’ve realized that this is the enemy’s favorite playground, the “in-between.” It’s the space where the crisis feels old to everyone else, but it’s still very new and very terrifying to you. It’s where the noisy immune system inside me starts to reflect the noisy doubts in my head.

But here is what I have to tell my soul when the screaming gets too loud: Truth is not based on how I feel; it is based on who God is. In the Bible, we see so many people who were weary in the waiting. David cried out from the cave, “How long, O Lord?” Elijah sat under the broom tree, exhausted and ready to give up. They were warriors, but they were also human. I’ve had to learn that admitting my flesh and my heart may fail isn’t a lack of faith, it’s the highest form of it. It’s saying, I can’t carry this facade anymore, so I’m going to let God carry me instead.

If you are reading this and you’re in your own “waiting room”, whether it’s a medical diagnosis, a broken relationship, or a season of depression, please know that you don’t have to be “fine.” You don’t have to keep the armor on for the sake of everyone else’s comfort.

God doesn’t just care about the day I walk into the hospital for my transplant; He cares about the Tuesday afternoon when I’m struggling to breathe at my desk. He sees the “invisible” pain. He hears the heart thumping in my ears. He knows the weight of the breath I can’t quite catch.

If people have gone quiet around you, or if you feel like you’re being avoided because your struggle is too long or too complex, remember that you have a Friend who sticks closer than a brother. You aren’t too much for Him. Your screaming insides aren’t too loud for Him.

A Word of Encouragement

To anyone else putting on a facade today, give yourself permission to be weary. Grace is big enough for your bad days, your unexplained pains, and your lonely moments. We are not out of shape; we are in a battle. We are not exaggerating; we are enduring.

The factory inside my bones may be scarred, but the spirit within me is being renewed day by day. We may be hard-pressed on every side, but we are not crushed. We are just in the in-between, waiting for the dawn. And the dawn is coming.