The first morning back to work after the “Leave of Absence” (aka LOA), I buzzed with pride while dressing for the office, and I pumped myself up to resume crushing it in my career. I convinced myself I had accomplished something real, that heavy rest through the three-month LOA had healed me. I told myself it was a success, for me and for the company who wanted me back. I refused to accept the feelings nagging at me, telling me that wasn’t the whole story.

I was determined to keep my health and my career.

But, of course, that wasn’t what happened.

Within the first week I felt some progress slipping, edging back down the steepest water slide at the park, the terrifying one with the vertical drop.

My forced optimism carried me through the first month. Thinking positive is supposed to be a cure for bad things. If things get worse, then I need to think positive harder. Right?

After two months, I was back on the phone with HR. They wanted to support me, to keep me at the company. They offered part-time work, my manager cut me some slack, lapses in ability were forgiven. I worked from home more often and was excused from meetings, yet given more responsibility with two direct reports.

We all wanted a solution to this problem, but none of us knew what was needed.

Weeks later, my health reached a new low.

* * *

My bright blue sheath dress with the tiny ruffles at the neckline comes into view as I bend my head down. Looking past the keyboard and into my lap, I draw inwards with the first faint early warning signal of an impending energy crash. Is this real?

Ignoring my hunched shoulders and absence of breath, I listen in closely, feeling into my insides where that unique imbalance originates, telling me something isn’t right.

A stronger flicker of not-right-ness through my torso confirms this is happening. Instinct says to run, before coworkers can see me weak and helpless. Or managers. Or the client, or a partner, or anyone who would question my ability to perform or to deserve another raise. It’s one thing to suffer through these embarrassing episodes; it’s another to risk my financial future.

There is still time. Like a blizzard, the first few snowflakes are calm, a gentle sign to head indoors. But standing up quickly under duress uses too much energy, and now the winds are picking up as snowflakes gather on the ground. My body asks for a gasping inhale; a controlled and quiet breath is what it gets while urgency rises. My mind urges me to run, avoid being exposed, dodge the shame, hide the weakness, while my body begs to lie down.

Rushing away, the only private place on this office floor is the bathroom. My breaths are uncontrollable; audible gasps express air hunger, alongside relief to be so lucky to find the bathroom empty. No one has to know. Five stalls in beige tile and beige plastic doors; the last stall is the extra large handicap space, my destination as I wonder if the last few steps will see me on the floor before I’m shut away. The crash sensation has flooded my system, and tiny trembles shake the tears running down my face as I lock the door and drop to the floor.

The tiles are cold on my exposed legs and arms, my wet cheeks can feel cooler air emanating from the floor, where my view tunnels under the dividers all the way to the entrance. I wait out the energy crash, because they always pass in time, as I watch the main door, ready to quiet my breath and hide my presence in case of an unwanted witness.

Focus returns to my body’s needs. Every muscle relaxed, absolute minimal energy use allowed, as the feeling crescendos with brain fog so dense I nearly lose consciousness. In and out of this state for minutes, a dim awareness of how vulnerable this leaves me is abandoned without energy to act on it.

Why am I crying?, I wonder. This isn’t supposed to happen at work. I thought I could power through any episodes here, because this puts everything I’ve worked for into limbo. My job can be taken away if they know what happens, that there is so much outside of my control.

If it’s this bad today, can it get worse?

I’m crying because I ignored my body’s desperate plea for rest and for breath. I denied a critical need in order to keep my future secure. The money and prestige were more important, and here it is in front of me. My body is nothing more than a vehicle to success. It should perform as I tell it to, how dare it betray me while we’re in the game.

The tiles warmed by my skin don’t feel so cold as the ability to sit up returns. I wait until I can stand, then unlock the stall door. Finally, a slow walk back to my laptop. Head held high, competitive coworkers none the wiser.

Disaster averted. Suffering still tolerable. But my future is more uncertain than ever.

The LOA had not brought about a recovery; it was only a temporary and slight reduction in my symptoms.

I was worse off than before.

* * *

As my health, energy, and capabilities sank to new lows, the inevitable came into focus. Despite cutting ballast to save my energy, I watched my ability to hold a job evaporate again. Pushing myself through this wasn’t working, and I was reduced to hoping for a miracle to save me before the crashes got me fired.

I had unpleasant options, ones I didn’t want to admit. I had savings to get by for a while, although I didn’t want to spend them. I could raid my new 401(k) if needed, I knew how to cut expenses and live on a tiny budget, and I was willing to sleep on someone else’s couch until I figured this out.

This was a crucial decision point, do I prioritize my bank account or do I preserve the health I have left?

Stubborn and fiercely independent in all ways, I was accustomed to achieving through hard work and willpower. Resistant to sacrificing my savings, even though there was no identifiable path to success, I delayed the decision.

In other words, I refused to accept reality. Which became an inadvertent choice to sacrifice my health for another few weeks of pay.

In hindsight, this was a terrible decision that led to my health plummeting further and faster. I wish I had chosen to do the impossible and to leave work, instead of fighting the immovable brick wall I hurtled toward. That was my chance to surrender and save the troops. Instead, I fought a needless battle with my pride and ego that resulted in sacrificing every last soldier I had.

While losing the battle for my career, I lost even more of my health.

* * *

Soon after the first bathroom stall crash, at 10am one morning in the office, I could feel another crash coming on. My worry was compounded by the fact that they usually waited until after lunch to appear. As usual, I planned to escape to the bathroom to crash in private.

As I stood from my chair, with half a dozen coworkers present at the table, the effort of standing robbed me of my last crumb of energy. Before my legs were straightened, I felt the breath leave my body, my muscles become too weak to hold me up, my head swim in an instant fog of confusion, and a desperate drive to escape the alarmed eyes staring at me. I sensed I wouldn’t reach the bathroom this time, but I had to try.

I made it two hunched steps to the cushioned chair against the wall, where I collapsed like a thrown scarf, unable to hold my torso vertical as I gasped for air and languished in embarrassment at being exposed while helpless. Unable to speak while someone asked if I was okay, my limp hand like a dead leaf in a slight breeze tried to convey don’t worry about me, this happens all the time, I’ll be fine in a little bit. Give me some time and some space.

Instead, they ran for our manager, who took me home in a cab after I recovered enough to stand. The manager carried my backpack to my apartment, and helped me lie down on the couch.

After they saw what I had been hiding, everyone at work accepted the inevitable, too.

Out of work. On one hand, it was terrifying to be without steady income; it was horrifying to be unable to work. On the other hand, it was a tremendous relief to stop pushing, pretending, hiding.

I told myself I was surrendering. But at that point, I had no real choice in the matter.

So began the first couple years of being out of work, halfway through my First Health Crisis.

I will forever wonder how it could have been different had I quit earlier with more of my health intact, with a shorter recovery journey and essentially the same financial resources.

* * *

Who was I anymore? I was no longer a CrossFitter, a consultant, a capable worker, a good friend, or a fun girlfriend. I was disoriented, like being dumped in the wilderness without a map. My identity was weakened by the loss of so much.

And my health was at its lowest point ever. The next few months were overwhelmed by heavy black brain fog, my consciousness only partly present at any one time as my life moved between the bed and the couch. The fugue was punctuated with grand pushes to socialize, pretending to be normal for a few hours followed by days of an even darker lassitude. The loss of everything would have depressed me into a stupor through emotional free fall, but my health was too poor to contemplate anything other than eating and walking to the bathroom each day. I was in strict biological survival mode; my mind and body had no extra energy to think. Life was simple that way.

As during my LOA, but slower this time, I saw tiny improvements over the weeks and months of rest. I regained my mind enough to use it for an hour or so a day.

* * *

I had a bad habit of pushing myself to do and to perform until I crashed, over and over and over.

This is a vicious cycle many chronically ill people are trapped in, for good reasons (like grocery shopping and survival needs) and for not-so-good reasons (like my ego-driven sacrificing of my health). While the physical nature and symptoms of your crashes can differ from mine, if you experience crashes then this section is for you.

Whatever your reasons for crashing, there is a core truth. Each and every crash sets you back on your healing journey.

Living in a way that leads to crashing too often will mean you get worse faster than you get better.

There is a balance point where the crashes even out with your healing efforts, and your health plateaus.

Then, there is a lower frequency of crashing that allows your health to improve, and this is where you can begin to heal.

Avoiding crashes is not enough to heal you, because crashes are not the only factor driving your illness. Yet, fewer crashes are essential to open up the possibility of healing. Your “balanced” crash frequency and severity can not be calculated or looked up in a table. You can only know what your body can withstand from experience and honest accountability of each crash’s impact on your health.

This is a hard truth that needs to be accepted before healing can gain momentum. This applies to everyone, even those with good reasons for crashing, or if you don’t yet see a way to reduce your crashes.

Some of you may hear this as, “You are doomed to never get well because your life requires you to keep doing things that lead to a crash (like grocery shopping or child care or paying rent).”

I hear you, so let’s sit with that for a moment.

I acknowledge that your situation may be different from what my situation was. You might not have savings to fall back on, a supportive employer, or the lack of responsibilities that come with being child-free. In fact, let’s assume you have fewer resources or more responsibilities than I did, and those feel like insurmountable obstacles to healing.

My heart goes out to you for this extra weight you bear on this already crushing journey.

First, I offer some hope. I know mothers who have healed from severe ME/CFS while their kids still live at home. Lower-middle-class folks have tapped into community support and government benefits while healing. Breadwinners have prioritized healing and gotten back to providing for their families after severe chronic fatigue symptoms derailed their careers. These extra responsibilities are additional hardship, but they are not immovable obstacles. With a commitment to your healing and a willingness to lean on your community resources, the art of possibility can reveal creative new paths ahead.

Second, our journeys are different. That is a basic premise of my book, even as I share intimate details of my own story. I do that so you understand where I came from, knowing it will never apply to you 100%.

Third, we share the need to face and accept the truth. That crashing less often and less hard is a core and essential component of healing. To accept this truth alongside the truth of essential responsibilities. It isn’t either/or, it’s both/and co-existing.

Finally, we also share the need to take an honest look at the ugly options we’d rather not consider, the things our healthy selves would dismiss as unthinkable. They could be anything from asking to move in with your mother-in-law, being on unemployment benefits, or changing your parenting standards until you are well again.

Anything that supports your healing through decreased crashes must be considered. Acceptance of this second hard truth can open up new doors to recovery.

Remember, there are benefits to choosing these unwanted options while you still have a choice. Do what you can to preserve what remains of your health.

Your options are as unique as your illness and circumstances, and having personalized support in this area is invaluable. I help my clients with their options and impossible decision-making as a Healing Journey Mentor, only when they don’t feel they have the support needed from family, friends, therapists, or coaches. Turn to the people in your support network first for help with this. A fresh set of eyes often sees new possibilities.

This is a complex task. You aren’t expected to embrace or live by these truths after reading them once. This is the seed of an idea to be chewed over, feared, looked at with curiosity, and explored in small, tentative steps. Parts 2 – 4 of this book explore more of the complexity of your hard decisions yet to be made, while helping you align with the hard truths of healing.

My heart goes out to you as you practice a deeper level of acceptance of the hard truths, acknowledging the facts about the severity of your health issues, and confronting the unwanted options at hand.

This is how acceptance can open up new possibilities for healing.