It’s been almost a year now since I stopped working full-time. A year of trying, failing, trying again. A year of paperwork, appointments, appeals, and rejection letters. A year of proving, time after time, that my pain is real. It shows that my body isn’t what it used to be. And it shows that I need help.
Applying for disability and income support programs is like being thrown into a maze with no exit. Every path looks like it will lead somewhere, but most of them just loop back to where you started. Forms get lost. Offices don’t call back. Every denial comes with vague reasons that don’t seem to match reality. “Not enough medical evidence.” “Condition not severe enough.” “You can still work in some capacity.” They make it sound so simple. It’s as if I haven’t already exhausted every choice. I would trade anything to have my old life back.
And then there’s the travel. The endless back-and-forth between doctor’s offices, assessment centers, and government buildings. I sit in waiting rooms. Stiff chairs dig into my back. My body screams at me to stand, yet I know I have nowhere to go. Getting into the car, every bump in the road sending a jolt of pain down my spine. I walk from parking lots to buildings. I push through sciatica flares just to get inside. Once inside, I am told they need “one more form,” “one more evaluation,” or “just a little more proof.”
Stress makes everything worse. It tightens my muscles, stiffens my joints, turns every ache into something sharper. The tension builds in my back, my legs, my neck. I wake up with my body already aching from the battle I fought yesterday. I know today won’t be any easier. Pain and stress feed off each other, an endless loop I can’t break.
But the hardest part? The way it’s changed how I see myself.
I used to be the provider. The one who made sure everything was taken care of. Bills paid, groceries stocked. Now, I feel like I’m barely holding on, and my partner is carrying more weight than they should. They never complain. They never make me feel like less. But I do.
I feel it when they pay for something I used to cover. I feel it when they pick up extra hours at work while I’m stuck at home. I feel it in the smallest moments. I can’t do something as simple as carry all the groceries up the stairs. I have to stop and rest halfway through a task that used to be effortless.
They tell me I’m not less. That I’m still me. That my value isn’t measured in paychecks or physical strength. And I try to believe them. But there’s a part of me that can’t shake the feeling that I’m failing. Not just myself, but them.
I know that’s not fair—to me or to them. Society drills into you that your worth is tied to what you can provide. It’s hard to unlearn this mindset.
I push ahead because I have no other choice. Because I still have fight left in me. Because I refuse to let a broken system make me feel broken, too. But some days, the weight of it all feels unbearable. The system that’s supposed to help people like me feels designed to make us give up. Maybe that’s the point.
But I won’t stop fighting.
I Will Keep Living, Breathing, Walking.
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