I got covid back in May 2022, which means I have been dealing with this illness for three years now. I’m pretty sure this means by even the most conservative estimate I am unlikely to ever recover from it and this is just what my life will be like now.
And I’m okay.
I’m at a point where my symptoms are predictable, which is honestly the best thing for me. I can generally tell how much I can do in a day, when I am pushing myself too far, and how long I will need to recover when I go over my energy limits. I may not be able to be spontaneous anymore, but I can make plans and have short outings to grab coffee with friends once a month. I’ve figured out how to get groceries and the things I need and there’s a lot fewer doctor’s appointments lately draining the little energy I have. Plus, with the weather getting better, my body is more cooperative and I am starting to go outside for quick adventures again.
And I’m writing again! Which, honestly, is the best thing to happen in a long time for me. I can only handle about 10 minutes a day and have had to put in place some child locks to keep myself from going over, but it means that I’m finally working on a new book. I don’t write like I used to and I am definitely not churning out a trilogy in a month anymore, but I am writing and I am happy.
With the weather getting better, I’m hoping to get over a functional hour a day and more than 10 minutes continuously on a task before I need a break. They’ll probably be used on getting the garden together, bothering the cat, and setting things up for myself when I inevitably get over confident and trap myself in bed again. My world is smaller, but I’m okay and I’m getting pretty good at finding little joys in life.
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