Living in the In-between

To live in remission from fibromyalgia is to exist in a kind of in-between space—no longer fully

defined by suffering, yet not entirely free from it. After years marked by chronic pain, fatigue,

and cognitive fog, remission does not restore life to what it once was. Instead, it introduces a

fragile and watchful stability, shaped by the memory of pain and the quiet awareness that it could

return. In this sense, remission is not the absence of illness, but a redefinition of what it means to

be well within the limits of the human condition.

Each morning begins with a kind of discernment—an inward assessment of energy, tension, and

clarity. Though the pain itself has receded, its imprint remains. This attentiveness is not fear; it is

a learned discipline. It reflects a deeper awareness of the body as both a gift and a limit,

something to be listened to rather than overridden.

Relearning the Meaning of Limitation

Before my diagnosis, I lived—perhaps without realizing it—according to a cultural assumption

that productivity defines worth. Fibromyalgia dismantled that belief. It forced me to encounter

the body not as an instrument of constant output, but as something inherently finite, vulnerable,

and dependent.

Even now, in remission, that lesson endures. My life is shaped by pacing, by intentional rest, and

by careful prioritization. What once felt like concessions to illness have become practices of

wisdom. They reflect not weakness, but a more honest understanding of what it means to live

well.

This shift has also deepened my theological perspective. Christianity does not merely

acknowledge human weakness; it reveals it as a place where grace becomes active. St. Paul’s

words—“When I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor 12:10)—are no longer abstract. They

describe something real. Strength, I have learned, is not measured by how much one can do, but

by the ability to endure faithfully within limits.

Prayer After Depletion

During the height of illness, my prayer life was stripped down to its essentials. Pain has a way of

narrowing focus and limiting expression. I could not sustain long prayers or complex reflection.

What remained were brief petitions, moments of silence, and a quiet turning toward God.

Yet these simple forms of prayer were not lesser—they were, in many ways, more honest. They

revealed the core of faith: dependence. There was no room for excess, only the essential

relationship between need and trust.

Now, in remission, I am able to return to Scripture more fully, to participate in liturgy with

greater attention, and to reflect more deeply. But this return carries its own risk—the assumption

that physical wellness automatically restores spiritual strength. It does not. Comfort can dull

awareness just as easily as suffering can sharpen it. Faith must be practiced deliberately in both

seasons.

Gratitude as a Discipline

Gratitude, for me, has become less of a feeling and more of a practice. During illness, it was

often an act of resistance—a decision to recognize goodness even in the midst of pain. In

remission, it has become a form of attentiveness: noticing the ordinary abilities that once felt

impossible.

To walk without exhaustion, to focus clearly, to move through daily life with some measure of

ease—these are no longer taken for granted. They are received as gifts.

This awareness also shapes how I relate to others. Having experienced limitation, I cannot ignore

it in others. The Christian call to compassion becomes more concrete. As St. Paul writes, we are

to “comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are

comforted by God” (2 Cor 1:4). Remission, then, is not only relief—it is responsibility. It calls

for a turning outward, toward those who continue to suffer.

Living with Uncertainty

Remission is not permanent. The possibility of relapse remains, and the condition itself does not

disappear. This reality requires humility and vigilance. It is not a source of constant anxiety, but a

recognition of truth: that stability in this life is always provisional.

In this light, faith becomes less about emotional reassurance and more about steady trust.

Experience—both medical and spiritual—has taught me that while circumstances change,

dependence on God does not.

The central truths of Christianity reinforce this. The Incarnation and the Crucifixion reveal that

fragility is not outside of God’s plan, but part of it. Human weakness is not erased; it is taken up

and transformed.

To live in remission, then, is to carry a quieter form of the Cross. Healing does not remove it—it

changes how it is borne. Health itself becomes a calling: to live attentively, to remain grounded

in gratitude, and to act with care and responsibility.

Each day in remission is both a gift and a task. It asks for awareness, honesty in prayer, and a

steady remembrance that faith endures not only in suffering, but also in what comes after it—the

quieter, more subtle work of living faithfully in its wake.