Maybe I’m thinking of grief and expectations right now because of the struggle to reconcile what my life is with what it was “supposed to be,” and realizing that the “supposed to be” never really existed.

A year off to get better is a year off to get better. Two years off is...oh. I’m not really getting better. And that’s just what happened. It has finality.

Sometimes I think other people’s expectations for my life are harder to cope with than mine. I don’t feel so sad until I meet someone I haven’t seen since pre-illness, and have to inform them I’m still too sick to work.

Sometimes their vision of me is so kind. “You mean you’re not hosting The Tonight Show yet?” “So are you back to running?” “What’s next for you?”

And what’s next for me is honestly not that bad, because I have so much family and community support. And that’s something I would wish on all disabled people.

But it’s still not what we thought it would be. People still think it must be worse than death, as I sit here chowing on gluten-free vegan bonbons.

I had to make a choice to let go of “It couldn’t be me.” I still have to make that choice every day. When I can meet anyone’s eyes in the world, I’ll know I’m succeeding.