Most mornings, I look like I have it together. My hair is brushed, my smile is polite, and my grocery cart has bananas and bread like anyone else’s. Most mornings, I also carry a storm that no one can see.
My unseen illness is like that—quiet in public, loud in private. It interrupts plans, steals sleep, and sometimes convinces me I’m the only one who feels this way. For a long time I hid it. I learned to say, “I’m fine!” with an exclamation mark, even when my body put a period at the end of every sentence.
One Tuesday changed me. It wasn’t dramatic. I wasn’t particularly brave. I was simply tired—tired of apologizing for symptoms I didn’t choose. I had pushed through a full day of “normal,” then bent over the kitchen sink and cried because the dishwasher beeped and it felt like one more demand I couldn’t meet. I whispered, “God, please help,” and the prayer was smaller than a mustard seed. But small seeds still sprout.
The next morning I tried something new: honesty. When a friend texted, “Hey, how are you?” my thumbs hovered over I’m fine! and instead typed, “Today is hard. I’m doing my best. Could you pray?” I pressed send and braced for silence.
It didn’t come.
She replied with a voice message, just 30 seconds long. “I’m with you. I’m proud of you for saying it. I’m praying now.” Her words felt like a hand on my shoulder. Something softened. The storm didn’t disappear, but it made room for a break in the clouds.
I started telling the truth in other small ways. When someone asked me to help with a project, I said, “I want to, but I don’t have the energy this week.” When my family wondered why I was quiet on the couch, I said, “I’m hurting today, but I love being here.” I learned that boundaries aren’t walls; they’re doors with doorknobs, and love can still walk through.
I discovered kindness in unexpected places. A barista taped a note to my cup: You’ve got this. A neighbor left a bag of lemons on my porch with a scribble—For tea on the tough days. The biggest kindness, though, was internal: I stopped calling myself lazy for needing rest. I started calling rest what it is—wise.
Not every day is gentle. Some days still feel like walking through syrup. There are flares that arrive uninvited and linger like guests who don’t catch the hint. There are doctors’ forms that ask for neat answers when my list is messy. There are people who say, “But you look great!” and mean well, and I smile, and it stings.
And yet—there is goodness here, too. The illness that narrowed my world has also sharpened my sight. I notice the tiny, holy things: sunlight on the sink full of dishes, the first swallow of cold water, a text that says thinking of you without expecting anything back. I’ve learned that hope doesn’t always roar; sometimes it hums like a quiet engine that keeps you moving one more block.
I have a picture on my wall of a little frog with wings. It reminds me that I am allowed to be both grounded and lifted, both hurting and hopeful. On the worst mornings, I look at it and pray, “Help me fly low today, but still fly.” Somehow, I do.
If you’re reading this and carrying your own invisible weight—an illness, grief, anxiety, pain with no easy name—I want you to hear me:
• You are not a problem to be solved. You are a person to be loved.
• Needing help isn’t failure; it’s human.
• Your worth doesn’t clock in and out with your energy.
Maybe today your victory is getting out of bed. Maybe it’s sending that honest text. Maybe it’s choosing to laugh once, even if it’s small. Every step counts. Every small seed matters.
I used to think I had to be completely better to belong. Now I know we belong to each other while we are healing. That’s why The Flying Frog exists—because kindness lifts, faith steadies, and community makes room for all the complicated, beautiful ways we’re still here.
If you need a place to sit down and breathe, pull up a lily pad with us. Share a prayer request, read a praise report, or just wander through the colors until your shoulders drop. You don’t have to hide here. Your story—unfinished and imperfect—is already welcome.
And on the days when the storm is loud and your prayer is barely a whisper, borrow mine:
God, give us enough strength for the next right step, enough peace for the next quiet breath, and enough love to remember we are never alone. Amen.
I still look “fine” in the checkout line. But now, “fine” means I am telling the truth, pacing myself, and letting people in. It means there is a steady hum of hope beneath the noise. It means the frog on my wall is still flying—and so am I.
— (compiled by) The Flying Frog Team
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