Zebra Seeking Spoons

Sometimes I wonder
who I would have become
if my body had never learned
the language of pain.

Would I wake
without taking inventory?
Without wondering
which joints will hold,
which symptoms will arrive,
how many spoons I’ll have
before breakfast?

Would I say yes
without first calculating
the cost?

Would I make plans
without secretly preparing
to cancel them?

Would I travel farther,
dream bigger,
stay out later,
laugh longer,
without wondering
what tomorrow
would demand in return?

Maybe.

Maybe my life
would have been filled
with fewer doctor’s offices
and more adventures.

Fewer medications.
More spontaneity.

Fewer tears
shed in the dark
over a body
I couldn’t understand.

More certainty.
More freedom.
More ease.

But this
is the life I was given.

A life where mornings
begin with a body check.

Where pain
is an unwelcome companion
that follows me everywhere.

Where rest
isn’t a luxury—
it’s survival.

Where every outing
requires planning.

Where every celebration
comes with pacing.

Where every victory
is invisible
to almost everyone else.

This life
has asked more of me
than I ever wanted to give.

It has stolen things
I still grieve.

The version of me
who could simply go.
The future
I once assumed
would be mine.

And yet…

This life has also taught me
how to notice
the smallest mercies.

An afternoon
with symptoms that quiet
for just a little while.

A friend
who understands
when I need to leave early.

A sunrise
seen from my bedroom window.

A body
that keeps trying,
even when it is hurting.

I don’t pretend
I wouldn’t choose
a healthy body
if I had the chance.

I would.

In a heartbeat.

But while I wait
for better treatments,
for better answers,
for better days—

I am learning
to build a meaningful life
inside the one I have.

Not the life
I imagined.

Not the life
I would have chosen.

But still a life
filled with love,
purpose,
hope,
and courage.

Because chronic illness
changed my story—

but it never took away
my ability
to keep writing it.