It has been more than 200 days since my diagnosis was confirmed, and the weight of it still lingers. I often feel like I’m falling—slipping into fear whenever I think about being alone. The thought of pain flaring up and causing me to stumble or collapse is always at the back of my mind. Independence, something I once took for granted, now feels fragile.

There are days when I feel like I’m failing. I want to reassure my family that I can manage on my own, that I am capable of caring for myself. Yet doubts creep in, whispering that I’m not strong enough. I don’t ask for extraordinary achievements; I only want to do the ordinary things—tasks that make up a normal life—without fear or dependence. But impatience grows as each month passes, reminding me that I’m not yet back to my old self. The mantra “You are better than before” has started to lose its power, and negativity presses harder against the walls I try to build.

And yet, I keep searching for a way to hold on. I remind myself that healing is slow, that years of damage cannot be undone in months. I look at people who seem to carry positivity like a shield and wonder how they manage it all day long. Their willpower feels extraordinary. If I could capture even a fraction of that strength, I believe I could reshape my life.

Holding on doesn’t mean ignoring the fear or denying the setbacks. It means acknowledging the falls, accepting the failures, and still choosing to keep moving forward. That, I think, is where resilience begins.