Chronic Illness Math

Before I say yes, I calculate.

The calculation happens automatically now, quietly and constantly, running in the background of every decision. It does not look like numbers on paper. It does not follow predictable formulas. It exists entirely inside my body.

How long will I have to stand?

Will there be somewhere to sit?

How far is the walk from the car to the entrance?

How much energy will it cost me to get there, to be present, to get home again?

Every question leads to another.

What is my fatigue level today?

What is my fatigue level likely to be tomorrow?

If I spend energy now, what will it take from me later?

Will the recovery take hours, days, or longer?

This is chronic illness math.

It is the constant negotiation between desire and consequence. It is the quiet arithmetic of survival.

Before multiple sclerosis, enjoyment existed without calculation. Saying yes was simple. Plans were made without considering recovery time. Energy was assumed to be renewable, something that would return naturally without conscious effort.

That assumption no longer exists.

Energy is now finite. It behaves like a limited currency. Every action requires spending it. Every movement, every conversation, every moment of participation draws from a reserve that does not replenish predictably.

Nothing is free.

Getting dressed has a cost. Leaving the house has a cost. Being present, smiling, engaging, existing in the world as though everything is normal carries a cost that no one else can see.

The hardest part of chronic illness math is that the answers are never certain.

Some days, the body gives more than expected. Other days, it gives less. The same activity can produce different outcomes depending on variables that cannot always be controlled. Sleep quality, stress, temperature, illness, and invisible neurological processes all influence the equation.

There is no reliable formula.

This uncertainty makes every decision feel like a risk.

Saying yes means accepting consequences that cannot always be predicted. It means accepting that the version of myself present in the moment may not be the version of myself left afterward. It means accepting that enjoyment now may create limitation later.

The calculation never stops.

Even in moments of happiness, part of my mind remains aware of the cost. Awareness of posture. Awareness of fatigue. Awareness of how much energy remains and how much has already been spent.

This awareness does not remove joy. It changes its shape.

Joy becomes something intentional. It becomes something chosen carefully rather than assumed freely. It becomes something balanced against consequence.

There is grief in that reality.

Grief for spontaneity. Grief for effortlessness. Grief for the version of life that existed without calculation.

There is also strength.

Chronic illness math teaches awareness. It teaches discipline. It teaches respect for the body’s limits. It teaches survival within uncertainty.

It teaches the value of every yes.

Because every yes is chosen knowingly.

Every yes is chosen despite the cost.

Every yes represents courage.

From the outside, people see participation. They see presence. They see moments of normalcy. They do not see the calculation that made those moments possible. They do not see the preparation, the conservation, the negotiation happening beneath the surface.

They do not see the math.

Chronic illness math exists entirely in the space between what is visible and what is lived.

It exists in hesitation. In planning. In adaptation.

It exists in the quiet decision to live fully anyway.

Every yes comes with a price.

I say yes when it is worth paying.