Laziness

There is a voice in my head that does not have multiple sclerosis.

It remembers who I was before. It remembers the pace I used to keep, the hours I used to work, the way I could move through a day without calculating the cost. It compares that version of me to who I am now and draws the wrong conclusion.

You’re lazy.

You’re not trying hard enough.

Other people manage more.

The voice sounds familiar because it is not new. It was shaped long before diagnosis. It was shaped by a world that measures worth in productivity, discipline, and endurance. It was shaped by praise for pushing through and subtle judgment for slowing down.

Multiple sclerosis did not create that voice.

It exposed it.

Living with chronic illness means resting more. It means cancelling plans. It means sitting down when others remain standing. It means protecting energy in ways that look, from the outside, like withdrawal.

The voice interprets those choices as failure.

It ignores fatigue that lives in the nervous system. It ignores pain that interrupts movement. It ignores the invisible labour required simply to function. It sees only difference.

Difference becomes deficiency.

This internalised ableism is quiet but persistent. It questions every decision to rest. It frames boundaries as weakness. It treats limitation as a moral flaw rather than a medical reality.

There were days when I apologised constantly.

I apologised for needing to sit.

I apologised for leaving early.

I apologised for not being able to do more.

I apologised for existing in a body that did not meet expectation.

Sorry became automatic.

Sorry for being tired.

Sorry for being slow.

Sorry for needing help.

Sorry for taking up space.

The apologies were not always spoken aloud. Many lived internally, shaping how I saw myself. Each apology reinforced the idea that my body was an inconvenience.

It is difficult to unlearn that narrative.

Society rewards stamina. It admires resilience that looks like relentless effort. It treats rest as indulgence and productivity as virtue. When your body requires something different, the contrast can feel like failure.

Chronic illness disrupts that framework.

Fatigue does not respond to willpower. Symptoms do not disappear through determination. Rest becomes survival, not indulgence. Boundaries become protection, not avoidance.

The voice in my head took time to understand that.

Learning to stop apologising began with recognising that my body is not misbehaving. It is managing a neurological condition. It is adapting to damage I cannot see but must live with. It is working harder than it ever did before, even when it looks still.

Stillness is not laziness.

Rest is not weakness.

Limitation is not moral failure.

Each time I choose to sit without apologising, I challenge that voice. Each time I decline something that will harm me, I choose self-preservation over approval. Each time I refuse to justify my need for accommodation, I reclaim space.

The voice still appears.

It appears when I compare myself to healthy friends. It appears when I scroll past images of productivity and momentum. It appears when I remember who I used to be.

The difference now is that I answer it.

I remind myself that my value does not depend on output. I remind myself that survival is labour. I remind myself that navigating chronic illness requires strength that does not always look impressive from the outside.

My body is not something I need to apologise for.

It is something I need to honour.

Living with multiple sclerosis has required a different definition of strength. Strength now looks like listening instead of overriding. It looks like stopping instead of pushing. It looks like choosing sustainability over performance.

The voice that calls me lazy is a remnant of a world that does not understand invisible illness.

I no longer allow it to define me.

I exist in a body that has changed. That body deserves respect, not apology.

I am not lazy.

I am adapting.

And I will not apologise for surviving.