The Impossible Love

A Lovecore Reflection on Illness, Identity, and Finding Your Light Again

What does it really mean to love yourself?

It’s a question I’ve been sitting with today – not in the abstract, self-help way we often hear, but in the raw, lived-in, bruised-but-still-breathing kind of way. Because when you live with chronic illness, loving yourself can feel impossible.

How do you love a body that’s fighting against you?

How do you hold compassion for a self that no longer feels like you?

I’ve written before about grief – the deep, hidden kind that comes when you’re forced to let go of the person you used to be.

And it is grief.

It’s the mourning of a life that once felt full of motion and freedom, strength and possibility. It’s saying goodbye to the version of you who once ran with wind in her hair, light on her feet, chasing miles with music in her ears and joy in her soul.

The day before my illness hit, I was out running. Really running – feeling alive in my body, fast and free, leaping over puddles, muscles firing, legs and arms in harmony. That was my normal. Long-distance walking at weekends, yearly walking expeditions across Scotland’s great trails – even the Camino Way in Spain one year. My life was full of movement and strength.

And then, just like that, it stopped.

The disease.

The drugs.

The bed rest.

It all stripped me down. My muscles wasted away. My energy evaporated. I became a shell of the woman I had been – and I didn’t know how to love that version of myself. I didn’t even recognise her.

In my darkest moments, I questioned everything.

If I couldn’t do the things that once made me me, who was I now?

What was I worth?

I thought, “If I can’t even love myself, how could anyone else?”

But even then, somewhere deep inside, I made a choice.

I decided I would not let this disease define me.

I asked myself – what can I do now?

If the answer was no longer “run” or “walk for miles,” what was left?

The answer came softly: I could sing.

I could paint.

I could create.

I could feel music in my soul.

So I began. Tentatively at first – one note, one brush stroke, one small act of beauty at a time. I found art. I found singing. And in those things, I found me again.

It wasn’t the same “me” as before. But it was someone worth knowing. Worth loving.

Because loving yourself isn’t just about your body.

It’s about your essence – the parts of you that illness cannot touch.

Your voice. Your heart. Your impact. Just you.

I recently read a beautiful piece of writing that said, “Imagine every person you’ve ever known as stars in the sky. Now imagine every person you’ve made smile, everyone you’ve helped, everyone who felt better because of you – shining there too.”

Isn’t that something?

Even when life has taken things from you, you’re still lighting up skies you can’t even see.

So if you’re reading this, and you feel lost in the storm of illness, identity or change – I want you to know: you are still here. You still matter. You still carry value far beyond what your body can do.

And maybe, just maybe, this is your chance to find something new that brings you back to life.