This week has been one of the hardest I’ve had in a long time. A few days ago, after a hospital appointment, I was told that my autoimmune disease has got worse. I was advised to rest, slow down and accept that, for now, my body simply needs more than I would like it to. I was already trying to process that news while dealing with the pain, the exhaustion and everything that comes with living with a chronic illness. Then, almost as if my immune system had reached its limit, I caught the flu as well. High fever, a sore throat, body aches… everything arrived at once. For a few days, it felt as though my body had declared war on itself, and all I could do was lie in bed and wait.

One of the strangest things about being ill is how quickly your world becomes smaller. Just a few days earlier I had been thinking about new projects, ideas, music, photography and everything I wanted to create. Suddenly none of those things mattered anymore. My entire world became incredibly small. It was no longer about the future. It was about getting through the next hour. Hoping the fever would go down. Wondering whether I’d be able to eat something. Waiting for the pain in my hands to ease enough to hold a cup of tea. It’s amazing how quickly life can strip everything back to the simplest needs, and how, in those moments, you realise that health is something most of us only notice when it’s gone.

Lying in bed for so many hours also left me alone with my thoughts. Some of them were hopeful. Others weren’t. There were moments when I genuinely felt as though I was losing hope, and I think it’s important to admit that. We often celebrate resilience and positivity, but we don’t talk enough about the days when your mind feels just as exhausted as your body. The days when staying optimistic doesn’t feel inspiring; it feels almost impossible. I’ve always been someone who ends difficult conversations by saying, “Let’s stay positive,” and I still believe in that. But I’ve realised that being a positive person doesn’t mean feeling positive every single day. Sometimes it simply means accepting that today is hard, without believing that today will last forever.

Maybe that’s what this week has taught me. Hope isn’t a constant emotion. It comes and goes, especially when you’re in pain. There are days when it feels strong enough to carry you forward, and there are days when it quietly disappears for a while. I don’t think that makes us weak. I think it makes us human. Perhaps real hope isn’t about never feeling afraid or discouraged. Perhaps it’s about trusting that, even after the darkest days, there will come a moment when you slowly begin to recognise yourself again. Right now, that’s enough for me. One day at a time.