Why I’m Tired of Pretending I’m Okay: The Unspoken Cost of Chronic Illness
Some days, the hardest part of living with long Covid isn’t the symptoms.
I am tired of faking it.
I am talking about the strange, exhausting, everyday performance people with chronic illness are quietly expected to give.
The polite smiles.
The “I’m fine.”
The upbeat tone that keeps everyone else comfortable.
Carefully avoiding being completely honest.
There’s a whole emotional economy behind long covid that nobody talks about, and it’s draining in ways fatigue alone can’t explain.
So for once, let’s talk about it honestly.
The Daily Mask
There’s an unspoken rule in society: you can be unwell… just not too unwell.
You can say you’re tired, but not the sort of tired that means you can’t get off the sofa and do things.
You can say you’ve got a headache, but probably don’t mention the brain fog that makes you forget why you walked into the kitchen.
Don’t mention breathlessness, dizziness, or crashing after every activity. Otherwise, It immediately becomes a group project where everyone offers suggestions you’ve already tried.
So we say we’re “okay.”
We say we’re “getting there.”
We say “it could be worse” because that’s easier than listing symptoms that could fill the IKEA catalogue.
Sometimes people reply with the classic:
“But you look well!”
Which is always lovely to hear, and I know that they mean well, but it also feels a bit like someone saying, “You don’t look like you’re suffering enough for me to take this seriously.”
The Emotional Labour of Illness
Here’s something surprising I’ve learned: chronic illness requires us to learn customer service skills.
Luckily I had some of these already because, you find yourself managing other people’s discomfort.
Reassuring them.
Downplaying your symptoms so they don’t feel awkward.
You shouldn’t have to do any of that, of course, but you do, because it’s instinctive. I am a people pleaser at heart. I don’t want to be the person who brings the mood down.
Also, I don’t want pity.
And I definitely don’t want the “Have you tried yoga?” conversation.
So you perform “functioning human” even when your body is held together by nothing but caffeine, anti depressants, and sheer stubbornness.
Over time, It becomes a habit: a quiet, relentless form of emotional labour that takes as much energy as the illness itself. Some days I cannot face it and stay at home.
The Cost of Pretending
The performance always has a price.
You make it through the outing, the meeting, the family visit… and then comes the crash. Not a gentle slowdown, we are talking a brick-wall, full-body shutdown that wipes out the next 24 to 72 hours.
Long Covid doesn’t give any warning. It repossesses your energy without warning and then comes the guilt.
The guilt of cancelling plans.
The guilt of needing rest.
The guilt of not being able to keep up with everyone else’s pace.
It’s ridiculous, of course, none of this is my fault, but guilt doesn’t listen to reason. It only listens to expectations, usually ones you never signed up for in the first place.
The Moment Pretending Stops Working
Every person with a chronic illness has a moment where the mask slips, not by choice, but because the body simply can’t fake it any more.
For me, it wasn’t dramatic. It was something small: realising I didn’t have the energy to pretend. One day, someone just asked how I was, and instead of the usual polite script, I said:
“Honestly? I’m struggling today.”
The world didn’t fall apart.
Nobody fainted.
Nobody accused me of being dramatic.
It was awkward for a second, but afterwards strangely liberating.
The Quiet Freedom of Honesty
Here’s the plot twist I didn’t expect: brutal honesty makes life easier.
The people who care about you respond with kindness.
The people who don’t… well, you save energy by not performing for them.
Saying “I’m not doing well today” doesn’t make you negative.
It makes you human.
It invites connection, conversation, and, sometimes, help.
It stops me wasting precious energy keeping up appearances when I could be using that energy to simply exist.
Living Without Performance Pressure
I’m slowly learning to drop the act, not completely, but enough to make room for the real version of me.
I’m learning that:
Cancelling plans isn’t a moral failure.
Resting isn’t laziness.
Pacing isn’t weakness — it’s strategy.
Saying “I can’t today” is a boundary, not a confession.
Life with long Covid is unpredictable. Some days feel manageable. Others feel like wading through treacle. Pretending doesn’t change the reality, it just drains what little energy you have left.
Honesty doesn’t cure the illness, but it makes the life around the illness kinder. It also honours people better who are asking out of genuine kindness.
A New Kind of Strength
I used to think strength meant pushing through, cracking on, carrying it all without complaint.
Now I think strength looks different.
Strength is honesty.
Strength is pacing.
Strength is knowing when to rest.
Strength is not performing for anyone else’s comfort.
Strength is admitting that life is hard and still finding tiny, stubborn moments of joy tucked inside the day. That’s satisfying.
Long Covid takes a lot from us.
But pretending to be okay takes even more.
This year, I’m trying something radical: telling the truth.
Life with Long Covid is more than a few articles; it is also:
A community which you can find at www.lifewithlongcovid.co.uk
A podcast which you can access through the website or through Apple and Spotify, just search for ‘Life with Long Covid’.
I have also produced a short book that details some of my podcasts in short, easily digestible chapters. You can read it when you have the energy. It’s available on Amazon here.
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