Personal responsibility is something I hold dear — and something I try to teach my children every single day.
You are responsible for yourself. You can’t control others, only your own choices, your own reactions, your own growth. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll inspire others along the way.
Of course, my husband and I also carry the responsibility of raising our children — they still need us to guide and protect them. But as adults, that deep sense of self-accountability is what keeps us grounded.
Last week, though, I stumbled.
It started with anger. Not at someone else — but at my own body. That was a first for me. I live so carefully: no alcohol, no smoking, I move as much as my body allows, and I eat clean to manage my conditions. Yet my body keeps fighting against me. My Gastroparesis is worsening, and it feels like my efforts aren’t enough.
I asked my doctor, “Why am I doing all this if it doesn’t work?”
He looked at me and said, “You already know why.”
And he was right.
Still, once I got home, I hit a wall. I gave up for a moment — I ate sweets, snacks, little bites of comfort. And on Monday, I went all in. The final act of rebellion? A simple peanut butter sandwich.
That was it. My body had had enough.
I felt my mast cells react, and I knew what was coming. My stomach wasn’t digesting, so antihistamines wouldn’t help. I told my husband to get me in the car and drive. Thankfully, our GP is just around the corner.
Within minutes, my airways were involved, my blood pressure was dropping, and my cortisol levels crashed. My doctor asked if I had already injected extra cortisol — I hadn’t. If I had, we wouldn’t have been in that situation. The only option left was the emergency injections.
Both my husband and doctor were amazing — calm, kind, steady.
I, however, was furious with myself. Two and a half days of not taking care of myself, and my body crashed. What if my husband hadn’t been home? The thought still makes me shiver.
Recovery was brutal. After a cortisol crisis, my stomach and intestines always shut down, and the headache is unbearable. I couldn’t drink, couldn’t take medication — which made my POTS flare up too. Dehydration and recovery don’t mix well.
So I started from the bottom again:
Tiny sips of water.
Slow steps around the house.
Light, simple food that I hoped my body would accept.
And once I could, I started reading again — retraining my brain after the chaos.
Meanwhile, life didn’t stop. My kids still needed their mom, my husband still had to work, and the world just kept turning. I had appointments of my own, and even though I wanted to curl up and rest, I pushed through. Because sometimes, showing up — even when it hurts — is what keeps you alive.
I’ve learned my lesson. This won’t happen again.
I’m grateful — for my husband, for my doctors, for the fact that I’m still here. I can’t give up on them. I can’t give up on my children. And most importantly, I can’t give up on myself.
This experience reminded me how quickly things can spiral for those of us living with serious chronic illness. One small mistake can turn into a crisis. But it also reminded me of something even more powerful — that we always have the choice to take responsibility, to learn, to stand up, and to keep moving forward.
Because at the end of the day, personal responsibility isn’t about never falling down.
It’s about having the courage to get back up — again and again — no matter how hard it gets.
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