I stood in my hallway the other afternoon, leaning against the wall, doing my physical therapy homework.

And I started crying. 

Not because of pain. Not because the stretch was overly difficult. 

I started crying because sometimes I’m just so tired of it all.

I’m tired of the bottles of prescription medication and supplements.

I’m tired of the doctors’ appointments written on our family calendar hanging in the kitchen.

I’m tired of watching a basketball game on television with a heating pad on my left leg.

I’m tired of waking up each morning and having my first footsteps feel and sound more like shuffles — heavy and slow and laborious.

I’m tired of lifting up my pant leg, trying to see if my leg looks different. Or swollen. Or bruised. 

It all feels like so much work. 

Living with a chronic disability is — a lot. Life-changing. Expensive. Anxiety-provoking. Wearing. Uncertain. Scary. 

My son is on his spring break this week. A week off from early morning alarms, five-minute passing periods, morning announcements, dismissal bells, crowded hallways, and nightly homework. 

But when you live with a chronic disability there is never time off.