“I’m Fine, Just Let Me Work”: Reframing Chronic Conditions, Identity, and Resilience

TL;DR: The stories we inherit (and create) about who we are, how we work, and how we live can shift. It’s up to us to explore how to make that happen.

There she was. In the hospital bed with IVs in her arms, a carefully draped nasal cannula below her nose, and hands furiously typing on a laptop.

My mom was dealing with one of the worst Crohn’s flare-ups she’d had in years and about to kick off a conference call with her team. My paternal grandma and I stood in the doorway, her in a state of dismay, me totally unphased.

After a few minutes, grandma leaned over and whispered, “Why the hell is she still working when she might be getting surgery later?” Without missing a beat, my mom’s infamous supersonic hearing kicked in. “Because what the f*ck else am I supposed to do?”

As always, she was trying to provide for our family, even though things were tough.

That sums up the rhythm of my childhood: work and productivity come first. They had to for survival.

By high school, I was living the same script: top grades, theater rehearsals, part-time job hours maxed out, AP classes, lacrosse. From the outside, it looked impressive. But the cracks showed early. Panic attacks confined me to my “safe” places — the woods, my closet (ironically). Weeks of high school disappeared into migraines. Invisible corsets made breathing during auditions feel impossible. Some weeks I flew on adrenaline, checking everything off the list. Other weeks, brain fog made it impossible to remember where I’d left my phone.

Still, I smiled. Still, I excelled. Still, I worked.

Work, Hustle, and Inheritance

Some of this was inherited, no question. My mom modeled traits like hyper-resilience in the face of pain, a drive for independence, the instinct to take care of herself because no one else would. All traits I admire, but that also trickled down in unintended ways.

Some of this stuff also came from me, though. From a restless brain that thrived on doing more, faster, from queerness and neurodivergence that taught me to mask, from anxiety that whispered doom anytime I stopped working. Being able to tap into the superpower of overdrive can be a blessing or a curse depending on how you want to look at it.

Call it wiring, upbringing, or necessity. Some of us are born restless, always reaching for the next milestone. Some of us learn and adapt accordingly. For me, it’s both. However these traits formed, the message has been clear: keep moving, keep producing, don’t falter, and don’t let it show or it’ll be used against you.

And then I broke.

A collapse in my mental and physical health sent me off course from the carefully curated trajectory I had worked so hard to build. The shame was crushing and recovery wasn’t graceful. In fact, it was brutal, blurry, and humbling. More importantly, it forced me to consider the idea that resilience could mean something other than pushing to the point of collapse.

Shifting the Story, Slowly

I didn’t change overnight. But I began to notice patterns I could interrupt.

I learned to treat exhaustion as data, not failure. The tension in my neck, the bone-deep tiredness, the intrusive spirals…all signals that my body needed some care.

I learned to loosen timelines. Not everything is urgent. (As my colleagues love to say: It’s PR, not the ER.) Stretching deadlines gave both me and my work room to breathe.

I started practicing boundaries. Small at first: no emails after 9:30 p.m., one day left mostly unscheduled, turning down a project that wasn’t worth the toll. It’s been awkward, but freeing.

Most importantly, I learned the difference between working hard and burning out. 

Working hard, as my mom has noted, means intentionally choosing where to put your energy and focus, then moving forward strategically. Burnout happens when you lose that choice — when you try to do it all, keep everyone happy, and push forward because you have to. 

That’s the distinction that matters. 

Being able to say “no, I’m not doing that” is powerful and a privilege many don’t have. But boundaries are not luxuries when you’re living with chronic conditions. They are necessary survival tools.

Watching my mom start to unpack some of this gave me hope and inspiration. A woman who once typed through a hospital stay now guards her weekends fiercely. If she could bend this story of workaholism, maybe I could too.

Resilience, Reframed

Entrepreneurship makes all this more complicated, though. Hustle culture is everywhere, and it pairs all too well with my lifelong compulsion to do more. But running my own business also gives me the power to shape how I operate and how I help others do the same.

Many of the leaders IvyHill Strategies works with carry the same tension I do: big dreams paired with bodies and minds that demand care, a nagging fear that slowing down means falling behind. But here’s the truth I’ve learned: visibility, growth, and ambition don’t have to collapse into burnout. Sometimes the most strategic move is saying not yet.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t mastered this. I still throw on a smile during Zoom calls while my body is screaming. I still overthink conversations at networking events with prominent people. I still crack jokes to cover the fact that I broke down minutes earlier. Masking buys me time before someone notices I’m not okay. And I know I’m not alone.

This constant push for movement is something people from many backgrounds have to navigate. But it’s shifting. More and more, I see people trying to write a different story for themselves. Now, I count myself and my mom among them.

That’s the legacy I want to carry forward. Not just a story of survival, but one of rest, joy, and space.

By Amber Krasinski