Sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to fall in love without fear.

But for someone living with a chronic illness, love doesn’t always feel simple or safe. It feels like a risk—a deep, emotional gamble where the stakes are everything. I often catch myself daydreaming about a relationship, imagining someone who truly sees me—not just my smile or my strength, but also the scars I carry, the invisible battles I fight, and the uncertainty of my tomorrows. Someone who chooses me, not in spite of my illness, but with it—completely.

And then, just as easily, I pull away from the thought.

Because I’m scared.

Scared of being a burden. Scared that my unpredictable health might overshadow moments of joy. Scared that I won’t be able to give as much as I want to, because some days, I’m just trying to survive. Relationships are supposed to be built on shared joy, laughter, support, and lightness. But what happens when I’m the one who sometimes needs to lean more than I can hold? When I can’t promise I’ll always be okay?

It’s not love that frightens me. It’s the fear of being too much—or not enough—for someone else’s future. That fear can be paralyzing.

I’ve grown up believing that to be worthy of love, I must be the one giving—bringing comfort, energy, and peace into someone’s life. But the reality is, I carry a lot: hospital visits, medications, fatigue, emotional weight, and the unknown. So I ask myself, is it fair to let someone in? Will they stay if they see the whole picture, not just the highlights?

That question has made me hold back even when my heart wanted to say yes. I’ve told myself, “No, not now,” again and again.

I want a love built on shared understanding, where support flows both ways. Because being supported and giving support is what everyone deserves. We all long for someone who will see the weight we carry and not walk away, but instead say, “You don’t have to do this alone.”

I want to believe that kind of love is possible, even for someone like me, especially for someone like me.

In a nutshell, chronic illness teaches you to prepare for the worst. But love, in its purest form, asks you to believe in the best. I’m still learning how to hold both. I don’t have all the answers, and I can’t promise I’ll be ready tomorrow. But I do know this: I am worthy of love—not someday when I’m “better,” but now. Right now. With every scar, every flare, every doubt.

Maybe one day, I’ll stop letting fear write my story. I’ll choose love, even with all its unknowns, and let someone in. Not because I’m certain it will be easy, but because I believe I deserve to be held, too.