I used to go to sleep secretly hoping I wouldn’t wake up.

Not because I wanted drama, not because I wanted attention. I was just… tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. Imagine waking up every morning with your body screaming like you’ve been hit by a truck, and every doctor saying, “Your tests look fine.”

That’s been my life since I was a teenager.

While my friends were planning internships and trips and weddings, I was planning which pill to take at which hour so that I could at least sit up without crying. Hospitals knew my face. The pharmacy felt more familiar than my own bedroom.

People said all kinds of things to my parents:

“Maybe she’s just lazy.”
“Maybe it’s depression.”
“Maybe she’s cursed.”

Some relatives whispered the word karma like I had done something horrible in another life and was finally paying for it. I laughed it off, but late at night, lying there in pain, part of me believed them. I thought, “Maybe I really deserve this.”

I tried everything.

Western medicine. Eastern medicine. Supplements. Fasting. Yoga. Breathing techniques. Temples, churches, fortune-tellers. I’ve swallowed more pills than I can count and more tears than I can admit. I stopped going out, stopped answering texts. It was easier to disappear than to keep saying, “Yeah, still sick… no, they still don’t know why.”

Then one night, the pain in my chest got so bad I couldn’t breathe properly. I was sweating, shaking, not sure if it was a panic attack or something worse. I curled up on the floor and whispered into the dark, “If there’s anyone up there, or anywhere… just tell me why. Why me?”

The next morning, a friend dragged me to a small temple on the edge of the city. I didn’t want to go. I was tired of “holy places.” Tired of candles and incense and people telling me to “have faith.” But I was desperate enough to say yes.

The temple was dim and cool, smelling of old wood and incense. A Buddha statue sat in the background, calm and unbothered, while my whole life felt like a storm. An elderly monk in an orange robe sat down across from me. His eyes were clear, not pitying, not judging. Just… seeing.

I told him everything. The hospitals. The tests. The pills. The nights I wished I wouldn’t wake up. The anger. The self-hate. The way people used the word “karma” like a knife.

When I finally ran out of words, he stayed quiet for a long time. I could hear my own breathing, the faint crackle of a candle between us.

Then he said one sentence that broke me.

“Your illness did not come to punish you. It came to wake you up.”

I felt my chest burn.

“So it’s my fault?” I snapped. “I made myself sick?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Pain has many causes. Some you can see, some you cannot. But what you do with this pain… that is your choice.”

He looked straight into my eyes and continued, “Every day, your mind is speaking to your body. What has it been saying? Have you been feeding it kindness, or poison?”

I thought about it.

I thought about how I cursed my own body every morning. How I compared myself to everyone on Instagram. How I replayed old hurts like a broken movie. How I complained, gossiped, judged, even when I looked quiet on the outside.

I realized I had turned my own mind into a dangerous neighborhood.

He went on, “Medicine is important. Doctors are important. But if your mind is full of anger, jealousy, regret, and self-hate, that is like drinking a little poison every day. Do not ask only ‘Why me?’ Ask also, ‘How am I living? What am I planting inside myself?’”

Something inside me cracked open. I began to cry, ugly and loud, right there on the temple floor. Not just from pain this time, but from seeing how cruel I had been to myself for years.

We talked for a long time. He didn’t give me magic spells or promise miracles. He told me to still see my doctors, still take my meds, but also:

Breathe.
Watch my thoughts.
Speak more gently.
Forgive more often.
Stop talking to my body like it was my enemy.

He said, “You may not be able to choose your illness. But you can choose whether it becomes your prison… or your teacher.”

That day didn’t cure me. I didn’t walk out of the temple suddenly glowing and pain-free. I still hurt. I still do.

But something changed.

Instead of waking up thinking, “Why am I cursed?” I started asking, “What can I learn from this day, even if I’m in bed?” Instead of doom-scrolling at 2 a.m., I started breathing with my hand on my chest, whispering, “You’ve survived every bad day so far. One more breath.”

I began with small things: saying thank you to my body for getting me through another day. Sending a kind message instead of a bitter one. Keeping quiet when I wanted to explode. Listening to my own thoughts, like watching clouds pass instead of clinging to every storm.

Guess what?

The pain didn’t disappear… but it softened. My world didn’t magically turn bright… but it stopped feeling pitch black. I still have sick days, hospital visits, bad test results. But I also have mornings where I can smile for no reason. Even laugh.

For the first time in years, I feel like my life is more than just my illness.

Maybe I was sick for so long so I would finally learn how to live.

I’m not romanticizing pain. If you’re suffering right now, I’m not going to tell you to “just think positive.” That’s not what this is. I still cry. I still get scared. I still have days where I hate everything.

But now, in the middle of all that, there’s a tiny quiet place inside me that whispers, “You are more than this. You are still allowed to love, to be kind, to be soft with yourself.”

And honestly? That has saved me more than any medicine.

If you were in my place, would you see this illness as a punishment, or a second chance to start over from the inside out?
Tell me honestly in the comments.