Nothing New

                                       A Love Letter to the Person I Used to Be.  

There’s something about Taylor Swift’s “Nothing New” that hits like a bruise you thought had healed.

That quiet ache when she sings, “How can a person know everything at 18, but nothing at 22?” — it’s the sound of realising that the version of you that once felt infinite has slowly slipped away, and you didn’t even notice when she left.

When I listen to that song, I see flashes of the person I used to be before fibromyalgia. The girl who didn’t have to plan her day around pain. Who didn’t measure her worth in energy levels or flare days. Who could stay out late, dance, laugh, and wake up the next morning ready to do it all again.

Now, every movement, every choice, comes with a cost. There’s a dull hum beneath everything I do — a constant reminder that my body doesn’t play by the same rules anymore. Pain isn’t just a visitor; it’s a roommate I never invited in but had to learn to live with.

And sometimes, I feel like I’m watching the world move on without me. Friends chasing careers, milestones, adventures — while I sit in the quiet, counting the hours since my medication kicked in, wondering if I have the strength to take a shower or make dinner. There’s a loneliness in that silence that’s hard to put into words.

That’s why “Nothing New” hits me so deeply. Because chronic illness can make you feel like you’ve already lived your brightest days. Like you’ve somehow used up your “shine,” and what’s left is just maintenance — surviving, not thriving. You start to wonder if there’s anything new left to look forward to, or if the best parts of you were left behind in the body that used to work.

But here’s the truth I’m trying to learn, even when it hurts to say out loud:

I am still here.

I am still me.

Just not in the same way I used to be.

Fibromyalgia has stripped me down — raw, aching, exposed. But in that stripping away, I’ve found pieces of myself I never noticed before. The quiet resilience of getting out of bed when my body screams no. The strength in saying I can’t today. The grace in forgiving myself for needing rest.

It’s not the kind of “new” I wanted. It’s not the life I planned. But it’s real. It’s honest. It’s mine.

And maybe that’s what Taylor was trying to say — that the pain of change, the fear of fading, the grief of losing who you were — it’s all part of being human.

So, to the person I used to be: I miss you. I love you. But I’m learning to love who I am now, too — scars, fatigue, pain, and all. Because even when it feels like there’s nothing new left in me… there’s still life here. There’s still hope. And maybe, that’s enough.

If you’re reading this and living with fibromyalgia — or any invisible illness — please know this: you are not alone in this strange, exhausting grief. I know what it feels like to mourn the person you were before your body began to ache in ways you can’t explain. I know what it’s like to feel forgotten by the world, to wonder if your story still matters.

But it does. You do.

There is still beauty in your slowness, still power in your persistence. The world might not see your quiet battles, but every day you choose to keep going is an act of bravery that deserves to be honored.

So, take a deep breath. Rest when you need to. Cry when you must. But don’t forget — there’s still light in you, even on the days when all you can do is exist.

Existing is enough.

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