I will always be a mom. Even though my son is about to start his senior year of high school and after this year’s Thanksgiving, it’s not a given that my son will wake up Thanksgiving morning 2026 in his bedroom with The Black Panther and Michael Jackson posters that cover part of his bedroom walls. I don’t know for certain he’ll come downstairs for breakfast in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, and a few hours later I’ll find him in the kitchen, a red apron covering his clothes as he makes his “famous” pumpkin pie for his dad, my husband, the only one of the three of us who eats pumpkin pie. Wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, I am still his mom.

I don’t know where Ryan will be — living hundreds of miles away, or several hours away, or forty-five minutes away but choosing not living at home for a more immersive college experience. Those details, the uncertainty about the future matter, of course, but they don’t change the most important part of the equation — I will continue to be Ryan’s mom. The job duties may change, but the role of mom is mine forever. I will never be free of it. Thank goodness.

Likewise, I will never be free of my identity as a chronic illness patient. Though, unlike motherhood, I didn’t choose this role. I didn’t voluntarily sign up for a life of chronic pain and multiple medical appointments throughout the year, and memorizing, without trying, the phone number to my local CVS.

This invisible disability of mine (meaning I don’t always use an assistive devices may outwardly look “fine”) is always there, and it is visible to those closest to me, those who know what to look for — the dark circles under my eyes. The limp as I struggle to keep up with my friend as we walk toward the restaurant for our monthly lunch date. The bruise in the crease of my right arm, the spot where the nurse finds my “good vein” to prick my skin to draw vials of blood each time I see my rheumatologist.

Mother, wife, daughter, friend. My most important roles. My most meaningful roles. And fifteen years ago, I added “spoonie” to the list when I removed “teacher.” It is a role I didn’t choose, a role I still don’t want, but one that is with me always, lurking like a shadow. Sometimes the spoonie version of me feels larger than all the other parts of my identity, overriding all other aspects of my life, screaming for attention, and unwilling to settle into the background. Sometimes the spoonie me is behind me or next to me, living alongside all my other roles, allowing me to live my life alongside my chronic illness. Rarely the spoonie shadow is not visible at all, and I am gifted precious reminders of the me that used to be — pain-free, illness-free, and free to do what I want, secure in the knowledge that my body would behave as I expected it to.

I am never free of the thousand ways chronic illness impacts my life. Along with the physical elements there are the mental and emotional aspects that weigh me down. The constant worry that a new twinge, a new bruise, a new sensation is “the one” — the one that takes my current medical situation and moves it up the ladder to a new rung, one more serious, more detrimental, more scary than what I had before.

The pain is most prevalent in my left leg. It stops me from walking as fast and as far as I’d like. It keeps me from riding my bicycle in our neighborhood or gardening as often as I would like. The pain varies in its intensity and limits what I can and cannot do, sometimes making it impossible to stand on tiptoe to reach a mixing bowl or bend down at Trader Joe’s to pick up packages of the chocolate chips my son likes to put on his waffles at breakfast.

I am never free. The pain anchors me, like a weight attached to the end of the curly ribbon on a helium balloon. The balloon sways in the breeze, but it doesn’t float away because of the plastic clip tied onto the bottom. The balloon bobs and dances, but can’t take to the sky and sail away.

But my son and I did, in a sense. Twice now — in the form of parasailing. Many years ago, before becoming ill and before becoming a mother, I parasailed during a trip my husband and I took to Catalina Island, twenty-six miles away from our hometown of Los Angeles.

Then, in 2022 during a family trip to Maui, and again this year during a family trip to Oahu, my son and I chose to be adventurous and go parasailing. Though the pain and weakness in my leg made it challenging for me to maintain my balance and walk around on a moving boat, I had no medical restrictions stopping me from sharing this special experience with my teenage son.

Our parasailing adventures gave us a level of freedom. For ten minutes or so, the two of us soared one thousand feet overhead as my husband watched from the boat, documenting the experience with videos and photos.

My son and I took mental photos with our eyes. We marveled at the cool experience we were sharing. We gazed at the seemingly-endless ocean below us, with all its different shades of blue and green. We commented on the quietness, the serenity, the gentleness, and the calm the ride provided.

We remained tethered to the boat, and were never free to remain airborne for as long as we wanted. There was a schedule to keep, other passengers on the boat awaiting their turn. But rather than feel restricted by the cables that kept us safely airborne, we felt peaceful and reflective. From that vantage point, we couldn’t help but think about how enormous the world is and how small we each were. Up in the air, we talked to each other with the same ease in which we talked during breakfast back at the hotel earlier that morning. Yes, the world was huge. Yes, everyone is dealing with something, and we all have our own limits. At the same time, we felt empowered. Despite all the hard stuff and all the painful stuff that affects each human being in some way, there were still so many possibilities for each of us to live our lives in an impactful way.

It was completely freeing.

A chronic illness doesn’t magically disappear. I will, most likely, forever remain a chronic illness patient. But that doesn’t mean I need to be kept down, kept small, kept aside. As my son and I experienced firsthand, I can fly.

Wendy Kennar writes personal nonfiction about the varied experiences of disability, chronic illness, and chronic pain. Her work has appeared in a number of publications including the Los Angeles Times, Christian Science Monitor, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and TheMighty.com, to name a few. Wendy is also a mother, wife, and former teacher who loves reading and highlighting the books she reads. Read more at her website www.wendykennar.com where you can sign up for her weekly blog. Find Wendy on Instagram @wendykennar. Wendy is currently researching publishing paths for her memoir-in-essays.