Opinion I live with a chronic autoimmune condition. And I am tired of being told to relax
I have spent time and money looking for relief that has remained elusive. What has exhausted me the most, however, is the loop I am trapped in. Again and again, I am told that stress causes my illness — as though stress were something I am choosing, or failing to control
Living with a chronic condition has forced me to think differently about time I have psoriasis — it feels good to say it finally. Not dry skin, not bruises, not an allergy. I have a chronic “non-life-threatening” condition, one that does not announce itself dramatically, but quietly reorganises my mental health, social life, and family relationships. Psoriasis is a chronic autoimmune condition, roughly affecting 125 million people worldwide as per the National Psoriasis Foundation, in which the immune system causes skin cells to regenerate far faster than normal, leading to thick, inflamed, and scaly patches of skin. It is not contagious and does not have a single cause, but is influenced by a combination of genetic, immunological, environmental, and emotional factors. The condition often follows cycles of flare-ups and remission, and while it can be managed, it currently has no permanent cure.
In early 2024, I had a flare-up on the soles of my feet, and it has refused to heal till now. For almost two years, I have been living with cracking skin, constant pain, and bleeding when I walk. Because it is on my feet, it remains largely hidden from view. What is not hidden is how it changes movement itself — how I walk, how long I can stand, how I plan my day. There is always the fear of bleeding through shoes or bandages, of being unable to keep going.
I have spent time and money looking for relief that has remained elusive. What has exhausted me the most, however, is not only the condition itself, but the loop I am trapped in. Again and again, I am told that stress causes my illness — as though stress were something I am choosing, or failing to control. Whether it is doctors, relatives or just about anyone I meet at a social event who has seen the rather horrific visual of naked feet, will tell me to relax, meditate, do yoga, not overthink. To me, already unable to do my favourite activities like running and yoga and unable to enjoy food because of dietary restrictions that somewhat help the flare-ups, these statements seem to imply that if my body does not heal, my mind has failed.
Chronic pain has changed the most ordinary parts of my life. I think twice before dancing at a wedding. I dread removing my footwear during a puja. I no longer wear open sandals. I wear socks all the time, even indoors, especially if guests are over, to mask my shame. I walk carefully, always aware of my feet, always alert to pain or bleeding. Over time, this constant vigilance has turned inwards. I watch myself. I worry about how others are looking at me. Shame seeps in quietly. Withdrawing from public spaces often feels easier than explaining myself.
Living with a chronic condition has also turned me into a project. Family members and acquaintances constantly suggest new doctors, new treatments, and new remedies. When I refuse a recommendation, it is taken personally. When I say no, it is read as stubbornness or negativity. Concern quickly turns into pressure. Care slips into control. My own knowledge of my body, shaped by months of pain and trial, is quietly dismissed.
As a woman, I am also often told to be grateful — that at least my condition is not “visible”. What if you had it on your arms or face? At least it does not affect how I look, and god forbid a woman is not pleasant to look at. I have internalised this too. Thanks to my gender, I am under constant radar for my weight (which is often more than “ideal”) and skin tone. So what if the condition lives in my feet — the very site of movement, labour, and independence. Pain in the feet limits where I can go, how long I can stand, and how freely I can move through the world.
Living with a chronic condition has forced me to think differently about time. There is no clear recovery, no return to normal. Instead, there is learning — slow, embodied, and often lonely. I am deeply grateful for my husband in this otherwise frustrating journey, who sits with me through flare-ups, breakdowns, and the constraints of a more restricted lifestyle. Night after night, he has bandaged my feet, looked up recipes that meet my dietary needs and read endless medical journals to keep us updated with ongoing developments in the field. Psoriasis is a developing medical field, and hopefully, a cure is within sight. But as someone who lives with it, I write this as an attempt to share how chronic illness is not only a medical condition, but an emotional reality that demands empathy rather than advice, care rather than correction.
The writer is assistant professor, The Jindal School of Design and Architecture, OP Jindal Global University
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