Acceptance Isn’t the End—It’s the Turning Point

by Antonia at Unremarkable Me (Fun fact: I once tried to out-stubborn my connective tissue. Spoiler: it's still winning.)

I didn’t choose acceptance. It wasn’t a gentle realisation, or some sunrise moment where I suddenly felt at peace with my broken collagen and mysterious symptoms. It was more like being dragged backwards through a hedge made of gaslighting, dismissal, and medical charts that said “anxious” more often than “EDS.”

For 13 years, I fought against my illness. Every step of the way, I clung to the belief that if I just pushed harder, explained clearer, tried this new treatment or stopped complaining so much, maybe I’d get better—or at least be believed. But instead, I became a shadow of who I used to be. Confused. Spiralling. Drinking again just to quiet the noise and the pain. Because when you’re constantly told that the only problem is in your head, eventually, you start to wonder if they’re right.

Except they weren’t.

Yes, I was depressed. But not because life is hard or I couldn’t cope. I was depressed because I was living in a body without rules, a body that was falling apart faster than anyone would admit, and no one—not even the people who were supposed to help—took it seriously. Depression wasn’t the cause. It was the consequence. And there’s a world of difference between those two things.

The Myth of ‘Just Accept It’

There’s this idea floating around that acceptance is some kind of spiritual checkpoint. That once you reach it, the struggle gets easier. You find peace. You stop being “difficult.” Doctors like to talk about it as if it’s a finish line—"Once you accept it, you’ll feel better." Society treats it like the moment you stop being inconvenient.

But here’s what no one tells you: acceptance isn’t a moment. It’s not even a mindset. It’s a negotiation that never really ends.

And for a long time, I resisted it. Not because I wanted to suffer, but because accepting what was happening to me felt dangerously close to giving up. How could I accept an illness no one believed I had? How could I accept a body that felt like it betrayed me every single day? How could I accept being dismissed, misdiagnosed, and misrepresented?

What they were really asking me to do wasn’t “acceptance.” It was silence. It was compliance. It was “stop asking questions, stop needing answers, stop making us uncomfortable.”

I didn’t accept my illness because I reached a place of Zen. I accepted it because fighting every single day—not just the symptoms, but the system—nearly broke me. My body was unravelling. My mind was exhausted. And I knew that if I didn’t stop running from it all, I might not make it out the other side.

Reclaiming the Word “Acceptance”

For me, acceptance wasn’t a single moment—it was a slow, stubborn evolution. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to love my broken bits. I stopped. I got quiet. And I finally looked inward.

Not at the version of me from before—the one I kept chasing like a ghost—but the version standing right there in the mirror. I stopped measuring myself by what I used to be able to do, or who I used to be, or how many medical notes still said “psychosomatic.” I started getting to know the now me.

The good. The bad. The ugly.

The whole messy package.

And somewhere along the line, once I stopped fighting myself just to be heard by others, something shifted. I started liking the person I saw. Not in spite of my illness—but because of who I had to become to survive it.

Acceptance, for me, wasn’t giving in. It was taking back ownership. Of my body. My story. My identity. Yes, the medical file still exists—but now it exists alongside a person I actually recognise.

Acceptance Is an Ongoing Conversation

There are still hard days. There are days I ache in places I didn’t know I could ache. Days where a new symptom crops up like some twisted party guest I never invited. There are days where I miss who I used to be—and that’s okay. That’s not failure. That’s human.

But the difference now is, I’m not fighting against myself anymore.

Acceptance isn’t a finish line. It’s not a cure. It’s a quiet conversation I have with myself on repeat. Sometimes I whisper it. Sometimes I shout it. Sometimes I need to cry into my cereal first. But it’s still there: a steady reminder that I’m allowed to live in this body and still love who I am becoming.

On the really bad days, I give myself the grace to just be. I put on my softest PJs (the ones with a questionable gravy stain and zero apologies), wrap up in a blanket that smells like home, and remind myself:You’re still here. You’re still standing. And you’re still you.

That’s the kind of acceptance I’ve made peace with—not the kind the world asked for, but the kind that saved me.

To anyone still fighting for their diagnosis, still being dismissed, still wondering if it’s all in your head—I see you. It’s not. And even if the world hasn’t caught up yet, you don’t have to wait to start showing up for yourself.

If You Find Yourself in the Same Situation

• Keep a Symptom Journal: Note patterns, triggers, and flares—especially the stuff that gets dismissed. It becomes your evidence when no one else is listening.

• Find a Support Community: Online groups (like those for EDS, MCAS, or undiagnosed chronic illness) can be a lifeline. They validate your experience, offer tips, and remind you that you’re not alone.

• Know It’s Okay to Grieve: Mourning who you were is not weakness. It’s human.

• Therapists Who Get Chronic Illness Exist: They’re rare but worth seeking. Ask if they have experience with health-related trauma or long-term illness.

• Never Apologise for Being the Expert in Your Body: Even when you don’t have all the answers, your lived experience matters. Full stop.

• You Are Not Just Your Diagnosis (or Lack of One): You are still creative, funny, clever, kind—a whole person worthy of care, joy, and rest.

If you need more specific resources, start with:

• The Mighty for community stories

• EDS Support UK for condition-specific support

• Healthline's guide to advocating for yourself

• Mind UK if mental health support feels out of reach

You deserve to be believed, supported, and seen. Hang in there, love Unremarkable Me.