On June 19, I turned 40. 

And I had absolutely no desire to celebrate.

It had nothing to do with turning 40. I consider aging a privilege. A privilege that is unfortunately denied to many. 

Although, the words “I am forty” still feel foreign on my tongue. Like putting on a brand new pair of jeans that need to be worn in a little to fit comfortably. I don’t hate it, but I need to walk around with this new number for a little while.

But it wasn’t turning 40 that I was dreading. 

It was the idea of celebrating me, and helping others to celebrate me, that I just couldn’t stomach. 

It’s the reality that I am carrying my debilitating chronic illness into this new decade with me that made me wish to skip the day altogether.

I thought for sure I would be better by 40. 

But I’m not. I’m still sick. 

So I dreaded waking up on my birthday. I wanted to sleep through the day. I was dreading the happy birthday texts and the cards and the singing and the cheerful happy faces wishing me many happy returns.

Because I am not happy. I am deeply discouraged and utterly exhausted. And I could not stand the thought of sharing my sorrow with the people who love me most, who just want to make me feel special on this rather monumental birthday. I dreaded disappointing people who just wanted to celebrate me.

I have been sick my entire life. I have been acutely ill for the last four years. And I have been mostly bedbound for the last six months. I cannot walk easily due to painful joints and orthostatic intolerance. I am unbearably tired all the time. I’ve gained over 100 lbs due to this disease, and I’ve recently learned that I’ve likely been misdiagnosed for the past several years. 

My doctors no longer believe I have POTS and MCAS. They believe that what I am suffering from is post-viral dysautonomia. 

AKA Long COVID. 

There is no cure for Long COVID. There aren’t even any treatments for it. There is very little research about it, and no one knows how to manage it successfully. Chronic long COVID, at least the kind I’ve been suffering from, is destructive, debilitating, and absolutely grueling to battle on a daily basis. Because of its profound impact on quality of life, nearly 50% of those who suffer from Long COVID experience suicidal ideation.

I don’t think it’s possible to exaggerate the physical, mental, and emotional toll this kind of illness takes on a body. It is absolute torture. 

In the weeks leading up to my birthday, I learned that not only is long COVID severely affecting my quality of life, but it is also beginning to damage multiple organ systems. Because of my exhaustion and limited mobility, I have been forced into a sedentary lifestyle. And because I’m so sedentary, my metabolism, insulin levels, liver and kidney function, and blood sugar are beginning to pay the price. 

These things are reversible, I’m told. But only if you have the ability to leave your bed. 

So in the days leading up to my birthday, I had sunk into a deep despair. I had tried every treatment thrown at me. I’ve seen over a dozen specialists, been to physical therapy three times, participated in occupational therapy, nutrition therapy, and talk therapy. I successfully completed a year-long POTS exercise protocol. I went on the keto diet. I had surgery. I drank a gallon of water and consumed 10,000 mg of sodium every single day. I wore compression garments on my calves, knees, thighs, and abdomen. I tried allergy medicines, biologics, antidepressants, beta blockers, blood pressure medication, anxiety medication, meds for ADHD, meds for heart failure, meds for opioid addiction (I have neither heart failure nor opioid addiction), and dozens of supplements. 

Every treatment that was supposed to help has failed me. I have gotten my hopes up and been absolutely crushed by disappointment more times than I can count.

So here I am, newly turned 40 and no better than I was when I turned 36. 

I dreaded entering into a brand new decade with this same broken body. I just could not celebrate. And I didn’t want anyone to celebrate me. 

So, on the eve of my 40th birthday, I lay in my bed praying. Praying for healing. Praying for redemption. But mostly praying that God would make my birthday pass by quickly, so no one would have the awkward experience of trying to celebrate someone who does not want to be celebrated.

When I woke up on June 19, my one and only goal was to survive the day. To make it through without crying too much or disappointing too many people. 

It was 7:30 AM when I got the first email. It was a forwarded message from my husband—a birthday message written by a dear friend, one who is all too familiar with my condition and suffers from very similar symptoms. I couldn’t read it at first. I was too grieved to allow someone to celebrate me. So I marked it as unread and planned to read it later when I was in a better headspace.

Another forwarded message came through at 8:00 AM. And then another at 8:15 AM. And then another at 8:30 AM. 

My husband had reached out to some of my dearest and closest friends and family and asked them to write me an encouraging message for my birthday, knowing that this was the only feasible way for them to celebrate me. 

So from 7:30 AM until 9:00 PM, a birthday message from someone who loves me popped into my inbox every 15 to 30 minutes. 

I couldn’t bring myself to read them at first or respond to my birthday text messages and Facebook posts. I was just too sad. 

So I decided to call a friend. One whom I haven’t called a lot but really should call a lot more. One who is all too familiar with sorrow and grief. One who knew exactly how to patiently and lovingly be a companion in suffering and sit with me in my pain.

The conversation was messy. I cried a lot. Talked too much. Explained myself poorly. She took it all in stride. She cried with me. Validated my pain. Spoke words of unconditional love and comfort. She never made me feel like I needed to justify my sorrow or explain my discouragement. She said exactly what I needed to hear in that moment. It was painful. It was beautiful. It was redemptive. It was God-ordained and outrageously blessed. 

At the end of the call, I thanked her for being a good friend, for allowing me to vent, and for not being afraid of my messy grief.

She said, “Katie, I learned how to sit with others in their grief from watching you sit with me in mine.”

And I wept.

That was the moment my 40th birthday began to turn around. 

Because Satan had done something to me in those rock bottom moments leading up to that day. He persuaded me to believe that I was useless. That my illness rendered me irrelevant and forgettable. That I was only a burden and contributed nothing to my relationships. That I was too much for others to handle. And that all I had to offer anyone was heartache and disappointment. 

But my phone call with my friend reminded me that I have far more to give than heartache and disappointment. I was reminded that God has been at work in my life, especially in my pain and suffering, to encourage other people’s hope in him. 

When your world doesn’t extend outside your bedroom walls, it’s easy to forget that God is still actively at work in the world and people around you. It’s easy to feel useless. It’s hard to remember that God has and is still using you to bless and encourage other people, even when you can’t leave your bed.

And as I carried my debilitated and broken body into this brand new decade, I desperately needed to remember that I wasn’t forgotten, I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t useless, and that God had been working through me in ways I couldn’t begin to fathom. 

So I started opening my emails. 

I read messages of encouragement from my nearest and dearest friends and family members. I watched videos of church friends reminding me that they loved and missed me. I heard from childhood friends to whom I haven’t spoken in years and desperately miss. I received messages from college friends, high school friends, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, brothers, and sisters-in-law. Friends who are more like family. Friends I used to work with. Friends I consider mentors and mother figures. 

They reminded me of precious time spent together. Inside jokes I had forgotten. Meaningful conversations I remember well, and some I didn’t remember at all. Moments that made me laugh. Moments that made me weep. Moments that made me marvel at God’s faithfulness throughout 40 broken years of life. 

These are people who love me. People who miss me. People who remember me. People who pray for me. 

These messages made me forget, if only for a moment, that I am chronically ill. They reminded me that I had, and still have, a full and meaningful life. 

There was a common theme in almost every single message. Nearly every person who wrote to me mentioned how God had used something I had said or done (some things I barely even remember) to encourage and strengthen their faith in Jesus.

And nearly every single person mentioned receiving substantial encouragement from watching Jesus carry me through profound suffering. 

My husband could not have organized a better gift for my 40th birthday. He knew exactly what I needed. 



I mention this not to puff myself up or receive a proverbial pat on the back for a job well done and a life well lived. 

I mention this to point you to what God has done in the life of a person who has suffered from one form of illness or another for 40 years. I mention this to show you what God can do through a person who rarely leaves her bed. 

I mention this because I need this reminder more than anyone.

At this moment, I cannot say that I am grateful to have suffered for the sake of God’s people. Some days, I have a strong enough faith to say that with complete honesty. Today, I don’t. Today I am tired. Today I am weary of being sick. Today, I want healing more than I want sanctification. 

But today I am also deeply encouraged. My 40th birthday was a victory. It was a much-needed reminder of God’s goodness to and through me. It wasn’t perfect. It was hard. But it was good. 



On June 19, I turned 40. And although many tears were cried that day and very little celebrating was done, it’s possible that my 40th birthday will forever be remembered as my favorite.