There’s an autumn phenomenon that chronic illness sufferers know all too well (at least those of us who live in the Northern Hemisphere).
It’s known as the “October Slide”. The weather gets colder, the days get shorter and darker, and the sick get inexplicably…well, sicker.
No one quite knows what causes the October Slide. Every fall, I enter the season in denial of its existence. It’s a myth, I tell myself. I’m not going to get sicker in October just because some people do.
And yet, every October for the past four years, I have unwillingly slid down the October slide with the rest of the chronic illness sufferers. This year has been no exception.
I can’t explain it. There doesn’t seem to be any logic or reason behind it. The symptoms are never the same.
And yet it happens. Every October. Without fail.
Year after year. I begin the school year thinking things will be different. I’ve finally turned a corner in my health journey. I’m finally going to get to live my life. I start arranging plans, taking on responsibilities, and making commitments.
I don’t know whether this thinking is hopeful or naive. But year after year, the October Slide proves me wrong.
In the fall of 2022, I was diagnosed with POTS. I was thrilled to have a diagnosis that explained every one of my symptoms. I thought this meant my recovery was at hand. I started a treatment plan that I hoped would reduce the severity of my symptoms within three months. It didn’t.
In the fall of 2023, I started to experience persistent abdominal pain. I would later learn this is a common MCAS symptom. The pain would last all through the fall and winter and would ultimately require surgery in the spring. The surgery resolved the pain. It didn’t heal my chronic illness.
In the fall of 2024, I caught a cold. The cold developed into pneumonia that lasted for six weeks. It took me months to fully recover, and by the time I did, I had received two additional diagnoses, MCAS and HSD, rounding out the trifecta of commonly co-occurring nervous system disorders.
This fall, 2025, I started on a treatment plan that finally seemed to be working. My health was stable for about a month. I was finally making progress. I was finally starting to live my life again. I was teaching Sunday School, making plans with friends, and spending more time with my husband and children.
But then, October hit. And so did the October Slide. The treatments stopped working. I stopped sleeping. My blood pressure became unstable, something I’d never had trouble with before. I entered into a vicious cycle of late-day hypertension, nighttime adrenaline surges, and early morning lethargy. I found myself back in bed, incapacitated yet again.
And that is where you will find me today. Tethered to my bed by my debilitating symptoms. All my commitments canceled. All my plans put back on hold.
After going through all the stages of grief that appropriately accompanied this most recent setback, I’ve found myself, by God’s grace, in a place of acceptance.
I’m not meant to be well right now. And that’s okay. Because God is still working mightily in and through me, and I wouldn’t want to interrupt that for anything.
I’m still teaching my Sunday School class. But since I can’t be there in person, I’ve learned how to make and teach through videos. This has opened doors for me to be able to continue working and teaching in a way that accommodates my disabilities. It has also opened doors for me to equip other women in my church to lead and teach, something I doubt would’ve happened if God hadn’t graciously gotten me out of the way.
My illness, and the way God has sustained me through it, isn’t only building up my faith, it’s building up the faith of others. This isn’t because I’m handling my suffering so well (I’m not), but because God is growing my faith despite how poorly I am handling my suffering. And that growth is equipping and encouraging other people in ways I can’t even begin to see or imagine.
Every time I hear that someone’s faith has grown because of the way my faith has grown through chronic illness, I marvel at God’s goodness. I can take no credit for this. I would never have chosen this path on my own. And yet, if it’s growing the church and edifying God’s people, I rejoice that God has chosen it for me.
This isn’t the kind of self-affirming, positive-thinking, silver-lining nonsense that the world preaches. I’m not trying to see the bright side in this. I’m grieved. I’m depressed. I’m suffering deeply. And yet God’s goodness shines brilliantly through my brokenness, and I cannot help but fall on my face in worship and wonder. Only God could bring goodness from this dark and desperate place. And it’s only in admitting that this place IS dark and desperate that God’s work in and through it looks as marvelous as it really is.
I may be down, but I’m not out. This may feel like the bottom (and it often does), but it’s not the end.
It’s never the end.
And every time I rally enough to speak words of life to myself or to other people, it feels like punching Satan in the face.
It feels like victory. And it feels good.
Oh, and I cry out when I’m sinking down, thinking, surely this is the end...and You give me Your hand • Ellie Holcomb “Give Me Your Hand”
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