This Summer Reminded Me I’m Not the Person I Used to Be

Summer used to mean something entirely different to me—sunrise drives, road-trip playlists that made me feel younger than my cholesterol panel claimed, and the kind of stamina that let me bounce from one adventure to another without a single complaint from my lungs, joints, or cardiovascular system. There was a time when I could hop in the car before dawn, cruise the five hours down to Washington, DC, spend the entire day walking around like I owned the place, then drive the five hours back that same night. And I’d wake up the next morning like, “Cool. What’s next?” No drama. No consequences. No fainting goats impersonations.

This summer, however, my body had other plans. I decided it was a brilliant idea to drive out to the shore—six hours round trip—because apparently old habits die harder than I do. Not only did I make the trip, but I also worked for eight hours straight once I got there, no break, no pause, no moment of “hey, chef, maybe don’t.” By the time I got back home, I was convinced I was fine. Of course I was fine. I’m always “fine” right up until the point I’m absolutely not.

I went to bed feeling a little woozy, which is usually my first clue that my blood pressure—never known for being dramatic but always known for slipping out the back door without warning—was going to pull something ridiculous. Sure enough, it was 79/45. At that point, most people would be out cold or at least praying to whichever deity handles dizziness. My normal is already low, around 95/53, but even I had to squint at those numbers and whisper, “Sir. Please.”

Thankfully, it was my day off, and I slept for twelve hours like a man auditioning for a coma. When I woke up, I thought a swim would help, because summer logic says water cures everything. And honestly, while I was in the pool that afternoon, I felt great—weightless, strong, like someone who still remembered their healthier self. But later? Oh, later my body delivered the invoice. Suddenly it felt like I’d run a marathon the day before and decided to swim the entire Long Island Sound for dessert. Breathing felt like inhaling through a straw someone pinched shut just to be rude.

Moments like these are the ones that remind me why chronic illness is never just a diagnosis. It’s an identity shift nobody asked for. It arrives with no return policy, no gift receipt, and definitely no option to exchange it for store credit. Sarcoidosis and heart failure didn’t just change my health—they rewired the way I move through the world, even in the season that used to make me feel the most alive. And the biggest obstacle, the one that keeps showing up no matter how many summers go by, is learning to slow down.

In my head, I am still the person who can go full throttle every day without collapsing. I still try to keep moving the way I used to, as if my lungs and heart are characters I can just boss around like line cooks who shouldn’t be talking back. But today—this bright, humid, mocking summer day—reminded me that pretending I’m invincible is not a personality trait. It’s a liability.

Accepting the “new me” is still a work in progress, and honestly, it might be a lifelong group project between me, my lungs, my heart, and whatever cosmic comedian keeps handing me these lessons. Some days acceptance feels noble, peaceful, meditative. And other days it feels like wrestling with a beach umbrella in the wind while the seagulls judge you.

But here’s the truth: my body may not do what it used to, and my summer adventures may look a little slower, a little shorter, a little more “let’s sit down first,” but I’m still here. Still living, still trying, still stubbornly refusing to give up the parts of life that make me feel human.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe slowing down doesn’t mean losing myself; maybe it’s just learning how to live differently without apologizing for it. If summer has taught me anything this year, it’s that the new version of me deserves just as much grace as the old one ever did—maybe more, considering what I’ve put this body through.

So here I am, trying to listen, trying to learn, trying not to sprint through life when walking gently is what actually keeps me alive. And I’ll keep trying, even when my brain says “go” and my body says “sit down before we both regret this.”

If you’ve ever had a summer like this—where your body writes a plot twist you didn’t approve—tell me about it in the comments. Or subscribe and stick around; there’s always another story coming.