Love Languages, Rewritten

What chronic illness taught me about friendship, compromise and the people who make life easier to carry.

I used to think love languages were mostly the sort of thing people discovered after doing a BuzzFeed test or spending too much time on relationship TikTok. Very internet. Very “send this to your partner and see what they get”. Words of affirmation. Physical touch. Acts of service. All packaged into graphics in soft beige fonts.

Don’t get me wrong, I like to be treated well as much as any other person, it just took me being ill to realise what real, practical love actually consists of.

When I tell you that somebody checking whether a restaurant has proper seating before we book it feels like one of the most thoughtful things another human being could do, I am not exaggerating.

Chronic illness changes the way you understand relationships because it strips a lot of performance out of them. Eventually, the most meaningful things become incredibly practical. Less about what people say they would do for you in theory and more about who willingly adapts in reality.

Who slows their walking pace without making you feel guilty for it. Who suggests the taxi first. Who notices you are fading halfway through the evening and starts wrapping things up naturally instead of making you push through until you are practically dissociating over dessert. Who understands that cancelling plans is usually disappointing for you too.

I think healthy people sometimes underestimate how much negotiation sits underneath an ordinary day when your body is unreliable. And why wouldn’t they - it is not a criticism, just a fact. The constant small adjustments and calculations running quietly in the background are just not things most healthy people ever have to think about. If I do this now, what will it cost me tomorrow? If I stay another hour, will I still be functional on Monday? Is this a manageable level of tired or have I crossed into the sort of exhaustion where my nervous system starts behaving like a Victorian maiden in a thunderstorm?

And because so much of life starts revolving around managing energy, you become very aware of who protects it and who drains it.

I’m not just talking about romantically either. Some of the most considerate relationships in my life are friendships. A very small number of carefully chosen people who make the world feel softer and easier to exist in. Friends who do not need a presentation every time your symptoms flare. Friends who understand that “I can’t” is a complete sentence. Friends who can sit in silence without interpreting it as rejection, and who never make you feel like your worth depends on how entertaining, available or high-functioning you happen to be that week.

Those friendships feel incredibly adult to me now. Steady. Generous. Easy to land in. And honestly, ease becomes very attractive once your energy is limited.

I don’t mean boring. I mean emotionally safe. People who do not create unnecessary friction. People who do not turn every change of plan into a courtroom negotiation. People who can adapt without making you feel as though you have personally ruined their evening because your body has decided it’s time to go home.

Because there is guilt involved in all this, whether we admit it or not.

I am very aware that my life often requires accommodation from other people. Sometimes that means slower days, earlier dinners, more sitting down, less spontaneity. Sometimes it means leaving early or changing plans or admitting that I cannot do something I wish I could do. There are moments where you become painfully conscious of your body altering the shape of other people’s experiences too, and I think many of us spend a huge amount of energy trying to minimise that fact.

Trying not to be difficult. Trying not to be hard work. Trying not to need too much.

You push through things you should not push through because somebody was excited about them. You pretend you are fine because you cannot bear being the reason plans changed again. You become very skilled at making yourself uncomfortable so other people can remain comfortable.

The exhausting part is that some people still end up resenting you anyway.

Illness has made me realise that there are people who are compassionate about struggle in the abstract, but far less comfortable with the practical reality of somebody consistently needing flexibility. Some people adapt naturally and some people keep score. Some people quietly make room for your needs and others make you feel as though every accommodation should be met with formal written gratitude and a small parade.

And over time, your tolerance for that changes.

I think one unexpected side effect of chronic illness is that it makes you far more selective about who gets access to you because your energy becomes more valuable. You stop wanting to spend it managing emotionally expensive people. The friendships and relationships that survive tend to be the ones where you can exist honestly. No performance. No pretending. No exhausting attempt to convince everybody you are still fun enough, useful enough, easy enough to deserve care.

The people closest to me now are the people who make life manageable. The people who carry bags without making it a moment. The people who ask sensible questions. The people who understand that access is not special treatment and that needing support is not a moral failure.

I still love beautiful things. Beautiful meals, beautiful hotels, beautiful experiences. I still want the glamorous restaurant booking and the excellent wine and the overdressed evening out. But increasingly, the relationships that matter most to me are built around much quieter things than that.

Patience. Flexibility. Thoughtfulness.

Someone remembering there are stairs before I have to.

Someone understanding that when I leave early, it is not because I do not want to be there.

Someone making the world feel less hostile to move through.

It turns out love languages are real after all. They are just significantly less aesthetic than advertised.