The Guilt I Carried That Was Never Mine: Living with Chronic Illness and Letting Go

Guilt has a strange way of moving in and rearranging your life, especially when the story your brain tells you isn't actually true. Hello and welcome to Thoughts While Surviving Chronic Illness. I'm Tate. Some of you may be patients, caregivers, or even clinicians trying to understand what chronic illness actually feels like. Wherever you fall in that mix, you're welcome here. And if the voice sounds a little different, that's because chronic illness can wear out my own voice. So this AI voice helps me tell the story while the chef rests his vocal cords. Before we start, a quick note from the kitchen. I'm not a doctor, and nothing in this podcast should be taken as medical advice. This is simply one chef sharing how he lives with a body that doesn't always follow the rules. Alright, let's get into today's rambling. This one started in a room I can still picture, even now. I was 13 years old when my stepfather died right in front of me. Massive heart attack. He was 54, and the last thing that happened before it was an argument between the two of us. And if you're listening to that as an adult, you probably already see the shape of where this goes. But 13-year-old brains are not exactly known for their calm, rational processing. They are built for survival. And when something catastrophic happens, the mind does what it can to make sense of it. So mine came up with a very clean explanation. It must have been my fault. That idea did not feel like a guess. It felt like truth. The kind of truth that settles in quietly and then refuses to leave. It moved in like a bad roommate and started rearranging things. Every quiet moment, every memory, it would just whisper the same thing back to me. This was you. And the strange part is, no one really challenged that story. Not because people did not care, but because back then we were not exactly great at talking about things like this. Therapy was not something you casually mentioned. It was something people avoided or whispered about, like it was a family secret. So instead of processing what had happened, there was mostly silence, maybe a kind gesture, maybe a quick reassurance, and then life kept moving. And I carried it with me quietly. Because that is what kids tend to do. When something big and terrible happens, they look for a cause. And if there is no obvious answer, they often land on themselves. There is actually a name for this kind of thinking. Counterfactual thinking. It is the endless loop of what if? What if I had said something different? What if I had walked away? What if I had just kept my mouth shut? Your brain starts editing the past like it is a film that can still be changed. But the ending never moves. So it just keeps replaying. And when you do not have a place to say those thoughts out loud, they get louder inside. Now the environment I was in at the time was not exactly designed for emotional unpacking. All boys' Catholic school, run by Irish priests. Good people in many ways, but emotional processing was not exactly part of the daily lesson plan. So I asked questions, a lot of them, probably more than was strategically wise. Questions about God, about rules, about things that did not quite make sense to me. And eventually that led to me being removed from religious studies for asking too many questions, which, in hindsight, feels almost impressive. But those questions were never really about religion. They were about trying to understand loss, about trying to make sense of something that felt completely out of control. And when there is no place for those questions to land, the pressure builds, and you find other ways to release it. For me, that was swearing. A lot of swearing. I used it like seasoning, sometimes appropriate, sometimes excessive, but always serving a purpose. And as it turns out, there is actually some science behind that. Swearing can reduce stress, increase pain tolerance, activate parts of the brain that help regulate emotional response. So in a strange way, I was coping. But underneath that, the guilt stayed. It did not disappear, it just waited. And that is one of the things living with a long-term condition eventually teaches you that emotions do not go away just because you ignore them. They settle. They linger. They find their way into the body. A couple of years later, something shifted. I learned the truth about what had happened that day. My stepfather had a known heart condition, and on the day he died, he had been pushing a stalled motorcycle up a hill, trying to prove something, maybe to himself, and his heart gave out. That was the reality. Not the story I had been carrying, not the argument, not anything I had said. And when that truth finally settled in, something inside me loosened. Not completely, not all at once, but enough to breathe a little easier. Like loosening the collar after a long shift in the kitchen. Still tight, but no longer suffocated. Looking back now, that moment taught me something that I did not fully understand at the time. When something painful happens, the mind does not always look for accuracy. It looks for certainty, even if that certainty hurts. And years later, living with sarcoidosis, with heart issues, with a body that has its own ideas about how things should work. I have come to see how those emotional patterns do not just stay in your thoughts. They show up physically. Stress, guilt, all of it. It has weight. It affects inflammation, hormones, the way the body responds over time. It is not just in your head. It is in your system. Which means holding on to something that was never yours to carry comes with a cost. Now, I am not someone who suddenly became perfectly open about everything. I am not the guy who sits down and spills every emotion with graceful vulnerability. That is not really me. But I have found ways to release the pressure. I breathe, I write, I cook, I walk, I let life move through me instead of trying to lock everything down. Cooking, especially. It makes sense to me. Some things need heat, some things need time. You cannot rush a stew, and you cannot rush healing. You let it sit, you let it change, and eventually something shifts. And yeah, I still swear now and then. Not as much, but just enough to keep things properly seasoned. Actually, that's a lie. I still curse. A lot. And honestly, I feel relief when I do. I burn a pot, I swear like a sailor. But then the anger and panic is gone. My brain immediately shifts into what I call C-E-E-R-R. Calm down, examine, evaluate, repair, or replace. But the thing that matters most, the thing I keep coming back to is this. The story I told myself when I was 13 was wrong. And it shaped years of my life. So if you have ever found yourself carrying guilt for something that was never really yours, I want you to sit with this for a moment. Your mind is capable of telling very convincing stories, but that does not make them true. Sometimes the brain creates a reason because not having one feels unbearable. But that does not mean you are the cause. Guilt can feel like responsibility, but they are not the same thing. And holding on to something that does not belong to you, it does more damage than letting it go ever will. So take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. And if you need to, find your way of releasing it. Writing, walking, cooking, even a well-placed curse word now and then. Whatever helps you loosen that grip. Because you deserve a second act that is not shaped by something that was never yours in the first place. And that's one of the strange things about living with a chronic illness. On paper, it may be labeled rare, but when it shows up in your body, your lungs, or your heart, it stops feeling rare pretty quickly. Sarcoidosis is only rare until you're the one living with it. If this episode resonated with you, follow the podcast so you don't miss the next rambling. New episodes come out Tuesday morning and Friday evening. And if you think someone else might need to hear this, share the episode with them. Leaving a rating or review also helps other people living with chronic illness discover the show. I'm also not able to respond to solicitations or outside projects. Your number always stays private. I never see it. And if you'd like a reply, just tuck your email address somewhere in the message. If you'd like to share more about your experience with starcoidosis or chronic illness, the contact page on my website is the best place to reach me at TateBasildon.com. Before we part ways, a quick reminder. The stories I share come from my own lived experience. I'm not a doctor, so nothing here is medical advice. This is simply one person trying to make sense of the body he's living in. The narration is AI because my voice gets tired. So very tired. But the writing, the producing, and the heart behind every episode, that's all me. And I hold the copyright for all content. Take gentle care of yourself. Breathe when you can, rest when you need to, and remember, you're still here. And that matters more than you know. Until next time.