What I’ve Learned Living with POTS — From a Therapist Who Gets It

Before I became a therapist, I became a patient.

When I was first diagnosed with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), I felt like my body had completely betrayed me. My heart would race for no reason. I’d get dizzy just from standing up. The exhaustion was all-consuming, like trying to move through quicksand. And the more I tried to push through, the more my body pushed back.

But the hardest part wasn’t just physical. It was the emotional toll—anxiety, confusion, loneliness, grief. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I felt lost in a body I couldn’t predict or control.

Now, as a therapist who lives with chronic illness and supports others facing similar challenges, I want to share a few things I’ve learned along the way. These are lessons I come back to often—both in my own life and in my work with clients.

Rest is not a reward. It’s a necessity.

Living with POTS taught me that rest isn’t something you earn after being productive-it’s something you need just to function. In the beginning, I saw rest as weakness. I felt guilty for canceling plans or taking breaks. Now, I understand that resting is one of the most powerful things I can do to honor and support my body. It’s not giving up. It’s listening.

Chronic illness carries grief.

There’s a quiet kind of grief that comes with illness. It shows up in missed plans, changing routines, and the realization that your life may look different than you expected. I’ve grieved who I used to be. I’ve grieved the future I thought I was headed toward.

This grief is real—and ongoing. But acknowledging it has helped me make space for joy, too. You can feel sorrow and still hold hope. You can grieve and grow at the same time.

Your worth is not measured by your energy.

POTS taught me to separate my value from my productivity. When I could do less, I felt like less. Less helpful. Less present. Less worthy.

But that simply isn’t true. Whether I spend a day lying down or checking off my to-do list, I am still me. I’m still enough. You are too.

Being dismissed by doctors is a trauma of its own.

One of the most painful parts of POTS is how often it’s misunderstood. I’ve been told it was all in my head, that I was just anxious, or that I looked "too healthy" to be struggling.

That kind of invalidation doesn’t just hurt—it can shake your sense of reality. It can make you question your own body. That’s why finding providers who truly listen and believe you is such a vital part of healing.

Community helps. And so does solitude.

It can feel incredibly isolating to live with a condition most people don’t understand. Finding others who’ve been through similar things—whether in person or online—helped me feel less alone. There’s something powerful about being seen without having to explain yourself.

But I’ve also learned the value of solitude. Time to check in with myself. Time away from comparison or pressure. Both connection and quiet have helped me feel grounded.

You’re allowed to rewrite your story.

For a long time, I thought I had to choose between being a therapist or being someone with a chronic illness. I thought being unwell made me less qualified to help others.

What I’ve come to realize is that my experience with POTS hasn’t made me weaker-it’s made me more compassionate, more attuned, and more real. I understand the exhaustion of invisible illness. I understand the mental load of managing symptoms. I understand how much strength it takes to just get through the day.

This part of my story has deepened my work as a therapist. And it’s reminded me that healing doesn’t mean going back to who you used to be-it means learning how to move forward with care, with courage, and with curiosity.

If you’re living with chronic illness, I want you to know this: You’re not alone.

You’re not lazy. You’re not dramatic. You’re not broken. You’re doing the best you can in a body that asks a lot of you.

You deserve care that sees the whole you-not just your symptoms, but your story.

If you’re looking for a t

herapist who gets it, I’d be honored to support you.

Warmly,

Morgan Sanford