I had my last home SCIg infusion yesterday. My stomach is swollen and sore, my energy is low, and yes… I feel every bit of it.

But I also feel I cannot delay this post any longer.

Living with CIDP and managing SCIg treatments is a daily balancing act, and reflection on my 2025 journey simply cannot wait.

Even when fatigue hits and muscles ache after immunoglobulin infusions at home, writing about chronic illness, treatment experiences, and personal growth is worth every tired moment.

It’s January 11th.
Which means this reflection is technically overdue.
But if 2025 taught me anything, it’s that life doesn’t run on tidy calendars — especially when your nervous system has opinions.

So here I am, saying goodbye to 2025 a little late… but very intentionally.

First and foremost – To Those Who Walked This CIDP Road With Me this past year

I want to pause and express my deepest gratitude to the Father Pio Hospital crew in Przemyśl (southeast of Poland), who quite literally stepped into the unknown with me.

We were all learning together.

I saw the involvement, the stress, the concentration, the responsibility — and most of all, the heart.

My neurologist and the nurses faced their very first encounter with a rather mysterious SCIg pump, which, I have to admit, scared the shit out of all of us at the beginning.

And yet, they showed up with professionalism, dedication, and care. Knowing I wasn’t alone in that learning process made all the difference.

To my closest circle of friends and family: thank you for cheering me on, even when the road felt long, uneven, and unpredictable. Your kindness, patience, and encouragement mean more to me than I can ever fully put into words.

I carry that support with me — especially on the days when my own strength feels a little shaky.

Sadly, one of my dear friends passed away in November.

She was very ill herself, and I had the privilege of witnessing her heroic fight against a very aggressive cancer until the very end.

Her courage, humility, and resilience were beyond inspiring — qualities so profound they’re hard to put into words.

Even in her final moments, her humanity shone brightly, touching everyone around her. Watching her face life — and death — with such strength and grace reminded me of the depth of the human spirit and inspired me in ways I can hardly explain.

R.I.P GP.

Your kindness and friendship will ALWAYS be remembered.

And finally, my gratitude goes to a rather invisible spiritual force that I call upon every time I leave my house for a trip – St. Christopher, the saint who watches over travelers.

I pray to him before every journey — by car or by plane — asking simply to arrive safely. Each time I do, my heart fills with a joy that feels almost like an achievement.

In a life shaped by uncertainty, safe arrivals matter. They are small victories, and I treasure them deeply.

My gratitude to St. Christopher feels especially strong after a recent journey through truly brutal winter driving conditions.

I drove a difficult stretch of road in the middle of snowstormy weather — tense as hell, gripping the wheel, fully aware of how small my car felt against the winter elements.

I didn’t rush.

I moved carefully, slowly, bit by bit, respecting the road, the conditions, and my own limits. When I arrived safely, the relief was overwhelming.

That moment felt like a real victory, especially after navigating such challenging winter travel conditions.

This journey wasn’t optional. I had to go to the hospital for my SCIg immunoglobulin treatment meds, and postponing was simply not realistic — the snowstormy winter weather was expected to persist for a while, so canceling would have only delayed the inevitable.

More importantly, I felt that my body genuinely needed the infusion.

So I went.

Sometimes showing up, even under difficult conditions, is part of living with chronic illness — not bravely, not heroically, just necessarily.

[ photo source: AI image creator/Gemini ]

2025 Was Not a “Highlight Reel” Year

It was a learning year.
A slowing down year.
A year of listening — sometimes willingly, sometimes because my body left me no other option.

Living with Lewis-Sumner Syndrome (and its many plot twists) continued to reshape how I move through the world.

Strength looked different.

Productivity looked different this year for sure.

Even hope looked quieter — less fireworks, more steady candlelight.

And yet…
There was growth.

Not the loud, Instagram-friendly kind —
but the kind that happens when you keep showing up, even on half-power.

Things 2025 Gave Me (Unexpectedly)

One of the most significant shifts of 2025 was moving from IVIg to SCIg — a change that, for me, felt like an attempt to escape the hospital walls that have long been part of my CIDP reality.

I’m still very much in the learning phase, and I won’t sugarcoat it: it’s stressful. New routines, new responsibilities, new anxieties.

And yet, little by little, I’m settling in.

There’s something deeply hopeful about the possibility of fewer hospital visits, less mental exhaustion tied to clinical settings, and a bit more freedom woven into everyday life.

It was hard — harder than I expected — but I’m choosing to believe it will be worth it.

Not as a miracle cure, but as a gentler way to keep fighting CIDP.

Lessons from 2025: Living, Resting, and Healing with CIDP

• A deeper respect for rest — not as a reward, but as a necessity
• A blog that became more than content: a place of truth and connection
• A softer relationship with my body (still a work in progress)
• Proof that even slow steps still count as movement
• Community — especially among people who get it without explanation

Some days were heavy.
Some days were surprisingly light.
Most days were somewhere in between — and that’s okay.

Welcoming 2026 (Without Grand Declarations)

I’m not entering 2026 with dramatic resolutions or “this will be my year” energy.

Instead, I’m choosing:

• Presence over pressure
• Consistency over intensity
• Kindness toward my body, even when it frustrates me
• Writing that tells the truth, not just the polished version

Final Thoughts

So goodbye, 2025 — thank you for what you taught me: your lessons, your unexpected gifts, safe arrivals, new experiences, and interesting encounters.

Thank you for all the happy and funny moments — but thank you for the sad and reflective ones too.

Both belong to the human experience, and it seems they make no sense without each other.

Laughter feels brighter when we’ve known sorrow, and reflection feels deeper when it’s balanced by joy.

Thank you for reminding me how abundant, versatile, and surprisingly full life can be, even while navigating chronic illness, SCIg treatments, and the daily ups and downs that come with living with CIDP.

And hello, 2026.
If you bring healing — I’ll welcome it.
If you bring challenges — I’ll meet them with what I’ve learned.
And if you bring ordinary, quiet days — I’ll honor those too.

I’m here, hopeful, present, and curious…