why I'm giving myself permission to fail in 2026

I had big plans for 2025.

I was finally going to get my shit together and work out consistently. I was going to get my writing published somewhere that wasn’t just my Instagram feed or my blog. I was going to post on social media four times a week and really grow my account.

 And guess what? I failed spectacularly.

But — and maybe for the first time in my life — I’m giving myself permission to be OK with that. 

Being disabled, I’ve never seen failure as an option. I’ve always needed to outperform the non-disabled people in my life. I had to be more successful. I had to accomplish more. I had to be better. I know, not exactly the healthiest attitude. And probably something I should unpack more in therapy…

So, when I made those plans for 2025, I meant them.

But l also sort of ignored the fact that my disabilities would, you know, disable me.

And let me tell you, they humbled me real quick.

 In the last half of 2025, my health took a bit of a nosedive. My trigeminal neuralgia went from mostly manageable to unstable as hell. The attacks felt like the side of my face was being tasered and lit on fire all at once. I couldn’t eat or drink. I couldn’t brush my teeth. I couldn’t even talk or lick my lips. Some days, I couldn’t even move my head without setting off an attack.

I went on medication to help control the pain, and my body did not react well. I was dizzy and nauseous. I lost what little balance I had left, and I couldn't walk more than a few steps without needing my husband to hold me up. It was like feeling both the most drunk and the most hungover I’ve ever been at the same time.

There were so many days where I could barely function.

And on those days where I could barely function, you know what I was thinking?

“But I really need to work out…”

“But I really need to post on Instagram today or my account will never grow…”

“But I really need to write today or I'll never get published...”

And when I couldn't? I felt like shit. I’d tell myself I was lazy. That I just needed to try harder.

I felt worthless.

After one particularly bad pain flare-up, I said to myself, “You just said the pain was 20 out of 10 and you were on the floor, screaming. And you’re wondering why you didn’t go to the gym today??”

And yeah, when I put it that way, it sounded pretty absurd.

Why was I expecting so much from myself? What was I so afraid of happening if I did fail? That people will think less of me? That I’ll prove people right? That I am lazy or worthless?

Or was it because a part of me still believed these things about myself? That I somehow had to make up for being disabled by being exceptional. By pushing through the pain. By accomplishing the same things non-disabled people do. Because if they could do it, why couldn’t I?

Because.

They aren’t disabled.

Disabled people deal with so much bullshit already. The expectations from society. The pressure to prove we're worthy of existing. The impossible standards everyone else sets for us. We don't need to set them for ourselves too.

So, in 2026, I’m doing something new.

I’m taking the pressure off myself.

Instead of forcing myself to go to the gym every day, I work out when I can. When my body feels up to it. 

Instead of forcing myself to write, I write when inspiration hits. If I stare at a blank page for 20 minutes and write nothing, I close my laptop and try again another day.

Instead of forcing myself to post on social media, I post when I feel like I have something to say. If that means I only post once that week, then I only post once that week.  

So, while I do have goals for 2026, this year is about trying. Not pushing.

Just because I’m disabled, doesn’t mean I need to prove anything to anyone.

And if I fail? Then I fail.