When Friendship Changes After Illness

It's been a while since I last updated this blog. I lost interest for a while (which happens quite often), and I thought I had already moved past the grief stage of living with MND/ALS, but I was wrong especially during the holiday seasons.

Christmas was quiet last year. Not the peaceful, candle-lit kind of quiet. The 'no family nearby, just the two of us and the two little doggos' kind of quiet. I live with MND for almost 5 years now, so quiet days aren’t new to me. But this one felt different.

Since I lived here in NZ, I have always spent holidays and special occasions with friends, chosen family, really. Over the years, it became our normal. So when Christmas came and went without an invite or a “come over, it doesn’t have to be fancy,” it stung. What hurt more was the silence.

I saw online that my friends had gathered for a lovely dinner party. All dressed up. Smiling. Together. I don’t think it was intentional to exclude me...but it still hurt. I questioned myself. Am I being dramatic? Am I expecting too much? In Filipino culture, we’re not exactly encouraged to talk about these things. We endure. We stay quiet. We don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. So instead of saying anything, I sat with the feeling. And then there’s my husband. He doesn’t have friends here. I can manage my own sadness most days, but seeing his loneliness hits differently. Loving someone means you feel their isolation too.

What I’ve realised is this: this isn’t about jealousy or missing a party. It’s about grief. Grief for the way things used to be. Grief for friendships that once felt steady, but now feel a little different as life has changed. Illness can shift the rhythm of relationships in ways none of us really know how to navigate. It doesn’t mean anyone cares less, sometimes people simply aren’t sure how to walk alongside something as complex as illness. I will catch up with them at some point but it feels different now. Not angry. Just… aware. I’m learning it’s okay to recalibrate how much of my heart I offer without making a scene about it and still grateful for whatever time they can give.

Last Christmas wasn’t festive but it was honest. My husband and I (and our doggos) were together. And while that doesn’t erase the loneliness, it matters. If you’re living with MND, a terminal illness, or loving someone who is and the holidays feel quieter than they used to, you’re not dramatic. You’re not invisible. And you’re not alone in this. Sometimes being "Terminally Well" means allowing yourself to feel the ache… and still choosing gentleness.

(25th December 2025)

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