When my invisible illness made our love feel invisible too

I live with an autoimmune condition that looks like laziness from the outside: normal on Monday, unusable by Thursday. After a year of marriage, my episodes multiplied and our patience shrank. My husband began calling it “mood swings.” I started hiding flare-ups like a shameful secret. Weekends became scorecards: who cooked more, who cancelled plans. The softest part of our relationship went numb.

A colleague whispered, “Talk to Pt. Dayaram Joshi—he doesn’t dramatize; he dignifies.” On our first call, Daya Sir didn’t give speeches. He asked my husband to describe one good day and one bad day from my perspective. Then he asked me to do the same for him. Silence did more work than any argument.

He carried a focused process for 7–11 days. On our side, he set rules that were practical, not poetic: (1) a visible “energy meter” on our fridge (green/amber/red) so I could communicate capacity without essays, (2) a rotating task map that changed when the meter changed, (3) no medical debates at 11 p.m., and (4) a 15-minute evening window just for closeness—no planning, no problem-solving.

Midway, I stopped apologizing for being ill and started informing. He stopped taking my exhaustion personally. He even told his parents, “We are not looking for a cure-all; we are building a kinder system.” I cried in the kitchen out of relief.

By the closing day of the process, we had a rhythm that protected both of us. He said, “I don’t feel helpless anymore.” I said, “I don’t feel judged.” We still have red days. But we also have green days that feel like spring. The disease stayed; the resentment left.

Daya Sir told us, “Love is not a treatment. It is the climate where treatments work.” Our climate changed. That changed everything.