Some Things You Learn to Accept Without Questions

by Beamlak Alebel (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia)

A pink background with a blue question mark.

Sometimes there are things in life you learn to accept without asking why. For me, asking questions only made the stress worse, and stress only made my illness harder to survive.

I was diagnosed with inflammatory bowel disease (IBD) when I was very young. Looking back now, I can see how different I was from other children. I was always tired, weak, and running out of energy. While others played and dreamed freely, my body felt heavy, as if it was always asking me to slow down.

School was especially hard. Learning took more effort than I could explain, and there were moments when my body completely failed me. I remember fainting during exams—lying there while the world blurred around me, carrying not only pain but deep embarrassment. Being different from your classmates hurts in ways words can’t easily describe. It makes you feel invisible and exposed at the same time.

There were many days I cried alone. Not being able to do what you want as a child slowly takes away your hope. I watched my classmates move forward while I felt stuck, left behind by a body I didn’t understand. I began to believe that maybe I would never become “someone.”

IBD didn’t just affect me—it affected my family too. I saw their worry, their sacrifices, and their quiet strength. Watching the people you love struggle because of your illness leaves a mark on your heart that never fully fades.

For a long time, I didn’t have the words to explain what I was going through. When people said, “I have no words,” I never understood it. Now I do. My own words were scared. They hid behind silence, afraid to come out.

IBD delayed my education, interrupted my plans, and shook my confidence. But it did not destroy me.

What I have learned is that resilience grows quietly. Hope doesn’t always arrive loudly—it sometimes appears in the simple act of waking up and trying again. Even when the path feels unbearable, even when progress is slow, survival itself becomes an act of courage.

Yes, I am later than others.

But I am not behind.

I am surviving something incredibly hard, and I am still standing.

Today, I am a woman with a past shaped by pain, a heart filled with empathy, and a future that has not been canceled. My journey may look different, but it still matters. And if my story can help someone feel less alone, then every difficult step has meaning.

Featured image from Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash.