This March, I fell ill. It hit me like a sudden scene change. It was a Saturday, the weather was spring-like, and we had just ordered drinks while sitting on a café terrace after a walk. As the drink was placed in front of me, I suddenly began to shiver from cold and my circulation collapsed. I never touched the drink.
That moment marked the start of a long, difficult period of illness that took me from my own bed to the next hospital, and eventually to the intensive care unit of a specialist clinic. For weeks, I was torn out of everyday life, surrounded by uncertainty: What had just happened? How could I get so sick so suddenly? Why hadn’t I noticed any warning signs? In the end, I was lucky and received the medical care I needed.
I appreciated every single get-well message I received. Some friends wrote to me almost daily, encouraging me. Those messages helped me get through the worst of it. But I also received some that urged me to “listen to the wake-up call” from my body. I should prioritize myself now, they said. Make myself number one.
That kind of message made me wonder. It always carries the implication that I ignored something, overdid it, or didn’t listen properly. As if my illness was caused by my lifestyle. Sure, like everyone else, I sometimes push my limits: juggling paid work and care duties, cramming my calendar with appointments, lying awake at night with worry, or dancing the night away at parties. You know, living life.
What troubles me about those kinds of remarks is their subtle suggestion. Being unwell quickly gets read as “you didn’t take good enough care of yourself.” It's a continuation of outdated narratives about the weak constitution of women and their supposed psychosomatic sensitivity - all while ignoring the structural pressures many women face, with little room to design their lives flexibly.
“Please listen to what your body is trying to tell you" sounds harmless, but it’s rooted in a way of thinking that links illness to personal failure. If you get sick, you must have neglected yourself. If you don’t recover, you still “haven’t learned your lesson.”
Yes, it’s true: some people suffer heart attacks due to their lifestyle. But it’s also true that some people who’ve never smoked a day in their life get lung cancer. Environmental factors are playing an increasing role, and many people carry genetic risks they can’t control. And often, it’s simply biochemical roulette, like the author Wolfgang Herrndorf, who called his fatal brain tumor just that: a roll of the dice.
People who are seriously ill are already dealing with enough: endless worrying, fear and self-doubt. And it’s not like medical institutions are free from those kinds of insinuations. Everywhere, doctors dig through your biography, questioning habits and lifestyle. Just becoming ill often triggers a sense of shame. But how are we supposed to heal, to reconnect with society, when both medical institutions and the social rituals around illness are so alienating?
In the end, this type of “well-meaning” advice is best left unsaid. What a sick person truly needs is unconditional support. Without loaded suggestions. Without unsolicited advice. Without pop-science theories. Without stories about others who “didn’t make it.”
In my opinion, the best comfort during illness is humor. Being able to make a sick person laugh, to bring a smile to their face is something truly beautiful. Nothing beats it. So, dear folks: if you want to offer comfort, put in some effort and work on your phantasy and ability to entertain. It really makes a difference!