Underneath the Sycamore Tree

by B. Celeste

This book is for the chronically ill. For the people who fight every single day for relief, belief, and a cure. This book is about fear. Fear that drives us to keep fighting whether we know the outcome or not. This book is for anybody who feels they aren’t heard, seen, or believed. I hear you, see you, and believe you.

Chronic illness gives little wiggle room for peace of mind. Having “good” days doesn’t mean the pain isn’t there; it just means that it’s not as noticeable—like a limb that’s sort of falling asleep but still functioning.

“I find that the books with the saddest endings are the best because they make us feel. We don’t always get a happily ever after no matter how hard we work for it.”

Pain comes in countless forms. The worst is seeing what your suffering does to everyone around you.

Reality is ugly and painful and full of the kind of heartache that some books help you forget exist for a short period.

There are lots of quotes about time. Time is fleeting. Time is valuable. Time shouldn’t be wasted. The trouble with time is that we only think we have it. It’s an illusion—an excuse to linger in existence. Some people use it to be reckless; others use it to hold themselves back. The kids stamping YOLO on their foreheads have no idea what they’re bartering with when they tempt death. They think they’re invincible. And me? I have to watch healthy people with thousands of chances live like they’re not afraid of death at all. Time is a luxury we can’t all afford.

Wishes don’t come true though, because this isn’t some fairy tale. It’s reality. And reality is a mean bitch.

“Healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed. It just means that it can no longer control our lives. I sincerely hope you remember that. I know a hurt soul when I see one, boy. You and Emery are one and the same, which means you’re also tough. It doesn’t matter what battle you’re fighting. It only matters that you’re willing to fight.”

People think sickness has a face. They think disease is an ugly word.

Strength doesn’t have a definition. We all have it. We just might not all think we do because it’s buried under layers of pain and depression and anxiety. The truth is you never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.

Any of us could pretend like we’re invincible and put up a front in the public eye, but behind our masks are tearstained faces.