A week ago Tuesday, I sat with my friend Emily at her kitchen table. She was having one of her better days—enough energy to sit up and chat while her coffee got cold—something that always happens now, she jokes. "You know what's funny?" she said, wrapping her hands around the mug. "Everyone thinks the hardest part is the big stuff. But it's not. It's figuring out how to love and be loved when everything's different."

That stopped me in my tracks. Because she's right.

Here's the thing about chronic illness that nobody really talks about: everything changes. Not just the obvious stuff—like how you spend your days or manage your energy—but the quiet, intimate ways we connect with the people we love.

The Old Rules Don't Apply

Remember those five love languages that everyone's always talking about? Words of affirmation, acts of service, gifts, quality time, and physical touch. Yeah, they still count. But heavens, they sure look different now.

Take my neighbor Tom—not his actual name, he's a private guy about his heart issues. The guy used to be, pre-sickness, all about showing love by being the one who helped other people move apartments or helped build decks. Now? He struggles to feel worthy of love since he is no longer able to do those things, but his wife Rose? She gets it. "I don't need you to build me a garden," she told him. "I need you to tell me about the birds you see from your window while I'm cleaning."

(I cried when he told me that story. Not gonna lie.)

When "I Love You" Sounds Different

Let's get real with words for a minute, because sometimes "I love you" sounds like "I believe you're in pain" or "You don't have to pretend you're okay."

My friend who's been dealing with issues for six years—put it perfectly over text last week: "The most loving thing anyone's ever said to me wasn't some grand romantic gesture. It was my sister saying 'I googled your medication so I'd understand why you're nauseous.' Like. that's love, right there."

Small Acts, Big Love

Oh boy, this is where things get interesting. Because acts of service look wildly different now. Sometimes love is:

• Showing up to a doctor's appointment and just sitting there. Not trying to fix anything.
• Learning how to fold that one blanket just right (you know the one).
• Bringing dinner, but also bringing paper plates because doing dishes isn't happening today.
• Knowing when to help and—this is the hard part—when to step back.

A friend recently told me about her husband's way of helping on her bad days. He doesn't make a fuss. Just quietly puts her favorite fuzzy socks in the dryer for a few minutes before bringing them to her. That's it. That's the whole thing. But it means everything.

Time Together, But Make It Gentle

Which brings me to: quality time—pretty much in need of a whole new definition when chronic illness comes to town.

A friend who lives with ME/CFS, snort-laughed when we were discussing this. "Quality time used to mean date night or long talks," she said. "Now it's my best friend silently crocheting while I lay on the couch like a potato. And it's perfect."

Listen—some days, quality time is just existing in the same space. No pressure. No conversation needed. Just being there. And that's enough. More than enough.

The Touch Thing

Okay, this is tricky. Because some days touch hurts. Other days it's the only thing that helps. There's no manual for this stuff.

I heard of someone with EDS—managed to devise a brilliant system with her partner. Green day? Hugs are good. Yellow day? Just hold hands. Red day? Only sit near me. Evidently simple, it works.

Gifts Which Really Help

Can we talk about gifts? Because this has changed too. The most thoughtful gift I've seen lately wasn't flowers or jewelry. It was a friend getting her chronically ill sister one of those grabber tools to pick things up off the floor—but she bedazzled it first. Practical AND fabulous? That's love. IV Hoodies for the infusion friend, priceless.

Finding Your Way

Here's what I've learned from watching people navigate this: there's no rule book. No perfect way to do this. You figure it out as you go, mess up sometimes, learn, adjust.

Some days you nail it. Other days you're both frustrated and tired and nothing works right. But you keep trying. Keep learning. Keep loving.

Because love doesn't look the same for anyone—and thank goodness for that. Your version of love might look a little different now. But different isn't less, and sometimes it's more.

Looking for ways to show someone you care? Our Gentle Support Collection includes gifts that say "I get it" without saying a word. Like our ultra-soft comfort blankets—so love can be as basic as warmth.