Finding Dharma Following Chronic Illness - Abhisshek Om Chakravarty | Holistic Life Coach & Mindfulness Mentor

Breakthrough Journeys

There are times in life when all stops. Not the voluntary kind—a weekend trip or a silent retreat—but the involuntary sort. It is an odd stillness, painful and alien. For my client, Lavanya, that moment came after years of fleeing from pain, from expectations, from her own body. Her illness finally brought her to a standstill. Not softly, but like a car slamming into a wall.

When I first talked to Lavanya, fatigue infused her voice—not simply physical exhaustion, but an exhaustion of the spirit. The sort that seeps into your soul after decades of hiding behind the mask of being fine. Diagnosed with fibromyalgia two years earlier than when I met her, the symptoms had been there far longer: the lingering pain, mental fogginess, and deep-as-the-bones exhaustion that made every day feel like wading in sandbags across her shoulders. But like so many I've encountered in my practice as a coach, she continued to push. Work, family, home responsibilities, social obligations—she ticked all the boxes because giving up felt like defeat.

We didn't start out talking about dharma. That word bears weight—certainly philosophical or even in reach, maybe, only to spiritual works or monastic study. But not for me, and soon, not for Lavanya either, dharma isn't external. It's the still heartbeat in here, our individual charge at being what we really are. Sometimes breakdown makes us go blind to the beat again.

"When did you last feel comfortable in your own body?" I asked in our first session. She blinked in surprise at the question. And then tears followed. It was so long, she couldn't recall. This was the beginning of our quest—not to heal her disease, since I'm not a doctor—but to uncover what it had taught her. What had her body been trying to tell her in years of fatigue and pain? What truth was she avoiding?

This made me think of my own experience years ago, where I got seriously ill after a bout of emotional burnout. I was constantly traveling, skipping meals, ignoring the signals my body was sending. There's something so humbling about being knocked to your knees—not by failure outside of yourself, but by your own system no longer willing to keep going. Healing, I learned then, isn't just physical. It's spiritual. So much of our healing starts the moment we start aligning with our dharma.

For Lavanya, this involved peeling away years of conditioning. Growing up in a household where helpfulness, availability, and responsibility characterized her role as the oldest daughter, she became the reliable fixer. Along the way, she adopted the notion that her value lay in what she could do for others. She couldn't say no to requests. She couldn't sleep. Even when her body begged for relief, she felt guilty for stopping.

We started with the basics. Mindful breathing. Writing in a journal. Daily, she asks herself, "What do I need today?" It's simplistic, bordering on the trivial. But for someone who's been in a state of self-abandonment for so many years, the question becomes transformative. One session is especially remembered. She had come in from a family gathering totally spent. "I smiled all evening," she admitted, "but I wasn't there. My body hurt, and yet I just kept going."

"Why did you go?" I asked softly.

She hesitated. "Because they expected me to."

"And what did you expect from yourself?"

The ensuing silence told it all.

Dharma is not about rejecting what others think or walking away from obligations. It's about living true to yourself, respecting your truth. Some days that mean being present. Some days it means backing off. For Lavanya, finding her dharma after illness meant getting back in touch with her inner compass. Trusting her boundaries. Realizing that saying no was selfish—no, it was sacred.

Over time, she changed—not overnight, but naturally. She spent quiet mornings on her balcony, drinking hot water and watching birds. She picked up painting again, an activity abandoned a decade ago. She permitted herself to nap without shame. She had hard conversations with family members about boundaries. To her own surprise, her world did not fall apart. Her relationships grew more profound. Her daughter Anaya gained a deeper understanding. Her husband, Samar, started taking on more responsibilities. It was not perfect, but it was real.

A few months into working with her, she emailed me a picture of a clay lamp she had made. "For the first time in years," she said, "my hands didn't ache while making this. I think my body is finally forgiving me." I pored over that message for hours. It was a full-circle moment—not because her pain had disappeared, but because her relationship with herself had changed fundamentally.

I often think back to a story from the Mahabharata—of Kunti, Pandava's mother. After having lived through so many trials, and losses, and heavy burdens, she requests a final boon from Krishna: "Grant me more sorrow, so I never forget You." It's a staggering request, one that springs from deep surrender. Sometimes disease, like sorrow, is the portal to further union with divinity, with dharma, with our deepest self.

Lavanya's tale is a soft victory, little discussed outside its walls. No medal, no praise. But in her, an epic war was waged—and won. A war between the world's expectations and one's own truth. Between living just enough and living for that which is holy. In that soft triumph, I saw something lovely: a woman finally in harmony with her dharma.

I find myself regularly wondering what it really means to "find" dharma. It's not one instant, one epiphany. It's recalling a learned tune that we once forgot—initially as a distant drone, then more fully as a recognizable song. It's taking the strength to proclaim, "This is me. This is how I should live." Chronic illness sometimes is what quiets the outside clamor so we can finally listen.

As a coach, my job isn't to define someone's dharma. It's to accompany them as they discover it for themselves, in their own way and time. Lavanya's journey reminded me why I do this work. These changes—they are the true miracles. Not flashy, but deep. Not loud, but lasting.

If you're reading this and you see yourself—if your body has attempted to tell you something while you've been too busy to hear it—I encourage you to stop for a moment. Not to correct anything or act. Just to ask yourself softly, "What truth have I been avoiding?" It's a potent question that could bring you back to your dharma.

I do not propose this journey is straightforward. Healing seldom is. But it's real. And worthwhile. And you're not alone.

I end with what my Guru Sree Narayan Chondro Das:

"When the body breaks down, it's not punishment—it's the soul's final attempt to awaken us."

Lavanya's story attests to this. Maybe yours can as well.

Om poornamadah Poornamidam |

Poornaat Poornamudachyate |

Poornasya Poornamaadaya |

Poornamevaavashishyate |

Om shanti, shanti, shanti hi ||

Hari Om Tatsat!

Warm regards,

Abhisshek Om Chakravarty, (Coach Abhisshek)

Holistic Life Coach | Mindfulness Mentor | Family Mindset Coach 

"Within each soul lies infinite wisdom; I simply help others uncover their light."

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