“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

It sounds nice. Hopeful. Productive. It implies the lemons are gently handed to you. They’re probably clean, ripe, and maybe sitting in a cute little basket. Like life’s just giving you a quirky unexpected opportunity.

But sometimes? Life doesn’t hand you lemons, or give you a bat to gently bat them when they’re pitched your way.

It hurls them.

Fast. Hard. Repeatedly.

And instead of ingredients, they feel more like projectiles.

You’re not inspired. You’re bruised. You didn’t ask for this. And you don’t want them.

Lemonade pressure

Especially in the context of chronic illness, there’s often an unspoken expectation:

• That once you get through the shock of diagnosis, you’ll spin it into something meaningful.
• That you’ll have a story of triumph.
• That you’ll make… lemonade.

And sometimes people do. That’s valid. Sometimes I’ve done that.

But other times? You’re just trying to survive the experience.

And that’s valid, too.

But. 

Not every moment of suffering has to become a productivity project or a beautiful narrative arc. There might eventually be a nice narrative arc, but it’s really hard when there’s not one, even if there will eventually be one.

Sometimes, things just hurt. And it’s not always possible to fix it or make it better (for yourself or anyone who follows). That makes it even harder, on top of an already hard situation.

So it’s important to remind yourself, no matter what you are going through:

You’re not obligated to make your suffering palatable to others. You don’t have to polish it up, find a silver lining, or fix an unfixable thing.

You can just exist and survive. That’s enough. It’s not a failure.

Sometimes, the most honest response to being pelted with lemons is to let them fall.

Let them sit there. Let them rot.

You’re not lazy. You’re not ungrateful. You’re human. (You’re a sail, not an anchor.)

What’s the alternative when you get pelted?

Forget the default script. There’s no “right” way to respond.

• Maybe you’ll do something with those lemons later.
• Maybe you never will.
• Maybe someone else will pick them up.

You don’t have to choose right now, and even if you do choose, you don’t have to stick with that choice forever.

You don’t owe lemonade to anyone. Not to yourself, not to society, not to your past or future self.

Maybe you grieve. Maybe you rest. Maybe you rage. Maybe you do nothing.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do right now.