Ten weeks after major bowel surgery, I found myself standing on doorsteps mainly across the 4th and 10th districts, meeting residents, attending community activities and asking for their trust once again. Looking back, I still wonder how I managed it. Election campaigns are physically demanding under the best of circumstances, requiring long days, endless walking, hours spent standing and a schedule that rarely allows time to stop. Yet while the campaign was gathering momentum, my body was still trying to recover from one of the biggest operations I had ever faced.
Most people saw me smiling. They saw a candidate who was determined, approachable and committed to listening. What they could not see was the pain that accompanied almost every step I took. Only ten weeks earlier, on 9 February, I had undergone an ileocaecal resection after years of living with Crohn's disease. Chronic inflammation had caused severe stricturing where my small bowel met my large bowel, narrowing the passage to such an extent that food could barely pass through. Eating had become accompanied by anxiety, while every episode of abdominal pain carried the fear that a complete bowel obstruction might be developing. Surgery was no longer something that could be postponed; it had become my only realistic option.
Like many people living with chronic illness, I had become accustomed to adapting my life around my condition. Flare-ups, medication and medical appointments had gradually become part of everyday life. Yet nothing prepares you for hearing that part of your bowel must be removed, nor for the realisation that recovery is measured not in days or weeks but in months. Major surgery changes more than your body. It changes your confidence, your routines and, for a time, your relationship with even the simplest daily activities.
As my body slowly began to heal, another unexpected challenge emerged. Coming off prolonged steroid treatment, which had successfully controlled the inflammation before surgery, caused severe swelling in both my feet and ankles. Walking became uncomfortable, standing for long periods became painful and, on some days, simply putting on a pair of shoes felt like a challenge. It could not have happened at a more demanding time. Every morning I knew I would spend hours walking through villages, climbing stairs, attending meetings and speaking with hundreds of people. Every evening I returned home physically exhausted, wondering whether my body would allow me to do it all again the next day.
There were moments when the easiest decision would have been to step back and focus entirely on recovery. My doctors had rightly reminded me that healing after bowel surgery takes time and that the body cannot be rushed. Yet public service has always meant placing people before personal comfort. The election campaign became part of my rehabilitation. Every doorstep I visited was another step towards rebuilding my confidence. Every conversation reminded me why I had entered politics in the first place. Every day that I managed to keep going became another small victory over a condition that had already taken so much from me.
One of the greatest misconceptions surrounding Crohn's disease and many other invisible disabilities is that people often judge health by appearance. If someone is standing, smiling or working, it is easy to assume they are well. The reality is very different. Invisible illnesses require people to become experts at hiding discomfort. They quietly manage fatigue, pain, anxiety and uncertainty while trying to maintain ordinary lives. Many continue working, raising families or studying without those around them ever realising the effort required simply to get through the day.
Living with Crohn's disease has fundamentally changed my understanding of resilience. Before my diagnosis, I probably thought resilience meant overcoming adversity through determination alone. Today, I understand that resilience is often much quieter than that. It is accepting help when it is needed. It is adapting when your body imposes new limits. It is learning to celebrate progress that others might never notice. Above all, it is refusing to allow illness to define your identity or your aspirations.
Naturally, I had hoped to continue representing people living with invisible disabilities in Parliament. That opportunity did not materialise, and I would be dishonest if I said that this was not a disappointment. I know first-hand how important lived experience can be in shaping policies that genuinely improve people's lives. Those who live with chronic illnesses understand the challenges that statistics alone can never fully capture. Nevertheless, I have come to appreciate that advocacy does not depend upon holding a parliamentary seat. It depends upon being willing to speak openly, challenge misconceptions and encourage greater understanding.
That is why I will continue raising awareness about Crohn's disease and other invisible disabilities. Earlier diagnosis can prevent years of unnecessary suffering. Greater public awareness can replace misunderstanding with empathy. More supportive workplaces and educational institutions can enable people with chronic illnesses to continue contributing without feeling that they must constantly justify their condition. Above all, I hope that by sharing my own journey, others who have recently received a diagnosis will understand that although life may change, it does not come to an end. It simply follows a different path.
Looking back now, I realise that Crohn's disease has changed many aspects of my life. It has changed my body, my daily routines and the way I think about health. It has taught me patience at moments when I wanted immediate answers and humility at times when I believed I could simply push through every obstacle. Yet it has also strengthened my empathy, deepened my appreciation for life's ordinary moments and reinforced my commitment to serving others.
Crohn's disease changed my life, but it never changed my purpose. Whether that purpose is pursued inside Parliament or beyond it, I remain determined to advocate for those whose illnesses often remain unseen and whose courage is rarely recognised. If my story encourages someone to seek medical advice sooner, helps another person recovering from bowel surgery feel less alone or simply reminds us all that invisible disabilities deserve the same understanding as visible ones, then every difficult step I took during those ten weeks of campaigning will have carried a purpose far greater than the pain that accompanied it.
Dr Katya De Giovanni is a warranted Organisational Psychologist