Between Worlds: Chronic Illness, Liminality, and the Language of Art

As an artist, I’ve often found myself drawn to the spaces in-between: between light and shadow, form and void, beauty and discomfort. But it wasn’t until my life was redefined by chronic illness that I truly began to inhabit the liminal—the threshold where the known dissolves, and certainty becomes a distant memory.

Living with a chronic illness is an experience that defies linear narratives. It is not a story of recovery or resolution, nor is it a clear descent into darkness. It is a constant oscillation, an existence suspended between the world of the healthy and the world of the unwell. For me, art has become the only way to give shape to this ambiguous space, a space where language often fails, and the body speaks in codes of pain and resilience.

The Liminality of Chronic Illness

Liminality is often described as the "in-between" state—a transitional phase where one is no longer what they were but not yet what they will become. Anthropologists use this term to describe rites of passage, but for those of us with chronic illness, liminality is not a temporary state; it is a prolonged, often permanent condition.

In my life, chronic illness has placed me on a threshold that feels both isolating and illuminating. I am no longer the person I was before diagnosis, and I cannot fully participate in the rhythms of the "healthy" world. Yet, I do not fit neatly into society’s expectations of disability either. I move between visibility and invisibility, between moments of relative wellness and the quiet storms of flare-ups, where even the smallest tasks become insurmountable.

This constant straddling of worlds can be disorienting, but it is also fertile ground for creativity. Liminal spaces are rich with contradiction, uncertainty, and possibility. They ask us to question, to reimagine, and to innovate—and for an artist, this is sacred terrain.

Art as a Liminal Language

Chronic illness has no singular form or definition. It is an experience of fragmented narratives: a body that betrays, a mind that struggles to keep pace, a spirit that searches for meaning. How does one express something so elusive, so invisible?

For me, art has become a way to bridge the ineffable. In my recent series of sculptures, I’ve worked with materials like pins, needles, and glass beads—objects that evoke both fragility and sharpness, comfort and pain. These sculptures are an attempt to give form to sensations like paraesthesia and dysesthesia, invisible symptoms that plague the body but remain unseen by the world. By translating these sensations into tactile, physical forms, I hope to make the invisible visible, the intangible tangible.

This exploration of the unseen continues in a series of fluorescent acrylic paintings I created. These works are inspired by the magnified image of Borrelia burgdorferi, the spirochete responsible for Lyme disease, as seen through a dark-field microscope. Under the stark black backdrop, the glowing, serpentine forms of the bacteria take on an eerie, almost alien beauty. In these paintings, I layered fluorescent hues in chaotic, overlapping patterns to evoke the burning, electric sensation under the skin—an invisible symptom that so many of us with chronic illness endure in silence. The luminous, almost otherworldly quality of the paintings mirrors the way chronic illness exists as both a tangible, physical reality and an unseen, misunderstood presence.

Through these works, I hope to communicate not only the pain but also the strange beauty of living with an illness that reshapes how one experiences the world. These paintings, much like the sculptures, transform the invisible into something visceral and confrontational—an act of reclamation and storytelling through the language of art.

Drawing, too, has become a meditative practice, a way of grounding myself in a body that often feels like a stranger. My ink-on-paper works are not just illustrations of illness—they are expressions of the liminal space I inhabit, where the boundaries between body, mind, and environment blur. The repetitive motions of drawing mirror the rhythms of living with chronic illness: the cycles of flares and remissions, the slow unraveling and reweaving of self.

The Intersection of Pain and Creation

There’s a pervasive myth that suffering breeds great art. While I reject the romanticization of pain, I cannot deny that chronic illness has deepened my relationship with my practice. It has forced me to slow down, to pay attention, to find beauty in what might initially appear broken.

Pain, for me, is not the source of art but the context in which it is created. It is the soil in which seeds are planted—not by choice, but by necessity. The act of creating within this context becomes an act of defiance, a reclaiming of agency in a body that often feels out of control.

Liminality as a Universal Experience

Though chronic illness has given me a unique perspective on liminality, I believe this state of in-betweenness is something we all experience in different forms. Whether it’s a major life transition, a period of grief, or a moment of profound uncertainty, we are all familiar with the discomfort and possibilities of being suspended between worlds.

Art has the power to make this liminality visible, to transform it into something that can be shared and understood. When I create, I am not just expressing my personal experience; I am inviting others into this space of ambiguity, asking them to sit with discomfort, to find beauty in the unresolved.

The Role of the Artist in Chronic Illness Advocacy

As artists, we have the ability—and perhaps the responsibility—to give voice to the voiceless, to illuminate what often goes unseen. Chronic illness is still widely misunderstood, dismissed, or minimized. Through art, we can challenge these misconceptions, not by demanding pity or attention, but by offering new ways of seeing and understanding.

For me, this means creating work that is both deeply personal and universally resonant. It means exploring the complexities of living with a condition that is neither fully visible nor fully invisible. It means creating not just for myself, but for others who inhabit this liminal space, offering them a mirror in which to see their own experiences reflected.

Finding Meaning in the Threshold

The liminality of chronic illness is not a place I would have chosen to dwell, but it is a place where I have found meaning. It has taught me to embrace uncertainty, to honor the process of becoming rather than clinging to fixed outcomes. And it has deepened my appreciation for the power of art—not as an escape, but as a way to confront and transform the realities of life.

If you, too, find yourself in an in-between space—whether due to illness, transition, or change—I invite you to explore what this threshold has to offer. It is not an easy place to be, but it is one rich with possibility, one where new forms of expression and understanding can emerge.

Art has been my guide through this terrain. Perhaps it can be yours, too.