The reality show was supposed to be entertainment. Instead, it was a mirror.
By Donna R. Dinkin
Recently, I binge-watched a season of the reality TV show Alone. I was snuggled in my usual corner of the sofa, wrapped in a heated blanket, letting each episode absorb me deeper and deeper into other peoples’ struggles. But, by the time I reached the eighth episode, something unexpected happened: I felt a strange sense of recognition, a kind of déjà vu.
This feeling made no sense at first. After all, I was in my living room with snacks, electricity and all the comforts of home. The people on Alone were dropped into the wilderness with only a handful of tools, resources, and whatever resilience they could find within. Their goal wasn’t to beat the other contestants in various physical or strategic challenges—but to outlast them by surviving complete isolation, harsh weather, hunger, predators, gnawing self-doubt and cellular-level exhaustion.
Most people watch Alone for entertainment. At least, that’s what I thought was attracting me to the show. But, the more I watched, the more I noticed a number of parallels between wilderness survival and living with progressive, chronic illnesses.
I live with scleroderma, interstitial lung disease and pulmonary hypertension and Alone is a version of my life.
Chronic Illness Is Its Own Kind of Isolation
At its core, Alone is about surviving in isolation. I have found that few experiences rival the loneliness and isolation experienced while living with a lifelong medical condition. Unlike the contestants on the show, however, people like me don’t choose solitude. We don’t volunteer for silence and seclusion. We’re kidnapped into it—without warning or choice.
I have found that when you live with a chronic condition, friendships shift, energy fades and party invitations dry up. Although, unintentionally, this leads to less connections and a smaller world. And in the hours when it is just you and your failing body, the encroaching loneliness and fear feel like the long, dark, wet nights contestants experience while in their makeshift beds somewhere in the Arctic Circle. At these times the silence becomes a doorway for frightening thoughts which are then battled out alone, in the mind.
You Can’t Control the Storm
Just like Alone contestants must learn to accept the uncontrollable—the storm that won’t pass, the bear that won’t leave, people with chronic illness must also face stressful unpredictability. A medication may stop working, a new symptom may appear or an activity that was accomplished last week is no longer doable. As my diseases have progressed my body, which was once reliable, now feels like a stranger—or worse, a threat.
Trying to control the uncontrollable becomes a frustrating and unwinnable game. There’s no one to scream at. No easy fix. No spare parts. We learn, again and again, that resistance doesn’t stop the agony or worry. So, we endure. We adapt. Acceptance isn’t weakness—it’s survival.
Life Shrinks to the Basics
Living with chronic illness narrows your focus. Just like the contestants who spend their days gathering firewood, fishing, or purifying water, I spend mine checking oxygen levels, managing medications, planning tolerable meals, and conserving energy. Some days, the exhaustion is so engulfing that just bathing feels like a mountain to climb.
The basic survival equipment isn’t guaranteed. On Alone, the contestants can select only 10 pieces of equipment to take with them, a sleeping bag, a knife or a cooking pot, for example. The chronically ill sometimes have to fight for what they need. They may need medicines, adaptive equipment or healthcare providers but these tools are not always available. The survival backpack is incomplete and fragile so needs must be prioritized.
The Mental Game Lasts a Lifetime
There’s another parallel—what the show calls “the mental game.” Many contestants on Alone are physically capable of surviving, but they leave early because they’re emotionally exhausted. They miss their family members. They can’t face another night alone. They lose their sense of purpose. The prize money for outlasting the other survivalists no longer is worth the daily emotional challenges.
The mental game is also exhausting when you live with a chronic illness. It’s an ongoing tug-of-war between grief and acceptance, between despair and the hope. It’s the overwhelming sense of guilt that you are burdening loved ones and the sadness of repeated losses (loss of hair, loss of mobility, loss of identity). Mental energy is needed to appear brave every single day. This ‘mental game’ lasts a lifetime.
Ingenuity Isn’t Optional—It’s Required
Perhaps the most profound similarity between Alone and a life with illness is this: the resourcefulness required just to get through the day.
Contestants on the show craft tools from tree bark, build fishing lures from threads pulled from their clothing, and make shelters from whatever they find in the wilderness. We do the same—only our materials are different. We find ways to get a wheelchair into non-accessible spaces. We learn to dress ourselves when our hands no longer cooperate. We figure out how to care for others while running on fumes.
There’s no manual. Just improvisation, intuition, and a quiet kind of grit.
We Can’t Tap Out
So, the next time someone tells you they’re sick—especially with something that’s progressive or invisible—think of Alone. Imagine this person in unfamiliar terrain, trying to build a life with a broken compass and barely enough wood to stay warm.
Know that they are rationing not just medications or energy, but hope. And above all, understand that their survival is not passive—it’s active. Exhausting. Courageous. Like me, they may look fine on the outside. But inside, they’re deep in the wilderness—doing everything they can to stay alive.
And unfortunately, unlike the contestants on Alone, they can’t call the producers and say, “I’m tapping out.”
If you’re interested in sharing your experience, you can submit your patient perspective here: Patient Perspective Submissions