Health Update: It’s Giving Mystery

Chronically Chill (But Not Really)

If I had a franc for every time someone told me, “But you don’t look sick,” I’d stop applying for jobs and buy a lake-view apartment with a bathtub big enough for my problems.

Getting diagnosed with a chronic illness sounds like a climax, a moment of clarity, drama, maybe even a violin swell. In reality, it’s more like being handed a very vague puzzle with half the pieces missing, while six different doctors shout instructions at you in polite Swiss-German.

Welcome to the great medical scavenger hunt:
You get passed around like a mildly interesting package between specialists who don’t quite agree, MRI machines that sound like EDM night at the hospital, and phone calls with hold music so haunting you start questioning your life choices before you even reach reception.

You think getting a diagnosis is the hard part — but the real fun begins when no one can actually tell you what to do about it.

So naturally, you start experimenting. Gently. Secretly. Desperately.
You cut out alcohol (farewell, Spritz o’clock),
You try turmeric lattes (not the vibe),
You start collecting warm blankets like they’re personality traits,
And you schedule massages “for your health” that everyone assumes are a luxury.

Let the record show: I’m not pampering myself. I’m just trying to be vaguely comfortable in a body that now treats movement like a hostile negotiation.

And it’s not even consistent.
Some days I wake up feeling like I could conquer the world (or at least walk it).
Next, I’m hobbling through my apartment like a retired ballerina who lost a bet with gravity.

My body? Iconic. Unpredictable. And honestly, kind of rude.

But the real kicker? No one can see it.
There’s no cast. No dramatic limp. Just me, showing up in a cute outfit, pretending I didn’t cry while putting on pants. So I get the smiles, the “you look great!” compliments, and my personal favorite: “Must be nice to have time off.”

And let’s talk about advice.
Chronic illness is the unofficial invitation for people to suddenly become life coaches.
“Try yoga.”
“Go gluten-free.”
“My cousin’s neighbor cured her mystery condition with celery juice and deep breathing.”

Look, I love wellness vibes as much as the next girl who owns a Himalayan salt lamp, but unless you’ve personally screamed into a pillow while waiting for blood results, maybe keep your smoothie tips to yourself.

Thankfully, I have a group of friends who get it.
We’re like the Avengers, if the Avengers had endometriosis, IBS, and matching ice packs. We overshare, we under-react, and we’ve turned dark humor into an Olympic sport. Our group chat could scare most therapists, but it’s cheaper and comes with memes.

Because if we didn’t laugh, we’d scream. And screaming takes energy I currently don’t have.

So here I am:
Almost 30.
Chronically confused.
Wrapped in a weighted blanket, drinking anti-inflammatory sludge, trying to convince myself this is all part of my mysterious European woman arc.

Some days I feel like a fraud for even calling myself sick.
Other days, I feel like a senior citizen trapped in a Zara model’s body.

I don’t know if it’s a blessing that no one sees it, or just another cruel punchline.

But I’m still here.
Still applying to jobs I don’t want.
Still explaining to doctors how my symptoms “come and go but never really go.”
Still writing, because it’s the only thing I can do from horizontal.

So no, I don’t look sick.
But if you could see my inbox, my spine, or my pharmacy receipts… you’d think differently.

And until someone offers me a job as a part-time mystery patient with full benefits and cocktail privileges, I’ll just keep trying to figure it out.