Language often falls short when trying to describe discomfort. When people ask me how it feels, I hesitate. Tired? Fatigued? In pain? Every part of my body feels burdensome, and even the simplest movements demand immense effort. My head grows so heavy it feels like it might drop to the ground, my neck too weak to support it. A throbbing pain pulses between my eyebrows and sinuses, forcing my eyes shut. Sometimes, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots from the left side of my neck to the back of my head. I close my eyes, waiting for it to pass.
My body struggles to regulate temperature. My hands and feet turn ice-cold in the middle of a sweltering summer day, my face goes pale, and my body shakes. No matter how many hours I sleep—six or ten—I wake up exhausted. On rare days, I feel as if I’ve won the lottery, waking up refreshed, only to be blindsided by discomfort hours later. Concentration slips through my fingers; even the simplest analytical tasks drain me completely.
It all started around age 12. My parents were terrified and took me to countless doctors—blood tests, MRIs, EEGs, ECGs. Everything came back normal. Eventually, doctors assured my parents there was nothing serious going on. “Maybe she just doesn’t like studying,” they suggested. “Maybe the school is too competitive. Teenage girls have mood swings.”
I’d sit in class, trying to focus, only to find myself dozing off against my will. “How dare you sleep in my class?” my teacher snapped. “Disrespectful. Go stand in the back of the room!” I stole naps whenever possible, my friends poking me awake just before the next teacher entered.
As high school progressed, my grades declined. The head teacher called me in, lecturing me about discipline and warning me about the consequences of my “laziness.” When the symptoms became unbearable, I called my dad for help. He arrived at school without hesitation. “My daughter has the flu,” he told the teachers. “She needs to rest.” They eyed him suspiciously. “This is the third flu she’s had this month.” He simply signed the release paper, and we walked out together.
At home, I spent hours lying on the floor, lost in daydreams. I wrote, read, and watched melancholic movies—stories filled with heartbreak and pain. Somehow, they provided solace, their emotional weight numbing my physical suffering.
By my twenties, the list of unexplained conditions grew: PCOS, pelvic pain, gastrointestinal issues. Yet, every test came back normal. “You’re perfectly healthy,” doctors reassured me. “Nothing serious to worry about.” Some suggested it was psychological: “Fatigue and pain could be symptoms of depression or anxiety.”
With no clear medical answers, I turned inward, searching for mental causes. Therapy and self-help books led me to believe my condition was rooted in unresolved emotions. I blamed my dad for not working hard enough to support the family. I blamed my mom for working too much, leaving little time for me. “A deep-seated sense of helplessness and insecurity—this must be the root of my pain,” I confidently declared to my parents one day. After a long silence, my mom finally replied, “If that explanation helps you, then I agree.”
To function in a full-time job, I developed coping mechanisms. Three cups of coffee throughout the day, supplemented by caffeine pills cut into small doses. Booking the office wellness room for “spiritual purposes”—code for 15-minute naps. During a severe flu, I accidentally discovered that an allergy medication contains pseudoephedrine, gave me a temporary boost. I became an expert at hiding my symptoms. No one suspected the daily battle raging inside me.
But hiding wasn’t an option in close relationships. My ex-partner didn’t believe what I was feeling. “You’re not cold. You’re not tired. It’s mental,” he insisted. I was forced to stay up late, denied an extra blanket at night. “Stop being weak,” he said.
Ten days after my 30th birthday, I stumbled upon an article about a blood circulation disorder called POTS—Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It explained how the condition causes reduced blood volume when standing up, making the heart race. Every symptom mirrored mine.
After undergoing tests, my cardiologist confirmed: “You likely have POTS.”
“Really? POTS?!” I exclaimed.
“Don’t worry, your case is mild. It’s not a progressive illness.”
But I wasn’t worried—I was ecstatic. “I have POTS!” I nearly jumped out of my chair to hug him. The doctor was baffled by my reaction.
From that moment, I told everyone—my roommate, classmates, coworkers, even strangers at the gym. I had an urge to send my diagnosis to every person who ever told me it was “just mental.” Ironically, if my condition had been more severe, I would have been diagnosed 18 years earlier. Instead, my symptoms were mild enough to be dismissed, leaving me questioning my own reality.
I realized how thin the line is between “healthy” and “sick.” Society treats health as a binary—either you have a diagnosable disease, or you’re fine. But health exists on a spectrum. Those who aren’t “sick enough” to receive a diagnosis live in a limbo where their suffering is constantly invalidated—by doctors, teachers, friends, partners, even themselves.
During a meditation class, the instructor urged us to examine the negative labels we attach to ourselves. I saw how much of my identity revolved around controlling my health—obsessing over symptoms, searching for answers. “Instead of saying, ‘I am tired,’ try thinking, ‘Tiredness is appearing in my body,’” my teacher advised. “Create space between yourself and the discomfort. Don’t let it define you.”
I wish I didn’t need a medical diagnosis to make peace with my condition. But this journey forced me to reevaluate other labels I had clung to.
Sometimes, I wonder—who would I be without POTS? Maybe I would have been a straight-A student, landing a high-paying job. Maybe I’d be brimming with energy, optimism, ambition.
But maybe I wouldn’t be so sensitive. Maybe I wouldn’t care as deeply about marginalized people. Maybe I wouldn’t have found solace in writing, music, or film. Even in exhaustion, even in pain—these emotions make me feel alive.
I am also grateful that my parents and closest friends never doubted me. I remember every time my dad picked me up from school, I would collapse in the back seat. The car ride was steady, quiet. An hour later, he’d gently wake me: “We’re home.”
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