You don’t know when it started, only that it hasn’t stopped
At first, it was just pressure. Behind your eyes. Between your eyebrows. Not sharp, just present.
You assumed it would fade—like fog lifting. But it stayed. Became part of waking.
A heaviness that followed you through rooms. Even sleep didn’t lighten it anymore.
You pressed your thumbs against your forehead, hoping to coax the ache out.
It didn’t leave. It just learned to sit quieter.
You stop calling it pain. You start calling it normal.
You stop calling it pain. You start calling it normal
You reach for coffee instead of clarity. The fog doesn’t lift, but it distracts you.
You breathe through your mouth more. You don’t realize it until the dryness sets in.
Every inhale feels unfinished. Shallow. Like your body gave up halfway through breathing.
You touch your face without thinking. Around your cheeks. Under your eyes. It feels swollen.
Not visibly. But inside. Like a secret fullness you’re not allowed to release.
You wonder how something invisible can weigh this much.
You wonder how something invisible can weigh this much
Your voice changes. Not dramatically. Just enough that you clear your throat more often.
Speaking feels like wading through something heavy. Your tone dulls. You say less.
Your laugh becomes nasal. You hear it, and flinch. That’s not how you used to sound.
People ask if you’re tired. You nod. It’s easier than explaining a pressure you can’t define.
Your reflection tells part of the story. The rest lives deeper, behind the stillness of your eyes.
It’s not fatigue. It’s presence—of something that shouldn’t be there.
It’s not fatigue. It’s presence—of something that shouldn’t be there
Your eyes feel sore, even when closed. Light bothers you more, but only sometimes.
You don’t complain. You blink more. You rub gently. Like trying to undo a weight.
Screens become harder to face. Not because of brightness, but because your head hums.
You feel it behind your temples. A pulse, a whisper, never a scream. Just always there.
Reading becomes harder. Not impossible—just slower. You reread the same lines twice.
Your body is asking you to notice, but softly.
Your body is asking you to notice, but softly
Your teeth feel strange. Not painful. Just wrong. As if they don’t belong to you.
Pressure radiates downward. You clench without meaning to. Release without feeling better.
Chewing becomes a chore. Not uncomfortable—just tiring. You choose softer foods.
You tell no one. Not because you’re hiding it, but because even you don’t understand it.
You google symptoms at midnight. Close the tab. Open it again the next night.
You’re not looking for answers—just confirmation that it’s not in your head.
You feel it before you name it
The day doesn’t start heavy—it becomes it. Slowly. Quietly. The smile takes longer to find. You stand, but not like you used to. There’s a lag now. Invisible, but real. You sip coffee, hoping it will shake the stillness. It doesn’t. The fog stays.
The mornings don’t greet you—they wait for you to catch up
There’s no burst of energy anymore. Just a slow negotiation with movement. You sit longer. Delay the shower. The clock ticks louder. But your body doesn’t answer urgency like it used to. It resists the rush. It chooses stillness over speed.
Even joy feels heavier than it should
You laugh, but it fades faster. The echo doesn’t carry. You feel the strain underneath. Smiles feel borrowed. Excitement drains quickly. You pretend you’re present. But inside, you’re watching yourself pretend.
Your skin tells stories you weren’t listening to
Dry patches. Cracks. Flakes where softness used to be. It’s subtle at first. Then persistent. Creams help, but briefly. There’s a dullness that won’t wash away. A hue that shifts without sun. Your skin forgets how to glow. So do you.
Memory doesn’t vanish—it blurs
You forget names. Appointments. You reread messages twice. You ask again. You laugh it off. You say “I’m just distracted.” But the truth sticks. You’re not forgetting everything. Just more than usual. Just enough to notice.
The grocery aisle becomes overwhelming
Too many options. Too many thoughts. You stare at labels. Iron. Folate. B12. You nod like you understand. But the fog inside you doesn’t lift. You choose the familiar. Not because it’s right—but because it’s safe. Simpler.
You fake energy more than you feel it
You raise your voice. Stretch your arms. Walk briskly through the office. But inside, it’s theater. A quiet performance. One your body doesn’t audition for anymore. One it merely survives. Applause never comes. Just more scenes.
You don’t cancel plans—you disappear slowly
First it’s a delay. Then a maybe. Then silence. You forget how to say “I’m not okay.” So you say nothing. You stay home. Not because you don’t want to go. But because being around others feels like sprinting with sandbags.
Your chest holds more than lungs
There’s a weight there. Not pain. Not panic. Just a pressure that doesn’t leave. You breathe. It resists. You move. It returns. You adjust. Carry it like a secret. One that pulses beneath your shirt, asking nothing—just reminding.
Sleep doesn’t comfort—it clocks out
You lie down. You drift. But rest doesn’t return you. You wake up hollow. Rested, but not restored. Like you visited sleep but didn’t stay long enough. Dreams don’t visit. You just close your eyes, then open them again.
The climb is everywhere—not just stairs
Emails. Texts. Conversations. Every interaction asks for something. And you give. But with effort. Like climbing. With every reply, a small climb. With every call, another slope. You do it. But it costs more than it should.
Your appetite forgets its role
You’re hungry. Then not. Food becomes a decision, not desire. You eat to avoid symptoms. To chase energy. Not to enjoy. Not to savor. Your plate stays full longer. Your mouth doesn’t water. Taste becomes background noise.
The warmth of others feels like light you can’t absorb
You hear love. Feel hugs. See care. But it bounces off you. You nod. You thank them. But inside, it doesn’t stick. You wonder if you’re numb. But it’s not coldness. It’s depletion. Like your body can’t hold even joy for long.
Everything you lift feels like it weighs more than it used to
Bags. Books. Your own shoulders. The weight hasn’t changed—but you have. Your hands strain quicker. Your arms lower sooner. You shift the weight. Then question when it started feeling heavier. You don’t remember anymore.
You wish it had a name so you could fight it properly
Iron deficiency. Anemia. Chronic fatigue. You google them all. But labels feel too sharp. Your experience is fog. Blurred edges. Quiet erosion. A slow fade. Not a condition. A story being rewritten from the inside out.
You search for energy like it’s a memory
You remember days where you danced in your room. Laughed until your sides hurt. Ran for no reason. Those moments feel far now. Not impossible. But distant. You still want them. You just don’t know the road back.
The people who know you begin to ask differently
They don’t say “Are you okay?” anymore. They say, “You’ve seemed tired lately.” You nod. You smile. You agree. Because it’s easier than explaining. You don’t say it’s not just tired. It’s something deeper. Something unnamed.
Your soul doesn’t feel sad—it feels slowed
You’re not crying. You’re not broken. But you’re not vibrant either. There’s a pause inside you. One that doesn’t feel like healing. One that feels like waiting. You’re not sad. You’re just… not glowing.
And yet—you still show up
You get dressed. You answer emails. You say good morning. You push through. Not because it’s easy. But because life doesn’t wait. You keep showing up. Even when your body whispers, “Stay.” You move forward. Not with energy—but with endurance.