The next signal was heartburn that just would not take a hint. I tried antacids like they were candy, but the fire kept coming back. It was like having a tiny dragon living in my esophagus who refused to go to sleep.
Then came the fullness. I would make a beautiful plate of pasta, take three bites, and feel like I had run a marathon. My stomach was basically saying, “Sorry, the restaurant is closed,” before I even got the appetizer in.
I also noticed my favorite jeans started fitting differently, but not in a cute “I’ve been hitting the gym” way. It was a hard, swollen tightness, like I was hiding a small, angry pumpkin under my belt. I remember adjusting my shirt in the mirror and thinking, “What is that?”
When Denial Became My Co-Pilot
What really made me pay attention was the fatigue. Not the “I stayed up late watching Netflix” tired. This was a bone-deep exhaustion that made getting off the couch feel like climbing a mountain. I started napping on my lunch break, and I never napped.
My husband would ask, “Are you okay?” and I would snap back, “I’m fine.” We do that, don’t we? We get defensive about our own health because admitting something is wrong feels like admitting failure. But my body was writing a letter of complaint, and I kept throwing it in the trash.
The final straw was nausea that showed up for no reason. I would be walking to the car, and suddenly my stomach would flip like a pancake. I lost interest in coffee, which for me was like losing interest in oxygen.
