It doesn’t start with the hair. That comes later.
First it’s the taste. Everything tastes wrong.
Then it’s your hands. They feel strange when you touch things.
You don’t say anything at first. You want to be sure.
But something shifts quietly in your body.
And suddenly, food becomes complicated.
Everything tastes wrong and nothing feels worth chewing
You used to enjoy meals. Now it’s all texture and discomfort.
Water tastes metallic. Bread feels dry like dust.
You chew because you have to. Not because you’re hungry.
You try to explain it but can’t find the words.
Nothing smells the same.
You stop looking forward to dinner.
Fatigue doesn’t ask before it shows up
You wake up tired, even after full sleep.
Rest doesn’t reset you anymore.
You sit to catch your breath more often than you admit.
Every task takes longer than it used to.
You stop trusting your energy levels.
And planning your day becomes guesswork.
The nausea comes and goes but leaves its mark
You feel fine, and then you don’t.
It hits fast and without rhythm.
You stop eating just in case.
You carry mints and crackers everywhere.
Smells make it worse, but you can’t predict which ones.
You try to act normal, but your stomach disagrees.
Your skin becomes something you watch closely
Dry patches appear where they never were.
Your hands crack in new places.
Lotion helps, but only briefly.
You wear softer clothes. Avoid heat.
You stop using scented products.
You pay attention to your reflection differently.
Hair doesn’t fall out all at once
It starts with strands on the pillow.
Then in the shower. Then on your brush.
You expect it, but it still stings.
You debate when to cut it short.
You prepare, but not really.
It’s not just hair. It’s identity slipping.
Mouth sores change the way you speak
You notice pain when sipping something hot.
Then cold. Then just talking.
The sores make everything uncomfortable.
You choose words carefully.
Even smiling feels risky.
You avoid certain foods instinctively.
Hands and feet begin to feel unfamiliar
You drop things more often.
You struggle to open jars.
Shoes feel tight by noon.
You lose your grip, literally and emotionally.
You walk slower, not by choice.
You stop trusting steps.
Constipation becomes more than just a side note
You drink more water.
Eat more fiber.
Still, nothing changes.
It’s not just discomfort. It’s distraction.
You think about it constantly.
You avoid talking about it.
Diarrhea arrives just when you think you’re done
It catches you off guard.
It’s sudden, not gradual.
It rearranges your day.
You map bathrooms in every building.
You cancel plans quietly.
You carry extra clothes, just in case.
Sleep stops feeling like rest
You lie down, but it doesn’t come.
Or you wake every two hours.
Your body aches in stillness.
Your mind doesn’t settle.
You stop calling it insomnia.
You just call it your new normal.
Your mood changes, and not always with reason
You cry in strange places.
You get irritated over nothing.
You laugh at things you didn’t before.
You feel numb sometimes.
You want to talk, then you don’t.
It’s not sadness. It’s something else.
You get used to planning around the side effects
You learn your body’s rhythm.
You know when to stay home.
You schedule rest like appointments.
You carry snacks that don’t make you gag.
You plan exits in crowded places.
You say no more often.
People want updates, but you choose what to share
They ask how you’re feeling.
You say fine.
They mean well, but it’s tiring.
You answer less over time.
You write shorter messages.
You keep details to yourself.
Small wins feel bigger than they should
One good day can lift a week.
Finishing a meal feels like progress.
Walking to the mailbox matters.
You celebrate differently now.
You notice small things again.
And you let yourself feel proud.