Written in 2023
If my walls could talk, they’d probably roll their eyes and say, “Here we go again.”
They’ve seen me crash after doing something seemingly ordinary meeting a friend at home, tidying up, or even just thinking too hard. They’ve heard the deep sighs, the whispered “not again”, and the quiet negotiations with my body: Just get through the next ten minutes. You can lie down after.
I’m not stuck in bed all the time. On the good days, I move around the house, take part in family life, and sometimes even enjoy painting. But everything, energy, focus, even emotion, must be carefully rationed. Laugh too hard, talk too much, get too excited, and I pay for it.
Not always straight away. Sometimes the crash waits, just long enough to trick me into thinking I’ve escaped it.
Bad days are different. They’re quiet, slow, and frustrating. I lie down a lot, not because I want to, but because I have to. Even sitting upright can feel like climbing a hill. Breathing takes effort. Light hurts. Sound grates. I cancel things I really didn’t want to miss.
Living with Long COVID means becoming an expert in tiny details.
Did I stand for five minutes too long?
Was that phone call too much?
Did I overdo it yesterday because I felt okay, even though I knew better?
Some days I feel “fine-ish” and push my limits. Other days I pace carefully and still crash. There’s no clear logic. Just symptoms. Post-exertional malaise doesn’t play fair.
And there’s grief. Grief for the life I used to have. For the version of me who didn’t have to plan how to take a shower, or who could walk fast without consequences.
But there’s also joy. A perfect cup of cappuccino. A friend who understands without me needing to explain. A laugh that doesn’t end in breathlessness.
If my walls could talk, they’d say:
“She’s still here. Doing her best. And learning, every day, how to live in a body that won’t behave.”
Long Covid Journey 