The Shape of Collapse

The first time I suspected something was wrong, I was dancing.

It was July. My best friend was getting married in Tuscany and we were all barefoot, spinning in the dust to Florence + The Machine. I remember the exact moment: my knees buckled slightly, but not from the music. My chest tightened. My arms felt too heavy. I thought: strange. I thought: maybe the heat. Maybe nothing.

I forgot about it. Or, I let myself forget. That was three summers ago.

Since then, the forgetting has grown teeth. Quietly, it’s been chewing through the rest of me.

I was 24 then. Now I’m 27. In between: a job, a breakup, two flats, three GPs. The symptoms blurred and rearranged themselves like a bad dream. Joint pain. Fatigue. Rashes. Mouth ulcers. Dry eyes. Brain fog. I remember waking one morning and not remembering what day it was — or why I had nothing in the fridge and everything in my inbox.

I told myself I was burnt out. Everyone’s burnt out. That’s the joke, right?

Eventually I made a spreadsheet. Not because I wanted to — because I needed to prove I wasn’t inventing it. I gave the pain numbers. I gave the fog words. I documented my body the way you might document a failing machine: with reluctant precision.

And still, I worked. I kept going. That's the part I keep coming back to.

I kept going even when I had to crawl from the bed to the bathroom. Even when my hair began to thin. Even when I bled for two weeks straight and the receptionist asked if I was sure it wasn’t just anxiety.

Eventually, someone took bloods. Then more. Then a biopsy.

The diagnosis came folded inside clinical language: Systemic lupus erythematosus — a chronic autoimmune condition where the immune system attacks healthy tissue. The body cannot distinguish enemy from self. No cure.

What they don’t say is how much you begin to mistrust your own shape. How your face changes. How your hands stop working the way they used to. How sometimes, on the train, you close your eyes and forget who you were before the ache became the constant.

There is no drama to this kind of suffering. Only erosion.

I keep trying to find the metaphor. Is it drowning? No — too sudden. Is it burning? No — too visible. It’s slower than both. It’s the house sinking millimetre by millimetre into the wet earth. It’s the fruit rotting from within while the skin stays smooth. It’s forgetting the version of yourself that once felt durable.

I live now in fragments. I ration energy like someone in wartime. There are days I do nothing but sleep. There are nights I cannot sleep at all. I’ve learned which foods will punish me. I’ve learned to pretend I’m listening in meetings when I can barely stay upright.

And I’ve learned to lie.

“I’m fine.” “Just tired.” “Better this week, thanks.”

Somewhere, the person I was three years ago still exists. She’s barefoot in the sun, laughing at nothing, dancing without consequence. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to step back into her body. But it doesn’t fit anymore.

I’ve shrunk.

Not literally, but in every way that matters. My world is smaller now. My plans shorter. My sentences more careful. My mirror, unkind.

But I am still here. And some mornings, that feels like enough.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

She didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Lingzhi is a traditional food taken to support general well-being. It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease. For personalised advice, please consult a qualified healthcare practitioner.

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