Disappearing in Plain Sight

There are moments when I look in the mirror and hesitate — not because I don’t like what I see, but because I don’t fully recognise her anymore.

My face has changed. And with it, the way people look at me has changed too.

The medication that saved my life also altered it — perhaps forever. I am grateful for the science, for the intervention, for the chance to continue. And yet, I am allowed to grieve what it took from me. Both truths can exist at the same time.

Some changes are visible. Others sit quietly beneath the surface, reshaping how I move through the world, how I show up, how I am perceived. It’s strange how quickly familiarity can turn into distance — even in your own reflection.

There are days when my vision blurs — not just my eyes, but the world itself. Tasks I once performed with confidence now feel unfamiliar, as if my body no longer remembers what my mind once led so effortlessly. The simplest focus becomes fragile.

And then there is the deeper loss — when the sharpest identity I carried, my mind, my intellect, begins to numb. Conversations drift past me. Words don’t arrive when they should. People pause, waiting for a response — and sometimes, even I am surprised when none comes. I watch myself from the outside, wondering when understanding began to feel like effort, when learning something new arrived not as curiosity, but as shock.

What once felt like breathing now feels like climbing.

There are days when I decide to stand, to take control — only to realise I’m unsure where I am standing at all. The ground beneath me feels unfamiliar. People around me wonder why I am disappearing. And quietly, I wonder the same — will I ever come back?

There are days when I want to hibernate. To pull away. To disappear from conversations, expectations, mirrors. Not because I lack strength — but because strength is tiring when it has been demanded for too long.

And yet, somewhere within me, something refuses to let go. A quiet courage. Not loud, not heroic — just persistent. It doesn’t rush me forward or tell me to be grateful. It simply says, stay.

I am learning that marks may be temporary, but the learning stays for life. This body, this phase, this altered version of me is teaching lessons I never asked for — about patience, humility, self-compassion, and the fragile way identity is woven into appearance, ability, and expectation.

This is not a story of “bouncing back. ”It’s a story of reviving.

Of slowly meeting myself again. Of understanding that survival doesn’t always look like victory — sometimes it looks like showing up quietly, imperfectly, and honestly.

I don’t always recognise myself yet. But I am beginning to know her.

And for now, that is enough to keep going.