The Lost Year

some thoughts on the slowest recovery ever

I’m pretty sure I started referring to 2025 as my “lost year” in June. At that point I was well into my “recovery” from covid in January (the worst birthday gift ever) and had made the move from thinking in weeks, to months, and by the time July appeared in a humid haze, I thought this is it, I’ve got to start thinking in years now.

just out here making chronic sexy

I have visited doctors’ offices more than I have done anything else this year. Each specialist has believed me, and then told me there’s just not much they can do besides treat symptoms because it is so hard to diagnose long covid—it mimics so many other disorders and diseases. (To date, my symptoms have been compared to POTS, Lupus, Sjögren’s, post concussion syndrome, Lyme disease, fibromyalgia, and ME/CFS. I’ll leave the googling to you, because I really don’t want to make all those links.) They all tell me to give it more time.

I knew that the diagnosis of my autoimmune disease a few years ago was going to be hard and also take some time. I even knew that as debilitated as I felt then, that things could be worse. If there’s one thing an optimist like me lives by, it’s the mantra that things can always suck more. I knew it could be worse; I just truly didn’t expect that it would happen. So, whether I have long covid, or it’s triggered some other autoimmune disease or dysautonomia disorder, something is not right, and I am living in a liminal space between my life before and my life after.

Or rather, I hope I’m in between. Because after a grueling summer and a continual rotation of bizarre symptoms, pain, discomfort, and crippling fatigue—I had to decide that I would recover. It is the only way to move forward. I have to believe that I will fully recover from whatever the fuck this is. (And you can bet your sweet energetic ass that I have my own new little mantra now. It’s “I am getting stronger. I will get better.” Seriously. I say this to myself several times a day.)

It was also around summertime that I decided to stop reading the news or headlines. It was very difficult to cut out, but the stress of just getting my body through the day was enough. And I haven’t figured out how to escape the guilt of focusing on myself so much, but I do know that it has helped to only pay attention to my immediate community (and talk about any other topic with my fam). I have learned that energy goes hand-in-hand with attention.

Because spoons.

Yes, spoons. You know that whole spoon theory? How spoons are energy units and we have a limited supply? I think someone said to me (it was probably Cal, let’s be real) that each person has 8 spoons for a given day. Well, not all of us. I think I only have about 2 on a good day, which means I will use them on showering. (My apologies if you’ve ever seen me on a no-spoon day.)

I have given any other spoons I might have to working on Fieldfare this year. I’ve managed the bare minimum for our Instagram account and do a lot of the faceless brand writing for our substack. (Trying to write in a pleasant neutral voice is a real bitch for me, but luckily the constant brain fog has dulled a lot of my self-expression.) I wish I could cut out social media entirely, but this is the marketplace we are living in. Needs must, or whatever.

Instagram has been soul-sucking for a long time, but this year it has been extra difficult to watch people do things. I mean just do anything—go for long walks, visit family, keep a regular job, take trips, help their kids, start new projects. (If I made a GRWM video, it would be a super sped up 30 minutes of watching me pace myself through getting in my fave sweats and cardigan, brushing my teeth, and taming my bedhead to look like an intentional bird’s nest.)

And speaking of the socials, I never intended for this to become my journal of chronic illz, but here we are. <insert shrug>

There are days I consider turning this into “Chronic’s Corner.” I envision it as a classic 2014 blog about all the best resources, tips, and tricks for my fellow Chronics. I could whip up a day PJ capsule wardrobe collage pretty easily in canva (god that I’d had canva back when I was mommy blogging!) or type up a listicle about footwear for people that can only hobble when barefoot, or a roundup of the best bed office supplies. I’ve also got some real strong opinions about how there is not enough thought put into the aesthetics of a shower chair. You get the point.

The problem is, I don’t want to be the poster child of anything. But also, I find that I don’t really fit into that community very comfortably either. There is some real validation in the reddit forums devoted to the individual illnesses, but if you have long covid you’re not really one of them. (And there’s also the tendency for me to spiral about the myriad ways I could get worse and not better.) Call it denial, but I don’t want to call it quits on getting my life back.

I have aged a decade this year. It’s not just the al naturale look of my grey hair taking over—I barely recognize myself in the mirror these days. It’s been hard in ways I’ve never imagined or talked about or written about. (imagine me withholding!)

It will be my 50^th birthday in January 2026. I was going to start planning a big party in this latter part of the year, and have pushed it back month after month, waiting to see how I feel. November is here and it’s time to call off my half-a-century bash because I know I won’t be able to enjoy it. (I know there’s never a convenient time to live your fullest bestest life, but I also know that I cannot carpe diem without those damn spoons.) If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I can let go of expectations. It really doesn’t matter if I have a big blowout 50^th in 2027, 2028, or 2029.

Because here’s the sporty takeaway: There’s always next year.