Facing a Chronic Illness: A Personal Journey

I’m usually quite sensible—well, at least sometimes. As a journalist, I focus on asking questions and verifying sources. Research has been a passion of mine for quite a while.

However, after three years of grappling with a chronic illness, my perspective has shifted dramatically. I’m now open to exploring just about anything to regain my health, even methods that would have previously made me roll my eyes. Chromotherapy, sound baths, mushroom extracts—there’s even Reiki and strategically timed humming in my toolkit.

If, say, the devil, perhaps dressed like a glamorous Liz Hurley, offered me perfect health in exchange for my soul, I’d find it hard to refuse.

Consequently, I admit I’ve become somewhat gullible. Disillusioned with conventional medicine, I’m on the lookout for any sort of remedy. You’ll often find me seated cross-legged in front of an infrared light panel, donning protective sunglasses, and just hoping something works out.

I contracted Covid-19 during a Harry Styles concert back in June 2022, and three months later, I was diagnosed with post-Covid-19 syndrome—sometimes referred to as long Covid, which has a tendency to stick around.

Since then, I’ve experienced a bewildering array of symptoms—over 200 according to some sources. They range from heart palpitations and digestive issues to joint pain, fatigue so intense that five minutes on a phone call can leave me bedridden for days. At my worst, I once forgot how to turn off the shower and had to look up if it’s possible to die from sheer exhaustion.

During such difficult times, the wellness industry gains a certain allure. It’s a global phenomenon valued at $6.3 trillion, with some of the best salespeople—celebrities, influencers, even friends’ acquaintances—pushing various remedies. It makes me uneasy to consider how much I’ve contributed to that figure; doing the math on that isn’t something I want to tackle today. I’ve had my fill.

It’s hard to muster the energy to question the scientific backing of whatever remedy comes my way when all I can hear in my mind is “help me! I’ll do anything!” On good days, this works out okay—I’ve found some alternatives that genuinely help. Acupuncture, somatic dance, shiatsu—I love those!

But there have been moments where my naiveté has felt downright risky. For instance, during a call about a wellness program I now suspect was mostly a pyramid scheme or worse, I was asked if I was willing to “set aside” my critical thinking skills before joining. I practically pleaded with them to let me.

I’ve submerged myself in ice-cold baths. I’ve sweated in saunas. I’ve even allowed a man to drum on my belly to supposedly stimulate my cells.

Fortunately, just a day into a rather absurd three-day course designed by a man named Paul or Peter or Ian, I realized what was happening, sent a scathing email, and got my money back. Turns out, I do have limits to my gullibility.

I found those limits again when I accidentally joined a ceremony aimed at communicating with angels, thinking it was just a relaxing meditation group. And again, when my gym offered a dubious rehabilitation program that contradicted standard treatments for my condition but conveniently nudged me toward a long-term membership.

In those moments, suspending my skepticism felt like I was betraying myself, leaving me feeling exploited. Now, I find myself quite protective of others who might be in similar situations, often too unwell to differentiate between genuine solutions and misleading wellness claims.

What else has happened? I’ve spent 90 minutes in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber, which felt like trying out my own coffin.

A particularly enthusiastic individual once manipulated my spine while yelling affirmations about my immune system. I’ve immersed myself in ice baths, sweated in saunas, and even had a guy drum on my stomach to supposedly stimulate my cells. I’ve tried mushroom powders for cognitive boosts, poked at various lymph nodes, realigned my chakras, consulted a psychic, and consumed what feels like gallons of celery juice.

All these experiences exist on a spectrum—ranging from helpful to outright cult-like practices. Each of us has our own threshold for belief. On tougher days, I worry I may be too susceptible or lacking in discernment. But on better ones, I feel grateful for the options I have.

Recently, I have made it a practice to go outside first thing in the morning to sync my circadian rhythm with the sun. I guzzle a pint of water mixed with electrolytes. I place a strange-looking device on my sternum that’s meant to stimulate my vagus nerve. I stand on a vibration plate to keep my muscles active after nearly 900 days of mostly lying down. I vigorously dance to a Selena Gomez-heavy playlist to release pent-up emotions. I elevate my legs against the wall whenever I can. And then there are the supplements—oh, the supplements—which I like to think might at least provide me with some placebo comfort.

Do I believe these methods have helped? Yes.

Am I certain? Not really.

But what other options do I have? As it stands, there’s no established treatment or clear cure for long Covid. Even experts are divided on its underlying mechanisms—are tiny blood clots obstructing oxygen flow? Or is it mitochondrial dysfunction? Could it be inflammation or an extreme histamine response? Maybe dysautonomia?

With so much uncertainty surrounding something that hugely impacts my life, the door is still open for unconventional solutions to lead to healing.

Until there’s significant progress in medical science, all I can do is hold onto hope—hope, rest, stay hydrated, and do my best to avoid another cult experience.