Yesterday, My Body Shut Down Again


 Yesterday started normally.

I ate a turkey sandwich…mayo, mustard, cheese…with Takis on the side. I took my sertraline, the same medication I take every day for depression and anxiety. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that should have set off alarms.

About thirty minutes later, my body began to feel off.

At first it was subtle…an uneasy sense that something wasn’t right. Then the near-fainting crept in, followed by inner tremors no one else could see but that rattled through my chest and limbs. Weakness settled in next. An adrenaline rush with no trigger. Dissociation. Tears I couldn’t control. Lightheadedness so heavy it felt like gravity had shifted against me.

Even then, the day didn’t pause.

I still needed to return my heart monitor to my cardiologist’s office, so we drove there. When we arrived, the office was closed. I got back into the car, this time in the passenger seat, and instead of relief, my symptoms intensified. I wasn’t driving. I wasn’t pushing myself. I was sitting still, and my body was unraveling anyway.

From there, we went to pick up my walker. Standing and waiting was all it took. The room tilted, my vision dimmed, and I nearly passed out right there. A clerk noticed before I could ask for help and gently offered me a seat. I sat down, grateful—and embarrassed—needing a stranger’s intervention just to stay upright.

There was no recovery window after that.

Next, we had to get my daughter. I stayed in the car while my husband went inside, my body too weak to follow. When it was time to grab food, the pattern repeated…I remained in the car again, unable to move, unable to participate, watching the world continue without me.

By the time we finally got home, my body had made the decision for me. I laid down, and sleep took over immediately. Not rest…shutdown. The kind that happens when there’s nothing left to give.

Yesterday took everything from me.

Every task. Every plan. Every ounce of independence.

And while the symptoms themselves are frightening, near-fainting, tremors, dissociation, weakness, the hardest part is living this way without a diagnosis. No clear answers. No targeted treatment. No language that instantly communicates this is more than anxiety, more than stress, more than something I can push through.

What remains is grief…for the body I used to have. Frustration with a system that requires proof before compassion. Embarrassment over how visible my limitations have become. An exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix.

My husband supported me through all of it, and I’m deeply grateful. Still, there’s a quiet mourning that comes with needing that much help.

I’m sharing this because these moments are easy to dismiss from the outside. Near-fainting isn’t always dramatic. Inner tremors don’t show. Dissociation looks like zoning out. But invisibility doesn’t make any of it less real.

If you’re reading this while undiagnosed, while questioning yourself because medicine hasn’t named it yet, please know this: your experience still counts. Your body is not lying to you.

Yesterday happened.

And this journey is real, diagnosis or not.

— Symone

P.S. I don’t own copyrights to this song

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