Last year, I found myself sick, and it changed me in ways I never anticipated.

It was my second year at university, and life seemed to be going better than ever. I had a tight-knit group of friends, academic success, and for the first time, I felt confident in my body and identity. Everything was lining up. Exam season loomed, and I began experiencing pain, but as any student will tell you, there’s no time for that. I was bleeding, but like many young women, I shrugged it off believing blood is just part of the routine. I was losing weight, but at 22, that seemed like a silver lining rather than a warning sign.

The feeling that something was wrong pulsed below the surface gently enough that I could redirect the terror into more productive places- namely my neuroscience exam which loomed ever closer. The growing terror about my health was redirected into revision, and I pushed through. I completed my exams, all while doubled over in pain, shivering in an exam hall that felt unbearably cold to my depleted body. The results came in—I had achieved a First! I breathed a sigh of relief, convinced that the stress was over, and my body would soon bounce back to its normal cartwheeling base.

Except it didn’t, it spiralled and spiralled until I found myself hospitalised multiple times, my body tunnelling new routes out of itself to escape. I underwent prodding and poking and observation and discussion until the body no longer even felt like mine. How does anyone cope with that? 

As I dropped out of university, watched my relationship unravel under the strain, and felt the widening gap between my mind and body, I held onto the one positive I could find—I was getting thinner.

Then came the steroids, in all their miserable, swollen glory. I sat on my hospital bed, with a clenched jaw and furious eyes. “If these make me gain weight, I won’t take them,” I declared. My doctor looked at me, confused, as if he couldn’t understand what I was saying. “These steroids save lives,” he replied, as if that was enough to end the conversation. What he, and many others in the medical profession, didn’t realise was how my chronic illness had changed my relationship with my body.

If my body couldn’t function properly, the least it could do was look good.

Eventually, after much coaxing, I took the steroids. And to give credit where it’s due, they worked. Those little pills, swollen with side effects, stabilised me. Later, I was put on infliximab, and I’ve been stable for over six months now.

Physically, I’m healing. But the mental scars will take much longer to fade. I’m sharing my story because I know I’m not alone. If you’re grappling with dysmorphic body image, disordered eating, or a poor self-image as part of your diagnosis and treatment, you are not alone. Even now, I struggle to accept that my weight gain is a sign that my body is recovering.

On a more positive note, I’m in a much better place now than I was just a few months ago. I’ve started taking active steps to untangle the distorted thinking patterns that were in my mind. For example, I’ve asked my healthcare team not to share my weight with me. I’m fortunate to have access to weekly therapy, which has been life changing. And I’m about to start my third and final year of university—healthier, more resilient, and armed with new tools to quiet the negative voices that once consumed me.

My hope is that by sharing my story, others—especially young women —will feel less alone. I also want to spark conversations about the mental health implications of chronic illness, and how we can do better by the people going through it.

You are not the first and you are not alone.