Morning!

It’s early in the morning, and as I crack open one eye, all I see is blurriness. I tell myself it can’t be happening again. I hope—pray—it’s not going to be one of those days. But the moment I sit up, the vertigo hits me like a wave.

I stumble to the bathroom, and I already know—something’s off. My stomach aches, and the diarrhea has arrived like an unwelcome guest. Coffee? Not today. The nausea comes in relentless waves. Hot, cold, stomach cramping. Over and over. I can feel the low-grade fever creeping up on me.

I call my husband, Miguel, and with the saddest face I can muster, I tell him, It’s not a good day.
Poor man—he’s been watching me go through this for over 20 years. He looks at me with those knowing eyes and gently says, Just take it easy.

Then comes the sweating. The wooziness. My head feels like it’s spinning off my shoulders. I brace myself, knowing the next 20 minutes will be a blur of waves crashing over me—until, finally, they pass.

But by then, I’m drained. Exhausted. I don’t even feel like myself anymore.

Do I crawl back into bed? Or do I act like a warrior, force myself into the shower, and try to piece myself back together? It’s a hard choice—especially when you have kids who still need you. Kids who can’t understand why Mom keeps saying she doesn’t feel good, when on the outside, I look fine.

If one more person tells me, But you don’t look sick, I might actually scream.

I take some Advil—it’s the only thing that seems to lift me out of the darkness, even if just for a little while.

All I want is to figure out what’s going on with me. And one day, I finally did.

But mornings like this? They still happen. Way more than I’d like to admit.
And no matter how many times I try to navigate them—it never really gets easier.