Geilstonia | Under Journey
There are stories my blood could not tell,
but my body had been telling them for years.
The numbers did not always speak.
The markers did not always appear.
Yet the symptoms remained,
and the doctors had to listen
to a story written beyond the laboratory.
Seronegative.
A word I had to learn,
not because I wanted another medical term
to accompany my name,
but because my body had become
a complicated language of its own.
And then came the diagnoses.
Not one, but several.
Each carrying its own explanation,
its own uncertainty,
its own collection of medicines
waiting to become part of my daily life.
I still remember that airport.
The trolley I could barely push.
The cabin bag I struggled to lift.
The ordinary movements
that had suddenly become extraordinary demands.
People walked past,
carrying their luggage,
following their destinations.
And there I was,
trying to carry myself.
Some days,
I grow tired of being a patient.
Tired of counting tablets.
Tired of remembering which medicine comes first,
which must follow a meal,
which belongs to the morning,
and which must accompany the night.
Sometimes I feel as though
my life has become a timetable
written by prescriptions.
Between one dose and another,
I search for a little space
to enjoy my own rhythm.
To draw.
To write.
To laugh without checking the clock.
To live without constantly negotiating
with the limitations of my body.
And yes, sometimes I become bored.
Sometimes frustrated.
Sometimes I want to give up
on the endless routine of managing it all.
Not because I have stopped loving life,
but because I miss the freedom
of living without having to think so much
about simply getting through the day.
Yet there is another kind of pain
that does not appear on a prescription.
The pain of being doubted.
When the blood does not reveal everything,
some people begin to question
whether the suffering is real.
As though pain must produce evidence
before it deserves compassion.
As though a body must prove its struggle
to earn the right to rest.
And for a while,
perhaps I, too, became exhausted
trying to make myself understood.
But somewhere along this journey,
I began to learn something quieter.
I do not need everyone to believe me.
I do not need to display every medical record,
explain every diagnosis,
or recount every painful morning
to justify the care I give myself.
My body is not a courtroom.
My suffering is not a debate.
And my healing is not a performance
for an audience waiting to be convinced.
I can respect the uncertainty of medicine
without denying the certainty of what I feel.
I can continue seeking answers
without turning my entire existence
into a search for validation.
And perhaps that is why
this little photograph matters to me.
A suitcase.
An airport.
A journey between places.
Nothing grandiose.
Nothing particularly beautiful
to someone passing by.
But I remember the weight.
Not only the weight of the luggage,
but the weight of everything
my body was carrying silently.
Today, I am learning
that strength is not always found
in how much I can lift,
how far I can walk,
or how many tasks I can complete.
Sometimes strength is simply
taking the medicine,
making room for rest,
drawing one imperfect little circle,
and allowing myself
to have a life beyond illness.
I may not always win against the pain.
I may not always understand my body.
And I may still have days
when everything feels terribly heavy.
But I am here.
Still creating.
Still wondering.
Still finding small spaces
where my own rhythm can breathe.
My blood may not tell the whole story.
But my life is more than what the blood can measure.
And I no longer need permission
to believe the story my body is telling.
— Geilstonia
Under Journey | The Quiet Weight We Carry
