Your cycle doesn’t follow a calendar anymore
It used to arrive like clockwork, every month, never late.
Now you guess, not track.
It disappears for weeks, then shows up without warning.
You carry supplies “just in case,” but usually don’t need them.
The waiting becomes a part of your routine.
You wonder if your body still remembers how to be regular.
You feel bloated even when you barely eat
Your meals are small, measured, intentional.
Still, your stomach stretches like you overindulged.
You sit down and feel pressure, not fullness.
It’s not food—it’s something deeper.
Your clothes dig into your waist by midday.
You start dressing for the bloat, not the weather.
You notice more hair in your hands than on your head
The bathroom floor tells the truth before you do.
Hair in clumps, not strands.
It’s not dramatic.
Just persistent.
You tie it tighter, not wanting to admit change.
You count what’s lost, not what’s left.
Hair appears where you never expected it
You wipe your chin.
Feel a prick of something unfamiliar.
You pluck, then pluck again.
It keeps coming back—stronger.
Each hair surprises you less.
Until you stop being surprised at all.
You’re tired even after sleeping through the night
Sleep becomes your goal, not your rest.
You wake groggy, not refreshed.
You nap, not for luxury—but survival.
Every task feels three steps heavier.
You cancel plans, not because you don’t care.
But because your legs already said no.
You gain weight without overeating
You skip dessert.
Drink water.
Take the stairs.
Still, the numbers creep upward.
Mostly in your midsection.
You start wearing loose clothes, not trends.
You try everything, but your body won’t follow
You’ve counted carbs.
You’ve fasted.
You’ve walked late nights.
Still, nothing moves.
You track progress that doesn’t exist.
You wonder if your body is punishing you.
Acne returns, but this time it doesn’t go away
It’s deeper.
Redder.
More stubborn.
Creams sting but don’t solve.
You avoid mirrors in bright rooms.
You stop using foundation because even that can’t hide it.
You start avoiding mirrors, but not because of vanity
Your shape has changed.
Your skin.
Your eyes.
You stare for seconds.
Then look away, pretending you didn’t.
You miss the version of you that felt familiar.
Your hunger has no pattern anymore
It comes suddenly.
Leaves slowly.
You eat full meals, then still search the fridge.
You’re not craving joy.
Just something to fill a strange emptiness.
Sometimes food feels like the only reliable thing.
You’ve heard the term ‘PCOS’ but didn’t think it applied to you
You thought it belonged to someone else.
Someone diagnosed.
Someone obvious.
But symptom after symptom, the list sounds like your life.
It fits, and that frightens you.
Because you didn’t see it coming.
Doctors look at your chart and miss what’s in your story
They read your numbers.
Not your fatigue.
Not your chin hair.
Not your tears in traffic.
You try to explain.
They mention stress.
You research late at night, looking for something that sounds like you
You search terms quietly.
You scan forums.
You find strangers who feel familiar.
People who ache where you do.
Their stories mirror yours.
It’s both relief and sadness.
You try to explain but the words feel too scattered
How do you explain invisible things?
The fog in your brain?
The weight in your steps?
The slow fade of joy?
You use phrases like “I don’t feel like myself.”
But they don’t ask who you used to be.
You’re not dramatic—you’re tracking something your body can’t name
You’re noticing things no one else does.
The shift in energy.
The swelling in silence.
You’re not exaggerating.
You’re just finally paying attention.
You’re told to lose weight, but no one says how
“Eat cleaner.”
“Move more.”
They treat your weight like a decision.
But it’s not that simple.
They don’t talk about insulin, hormones, inflammation.
They talk as if you haven’t tried.
You start to wonder if it’s always going to feel this way
Maybe this is permanent.
Maybe energy won’t come back.
Maybe this version is all that’s left.
You try to stay hopeful.
Some days you succeed.
Other days, you just survive.
It’s not in your head—it’s in your hormones
These shifts have roots.
In your blood.
In your cells.
In things unseen by x-rays.
You’re not making this up.
You’re uncovering it.