They said it was just a spring thing, like a temporary cold with flowers.
It started early, probably before you even had the words to explain it.
You coughed, they smiled. “Pollen season,” someone said. “It’ll pass.”
But it didn’t. Not really. It returned. Again. In silence, in wind, in light.
Everyone kept calling it harmless. “Take something,” they said. “You’ll feel better soon.”
As if your throat didn’t close. As if you hadn’t learned to stop breathing around trees.
Spring never meant soft mornings. It meant survival.
It meant survival.
Misconceptions have weight. They settle in language, in conversations, in half-truths.
They tell you it’s in your head. That it’s drama. That you’re exaggerating.
You nod. Smile. Try to explain the fog in your brain.
Try to explain fatigue without sleep. The sting without warning.
They talk over you with old advice. “Neti pot. Green tea. Local honey.”
You’ve heard them all. They echo louder than your wheezing.
They echo louder than your wheezing.
You learn silence. It becomes armor. You start saying “I’m fine” when you’re not.
No one teaches you how to respond when they say, “It’s just allergies.”
Just. That word, small but sharp. As if it couldn’t possibly ruin a day.
As if you haven’t canceled birthdays, flights, mornings, entire weeks.
You begin to question your own reactions. Are you imagining it?
No one sees you when you’re curled in bed, dizzy from antihistamines that don’t work.
No one sees you when you’re curled in bed.
They assume it’s sneezing. Maybe red eyes. That’s it.
They don’t talk about the headaches. The tightness. The exhaustion like winter in your bones.
They think allergies are seasonal. But the fear is permanent.
Every year you forget until it begins again. The body remembers first.
A throat scratch. A sudden itch. The ghost of last year returns.
You brace for it before the flowers bloom.
You brace for it before the flowers bloom.
You try to prepare. Buy sprays. Wipe windows. Vacuum daily.
You do everything right, but nothing works.
They tell you to go outside. Fresh air, they say.
But the air turns on you. Carries whispers of swelling, of regret.
You smile politely and excuse yourself. No one notices you stopped showing up.
Not even you, at first.
No one notices you stopped showing up.
Misconceptions aren’t harmless. They erase. They diminish.
They turn real fear into a punchline.
They compare it to colds, to mood, to fiction.
But your lungs don’t care what others believe.
Your body reacts anyway. It doesn’t wait for permission.
And you’re tired of asking for validation with every breath.
You’re tired of asking for validation with every breath.
Someone says “just take a pill.” You already took three.
You drank water. You slept. You meditated. You stretched.
You didn’t step outside. Still, it found you.
It’s not just the air. It’s the memory. The anticipation.
Your body holds onto old patterns, like ghosts in the bloodstream.
People don’t understand the grief of fearing nature.
The grief of fearing nature.
They say allergies are simple. But they’re not. They’re quiet sabotage.
They change your behavior, your calendar, your space.
You avoid, without realizing.
Skip parks. Miss concerts. Avoid friends with pets.
You don’t mention why. You lie instead.
Misconceptions taught you to minimize. You learned well.
You lie instead.
It’s not about fragility. It’s not weakness. It’s vigilance.
Always watching. Always adjusting.
Living like you might be fine today, but maybe not tomorrow.
And no one notices the strength in that.
They want visible battles. Yours are microscopic.
They float in the air and knock you down quietly.
They float in the air and knock you down quietly.
You begin to carry epinephrine. Not because you expect to use it.
But because peace is knowing it’s there.
Your backpack becomes a kit. A pharmacy.
Your home has filters, sprays, humidifiers.
Each tool is another quiet scream: “I am trying.”
But they only see tissues and assume it’s nothing.
I am trying.
The myths persist. Some call them exaggeration. Others call them imaginary.
There’s nothing fictional about wheezing until your chest aches.
Nothing funny about spending a season indoors.
But still, jokes are made. You’re tired of laughing with them.
You want space to be honest. But honesty feels heavy.
So you nod, and swallow your story. Again.
You nod, and swallow your story.
One day, you meet someone who understands.
They don’t offer advice. Just a knowing look.
And for a moment, the air feels lighter.
You speak in fragments, and they nod in rhythm.
No remedies. Just recognition. It feels like relief.
Like breathing in a room where no one doubts you.