I used to blame everything on bad sleep. Long days. Stress. Screen time. Then rest stopped helping. Even after eight hours of sleep, I woke up exhausted. Not groggy—drained. I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. My muscles ached after doing nothing. My eyes burned even when they were closed. I couldn’t explain it. Coffee didn’t work. Naps didn’t help. It felt like my body was fighting something invisible, quietly and relentlessly. I didn’t know yet that fatigue was the first thing autoimmune conditions often whisper.
My joints felt stiff before I even stood up in the morning
It wasn’t soreness from exercise. I hadn’t worked out. Still, my hands ached every morning. Not just a little. They felt swollen, stiff, slow. I couldn’t make a full fist without resistance. The pain didn’t scream—it throbbed. Knees started following. Then my wrists. It moved, quietly but clearly. My shoes felt tighter without any weight gain. The stairs became noticeable. I stretched, hoping it would go away. It didn’t. That kind of stiffness comes from somewhere deeper. Somewhere the immune system shouldn’t be touching.
There was no rash, just this burning underneath my skin
It wasn’t allergic. There was no swelling, no red bumps. But my skin burned. Not on the surface—below it. Like it was lit from inside. Clothes irritated it. Showers hurt. Even wind stung on bad days. I looked in the mirror and saw nothing. That’s what made it worse. When pain is invisible, it’s easier to dismiss. But it kept coming back. Sometimes with tingling. Sometimes with numbness. Always in patterns. I didn’t know that nerves could be mistaken targets in autoimmune attacks.
The brain fog wasn’t just forgetting—I felt like someone had dimmed the lights inside me
I couldn’t finish thoughts. I’d start a sentence and stop halfway, unsure where I was going. I lost track of conversations I was in. Reading became exhausting. Following instructions felt impossible. It wasn’t just memory loss. It was disconnection. My focus slipped through my fingers like water. Some days, even speaking out loud felt like work. People called it stress. I knew it was something else. Something deeper than distraction. My mind wasn’t just tired—it was being slowed by something I couldn’t touch.
My stomach was the first thing that reacted, but I didn’t know what to blame
Food became complicated. One day it was dairy. Another day, wheat. Then nothing felt safe. My digestion slowed. Sometimes it sped up. Bloating arrived uninvited. Pain followed. Doctors said it was IBS. But medication didn’t fix it. Neither did cutting things out. My immune system was playing tricks inside my gut. I learned too late that many autoimmune disorders start there. Celiac. Crohn’s. Ulcerative colitis. They don’t shout at first. They whisper through discomfort and small reactions that look like food sensitivities.
I didn’t realize my hair loss was part of something bigger
It started at the part line. Then the shower drain filled too fast. Then my eyebrows thinned. I blamed products. Stress. Diet. But nothing changed. Nothing helped. A patch near the back of my scalp grew wider. No redness. Just absence. Skin, smooth and empty. The dermatologist suggested alopecia. I didn’t know it was autoimmune. I didn’t know the immune system could target hair follicles like threats. The loss wasn’t painful. But it said something loud: something in me was confused about what belonged.
I started bruising too easily, but bloodwork didn’t explain anything
My arms turned purple after light taps. My legs showed marks I couldn’t remember causing. I got tested. My platelets were normal. My iron was fine. But the bruises stayed. Some faded. Some grew darker before healing. Sometimes, they hurt. Sometimes, they didn’t. They weren’t shaped like injuries. They looked like stains. A rheumatologist eventually mentioned vasculitis. I had to Google it. Autoimmune inflammation of blood vessels. Another system I didn’t know could be attacked from the inside.
My mouth felt like sand, no matter how much I drank
I carried water everywhere. I sipped constantly. Still, my lips cracked. My throat dried out. Even my eyes stung like they were missing tears. I thought it was weather. Or dehydration. But it didn’t matter how much I drank. Nothing worked. Eating felt strange. Swallowing became a chore. I learned later about Sjögren’s syndrome. It damages glands that produce saliva and moisture. I never knew dryness could be a symptom with a name. I never knew my immune system could target something so specific.
Cold made my fingers turn white and then red in waves
I stepped outside and my fingers lost color instantly. White. Then blue. Then burning red. I shook them. Rubbed them. Waited. This happened even when it wasn’t freezing. Just a slight chill. The pain was sharp and brief, followed by tingling. I thought it was poor circulation. I didn’t know it had a name. Raynaud’s. A condition by itself, or a sign of something else. A flag that sometimes flies before autoimmune conditions arrive. Especially lupus. Especially scleroderma.
I stopped telling people about the symptoms they couldn’t see
At first, I shared everything. The fatigue. The tingling. The pain. The fog. But people stopped listening. Or they doubted me. Or they gave advice that didn’t help. So I started hiding it. Smiling through stiffness. Laughing while my body trembled. That’s the quiet part of autoimmune disease—how invisible it can be. And how lonely that invisibility becomes. Until a diagnosis appears. Or doesn’t. Some people spend years in limbo. Not sick enough. Not healthy either. Waiting for a name.
Source: Internist in Dubai / Internist in Abu Dhabi