I want to start at the beginning. Not the beginning of the blog, but the beginning of feeling unwell — because I know so many of you know exactly what I mean.
The Years Before the Diagnosis
For years I thought I was just tired. Tired in the way everyone is tired, I told myself. You're a busy woman. You have responsibilities. This is just life.
But it wasn't just tiredness. It was bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep could touch. It was waking up after nine hours and feeling like I hadn't slept at all. It was the 3pm slump that made me fantasise about lying down on the office floor.
Then came the brain fog. I'd lose words mid-sentence. I'd walk into a room and have absolutely no idea why I was there. I struggled to read a full page of a book without losing the thread completely. I'm a reader. I've always been a reader. That scared me more than anything.
My hair started falling out in handfuls. My skin went dry and rough. My joints ached. My eyebrows thinned at the outer edges.
I went to my doctor. Repeatedly.
"Your bloods are normal."
"You're probably just stressed."
"Have you tried getting more sleep?"
The Turning Point
It took a change of GP and a chance mention of my symptoms to a friend who had Hashimoto's for things to shift. She looked at me with that expression — that "oh, I know that look" expression — and said, "Have you ever been tested for thyroid antibodies?"
I hadn't. In years of bloodwork, no one had ever tested for TPO or thyroglobulin antibodies. My TSH had always been "within range," so no one looked further.
My new GP ordered a full thyroid panel. The results came back within a week.
My TPO antibodies were nearly 1,200 (normal is under 35).
I had Hashimoto's thyroiditis.
The Mix of Relief and Grief
Here's something people don't talk about enough: the strange grief of finally getting a diagnosis. There was relief — enormous relief — in having a name for what had been happening to my body. Validation that I wasn't making it up. That I wasn't lazy or dramatic.
But there was also grief. Grief for the years I'd lost. The trips I hadn't taken because I was too exhausted. The version of myself I'd slowly stopped believing in.
I sat with both feelings. I think that's important.
What I Did Next
I started reading everything I could find. I changed my diet. I found a functional medicine practitioner who actually looked at my full lab picture and helped me optimise my levels. I started tracking — obsessively at first — because tracking gave me data, and data gave me power.
Slowly, things got better. Not all at once. Not in a straight line. But better.
My antibodies came down. My energy came back. The brain fog lifted, mostly. I started writing again.
Why This Blog
I started writing about my experience because the information I needed was scattered across research papers, forums, and expensive practitioner appointments. I want to gather it together in one place, in plain language, with compassion for the woman who is exactly where I was.
You don't have to figure this out alone.
That's what this blog is for.