For a long time, I knew I was anemic.
But I didn’t do anything about it.

Because I never thought of it as something serious—definitely not something that had the power to shape the way I lived in my body every single day.

But it did.

It crept in slowly, quietly. I was tired, sure—but everyone’s tired. I got dizzy sometimes, but I figured it was more related to how I stood up too fast. There were moments when my vision would fade, and all I’d see was this cloudy, greyish-white haze. I’d place my head between my knees to feel okay again. It was scary, but it was what I’d grown to consider normal.

I thought perhaps they were warning signs. But it didn’t seem that serious.

And the truth?
I was a little too scared to care.

I was also a little too good at neglecting my own needs—and shaming myself for even having them. I clung to this belief that if I just ate well enough, my body would fix itself. Because I was “healthy.” Because I should be able to handle it.

But bodies aren’t machines.
And mine was running on empty.

I’d had anemia for years. Quietly. In the background. But then life gave me a heavy season. I was hardly sleeping. I was working through some deeply personal pain—anxiety attacks that left me frozen, emotional trauma I hadn’t named yet, and the kind of mental spiral that makes everything feel too loud. I was barely functioning.

No amount of “just push through” was working anymore.

I went in for a physical and had bloodwork done. My nervous system felt fried. I was exhausted in every way a person can be exhausted.

My doctor looked at my chart.
She paused. And then: “Wow.”

Her assistant echoed her. “Wow.”

I remember sitting there trying to act unbothered. “Yeah, I’ve been anemic for a while,” I mumbled, like I’d been expecting it. But inside, my heart sank.

They mentioned a blood transfusion.
And what I felt wasn’t panic—it was shame.

Shame that I had let it get this far. Shame that I hadn’t cared enough to act sooner. Shame that somewhere deep down, I didn’t believe I was worthy of serious care.

That moment changed everything. Not just physically, but emotionally.

I realized how long I’d been negotiating with my body.
How many signs I’d ignored.
How often I’d treated my own health like an afterthought—something I’d get to eventually, once everything else calmed down.
I thought I had to earn wellness.
Earn rest.
Earn help.

But illness doesn’t wait until it’s convenient.
Nor does healing.

The iron pills brought their own problems—stomach knots, digestive drama, the whole stool softener phase (which honestly deserves its own post). Then came liquid iron, which felt a bit gentler but didn’t move the needle enough. Everything was trial and error, and I was stuck in that strange in-between place where you’re trying your best, but you don’t see success.

It’s hard to keep going in that space.
But I did. I still am. And I’m still anemic. But this time, I’m trying. I’m caring. I’m getting back up.

And then I found out something else — I learned how closely low iron is connected to mental health—depression, anxiety, brain fog, even symptoms that overlap with ADHD. It turns out that iron doesn’t just affect your body’s energy—it plays a major role in how your brain functions too. There’s even recent research from the University of Michigan exploring how low iron may worsen mental health symptoms and go undetected in people who are otherwise dismissed as just anxious or depressed [¹].

Suddenly, the pieces I couldn’t name before started making sense. I wasn’t just off emotionally—my body literally didn’t have what it needed to support me.

That realization softened me.

It gave me compassion for the version of me that was just trying to stay afloat—with no fuel in the tank and no roadmap forward.

I’m still not “there.”
I’m still rebuilding. Still figuring out what works for me.
Still learning to care for myself in a way that feels like kindness, not punishment.

But I trust myself a little more. I listen to my body as it whispers.
I don’t wait for it to scream.

If any of this feels familiar—if you’re tired and foggy and pushing your symptoms aside because they don’t seem urgent—I hope you don’t wait for your “wow” moment.

You don’t have to crash to be worthy of support.
You don’t have to fall apart to deserve care.

And if you’ve already been there—I see you.

I’m sharing this not because it’s wrapped up in a perfect bow, done and over with, but because it’s real. And I think there’s something sacred about letting people witness you while you’re still becoming.

More soon.
I’m just getting started.

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Reference

[1] Could Low Iron Be Making Your Mental Health Symptoms Worse? – University of Michigan Department of Psychiatry (May 2023)
Read the full article: medicine.umich.edu