The Invisible Weight of Survival
They say time heals all wounds, but for those of us injured by botulinum toxin, time is a complicated thing. This month marks three years since my life was forcibly rerouted. Three years since a "routine" 40-unit injection on January 4th turned into a systemic collapse on January 17th.
While the world sees me as "recovered," the reality is that I am living in a different body now. I am navigating a world that feels much smaller and more fragile than it did before. The most frustrating part of the three-year mark isn't just the physical symptoms—though the trouble swallowing and the sudden waves of head pressure are still very much there. It’s the mental exhaustion.
I’ve become a person I don’t fully recognize—someone who has to constantly calculate if I’m safe enough to be alone. The confidence I used to have has been replaced by an intrusive "what if" that follows me from room to room. I find myself becoming more reclusive because out in the world, people don’t see the injury; they only see the "anxiety" the doctors told them to see.
The medical journey over these last three years has fundamentally changed how I view the world. I haven't been back to a doctor since my endoscopy follow-up. What is the point of seeking help from a system that is either uneducated on toxin-induced injury or unwilling to acknowledge it? That loss of trust extends far beyond the doctor’s office. I look at the FDA and the government, and I see institutions that approve these toxins and push other interventions that have left so many people sick or worse. It has left me in a place where I don’t want another injection of anything in my body ever again. It’s a heavy realization to know that I might one day refuse something life-saving because the foundation of my trust has been turned to ash.
This anniversary feels particularly heavy because for the first time in this journey, my "safety person" isn't here. My husband moved to another state for work in December, leaving me to manage the boys and get our house ready to sell on my own. I am thankful my boys are older and can step in to help or drive me when the dizziness hits, but the fear of having an "episode" without my husband nearby to rescue me is a weight I carry every hour.
I am currently trying to figure out when, where, and even if I will relocate my business, and the weight of that decision is overwhelming. There are moments when I consider the stability of a 9-to-5, but the fear stops me in my tracks. I only work three days a week right now because my body requires the other days just to recover, so the idea of forty hours feels physically impossible. I’m haunted by the "what ifs"—what if the added stress triggers a full-blown relapse? What if I have an episode in front of strangers who have no idea what I’ve been through and just dismiss me as being "anxious"? I love what I do, but the thought of rebuilding is terrifying. It feels like I’m standing between two paths, and both of them are steep, uncertain, and scary.
January 17th is a complicated day for another reason, too. It’s my mother’s birthday. She has been gone for almost 19 years now, and as I navigate this milestone, I miss her more than ever. I didn't have her to lean on through the paralysis, the heart spikes, or the gaslighting from doctors, and there are moments when the silence of her absence is just as loud as the symptoms themselves.
I don't want to sound like it’s all gloom, because that isn’t the whole story. The truth is, most of this past year has been great. I’ve had wonderful moments, I’ve traveled, and I’ve seen my family grow. But anniversaries have a way of bringing those buried shadows back to the surface, and between the poisoning and missing my mom, a wave of sadness just overcomes me sometimes.
I have to remind myself that this—this stress, this move, this heavy feeling—is only a season. It isn't my forever. Rebuilding my client base and moving to a new state feels like a mountain I’m not sure I have the oxygen to climb, but I am learning to take it one breath at a time. I know that my God has carried me through heart rates of 160+ bpm and the darkest days of paralysis. He didn't bring me this far to leave me now.
I am still here. I am still fighting. I am choosing to look forward to the brighter days ahead while still speaking the truth about the journey that brought me here. This season will pass, and I will keep moving toward the light.
What are your thoughts on this?
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