When My Body Asked Me to Slow Down: A Week of Flu, Love, and Unexpected Care

I have always found it difficult to take a break. Even when I am tired, even when my body quietly reminds me that it needs rest, my mind continues to run through the endless list of things waiting for me. There is always another email to respond to, another responsibility to attend to, another task that feels too important to postpone. I have somehow convinced myself over the years that resting is something I can do only after everything else is completed, forgetting that there is rarely a moment when everything is truly finished.

Perhaps that is why my body eventually had to make the decision for me.

More than a week ago, a viral flu entered my life uninvited and decided that it was not ready to leave anytime soon. What I thought would be a short illness that would disappear after a few days of rest turned into a long and exhausting battle with fever, body aches, nausea, weakness, and a level of tiredness that made me realize how much we take our normal health for granted.

At this point, I honestly feel that the flu has developed a special attachment towards me. It has been following me around like I am its favourite person, refusing to leave despite my repeated attempts to convince it that our time together has gone on for far too long. I have taken medication, rested whenever I could, tried to eat, and done everything I could to recover, but this stubborn little visitor seems determined to stay a little longer.

The timing of this illness could not have been more inconvenient because I am currently here at Gedu, Chukha, facilitating the PgDE SITP Mentor’s Workshop for the next six days. This is an important responsibility that requires my energy, focus, and presence because the workshop is meant to prepare school mentors who will play an important role in supporting our student teachers during their School Immersion and Teaching Practice. While I am here facilitating sessions, interacting with participants, managing the programme, and ensuring that everything runs smoothly, a part of me is also quietly negotiating with my own body, asking it to cooperate just a little longer.

It is an interesting position to be in, to be supporting others while secretly needing support myself.

I came to Gedu carrying workshop materials, schedules, responsibilities, and expectations, but I also arrived carrying fever, fatigue, and a body that was desperately asking me to slow down. Normally, I would not think twice about pushing through. I would tell myself that I have managed difficult situations before and that this too would pass. However, this illness reminded me that the body has its own language, and sometimes it speaks louder than our determination.

For more than a week, I experienced what it feels like when your body refuses to follow your plans. The person who is usually moving from one responsibility to another suddenly found herself struggling with simple things. Getting up from bed required effort. Walking around felt exhausting. Even sitting for long periods made me feel drained. My mind wanted to continue working at my normal pace, but my body was asking for kindness and patience.

The most unexpected part of this illness, however, was not the fever or the body aches. It was losing my appetite.

Anyone who knows me knows that I enjoy food. I am not someone who needs extravagant meals, but I appreciate simple comforts, a warm meal after a busy day, something homemade, or my usual cup of black coffee that has been part of my daily routine for years. Food has always been connected to comfort, memories, and small moments of happiness. It is one of those ordinary things in life that we rarely appreciate until it disappears.

During this illness, food lost its appeal completely.

The meals that normally brought comfort suddenly felt impossible to enjoy. The smell of food, which would usually make me feel hungry or excited about my next meal, started making me feel nauseous. Even thinking about what to eat felt exhausting because nothing seemed appealing. My body needed food, but my mind and stomach seemed to reject every possibility. It was such a strange experience because eating has always been one of those simple pleasures I never had to think twice about. A warm meal after a long day, a comforting bowl of something homemade, or even a small snack in between work felt like little moments of happiness that I had suddenly lost.

Even my black coffee, which has been my faithful companion through countless busy mornings, meetings, and long working days, remained untouched. Anyone who knows me knows that skipping coffee is not something I normally do. It has become part of my routine, a small ritual that signals the beginning of my day. The aroma, the warmth of the cup in my hands, and those few quiet moments before the day begins have always brought me comfort. But during those days of illness, even the thought of drinking coffee felt impossible. Seeing my untouched cup sitting there made me realize how unlike myself I had become.

What made the whole experience even stranger was my relationship with food content online. Before falling sick, one of my guilty pleasures was watching mukbang videos. There was something oddly comforting about watching people enjoy huge portions of delicious food while I sat back and relaxed. Somehow, my algorithm had completely understood this obsession and decided that my entire social media feed should revolve around food. Every time I opened my phone, I was greeted with beautifully prepared meals, sizzling dishes, giant bowls of noodles, desserts, and people happily enjoying food on screen.

My algorithm clearly knew me a little too well.

Unfortunately, during this illness, it turned against me.

Instead of making me crave food, those videos suddenly made me feel worse. The sight of people eating large portions of food that I normally would have enjoyed watching became unbearable. The sounds of chewing, the close-up shots of food, and the endless videos of people enjoying meals that I could not even think about eating made my nausea worse. Something that had once been my source of entertainment became something I had to quickly scroll past.

It was almost ironic that my phone, which usually entertained me during my resting hours, became another reminder that I was sick. My carefully trained algorithm kept offering me exactly what I usually loved, completely unaware that the same content that once brought me comfort was now making me feel more nauseous.

I found myself laughing at the situation despite feeling miserable because even my social media feed seemed confused. It was as if the internet was saying, “Here, look at all this amazing food,” while my stomach was responding, “Absolutely not.”

That was when I truly understood how much this illness had affected me. When even my coffee, my meals, and my beloved mukbang videos no longer brought comfort, I knew my body was going through something serious.

People around me would ask whether I had eaten, and my answer was always that I had tried. I genuinely tried because I knew my body needed nourishment, but my stomach had other plans. There were days when I could only manage a few spoonfuls of porridge. There were moments when drinking water was all I wanted. It was frustrating to know that the very thing my body needed for recovery was something my body was rejecting.

I never realized how much emotional comfort food carried until I lost my desire to eat. It was not only about hunger. It was about losing a small part of my normal routine and the simple joy that comes with sitting down for a meal.

The hardest moments came when the nausea became unbearable. One afternoon, I barely reached the bathroom before I started vomiting. I remember feeling completely exhausted, weak, and helpless. I was struggling with something as simple as holding my own hair back because my body had reached a point where even that small effort felt difficult.

That was when Zamin quietly stepped in.

Without hesitation, she came beside me and held my hair back while I was sick. She did not show discomfort, she did not complain, and she did not make me feel embarrassed about being seen in such a vulnerable state. She simply helped me, as naturally as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

That moment stayed with me because illness has a way of removing all the roles we carry in life. We spend so much time being responsible, being strong, and taking care of others that we forget what it feels like to be the one who needs care. In that moment, I was not the person managing work, programmes, and responsibilities. I was simply someone who was unwell and needed another person’s kindness.

As my fever continued, Zamin continued to look after me in ways that I will always remember. She would change the water for the towel placed on my forehead, carefully soaking it again whenever it became warm. She paid attention to small things that I probably would not have noticed myself because I was too exhausted. She made sure I drank water and reminded me to eat something whenever she felt I had gone too long without food.

When she realized that I was barely eating, she made porridge for me. It was a simple meal, but it carried so much love because it came from someone who genuinely wanted me to feel better. She did not force me to finish it or make me feel guilty when I could only eat a little. She simply encouraged me to try, and she stayed nearby while I took those few spoonfuls.

During those days, I also found myself becoming more emotional than usual. There is something about being sick for a long time that affects not only the body but also the mind. You become tired of feeling weak. You become frustrated that you cannot do the things you normally do. You miss your usual energy, your routines, and the feeling of being completely yourself.

There was a moment when all of that became too much, and I cried. I cried not because I was giving up, but because I was tired. I was tired of feeling sick. I was tired of my body not cooperating. I was tired of always having to be strong. And Zamin simply allowed me to cry.

She did not tell me to stop. She did not tell me to be brave. She did not try to make my emotions disappear. She understood that sometimes people do not need answers or solutions; sometimes they only need someone who will sit beside them and allow them to feel.

While Zamin cared for me with her little hands and big heart, another little soul quietly stood by my side throughout this difficult time.

Precious.

My little furry companion has always had her own personality. She is independent, particular about what she wants, and very clear about when she wants attention. She has her own routines and her own ways of showing affection. However, during this illness, I noticed a different side of her.

She seemed to know that I was not okay.

Instead of demanding attention, she stayed close. She sat beside me quietly, almost like a little bodyguard assigned to protect me. She did not disturb my rest or ask for anything. She simply stayed there, watching over me in her own quiet way.

There was something incredibly comforting about opening my eyes and seeing her beside me. She did not understand what fever was. She did not understand why I could not eat properly or why I was feeling emotional. But she understood that something had changed, and her response was to stay close.

Animals have such a beautiful way of offering comfort without needing words. They do not ask questions, they do not judge, and they do not expect explanations. They simply provide their presence, and sometimes that presence is enough.

Looking back now, this illness has taken away more than a week of my energy. It took away my appetite, disrupted my routine, and forced me to slow down in ways I never willingly would have. Yet, it also gave me something valuable: it reminded me that even those who spend their lives caring for others deserve to be cared for too.

This week, care came to me in the most unexpected ways. It came through Zamin holding my hair when I was too weak to do it myself, changing the towel on my forehead, preparing porridge when I could barely eat, and allowing me to cry without feeling ashamed. It came through Precious sitting beside me like a tiny guardian, quietly keeping me company when I needed comfort the most.

As I continue my work here in Gedu while waiting for this stubborn flu to finally leave, I am reminded that strength does not always mean pushing through everything alone. Sometimes strength is accepting help. Sometimes strength is allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Sometimes strength is recognizing that being cared for is not a weakness but a gift.

So, dear flu, I appreciate the lessons you brought with you, but I think our relationship has lasted long enough. You have taken my appetite, my energy, and more than a week of my life. I hope you understand that it is time for you to leave.

I have a workshop to facilitate, responsibilities to fulfill, food to enjoy again, and a little cat waiting for me to return to my normal self.