In March, I received a positive Covid-19 diagnosis, prior to any widespread awareness of the pandemic. The arduous recovery process has challenged me in numerous ways, and it remains ongoing. This is the reality of being a long-hauler.

Having Covid-19 is an odd experience filled with contradictions. You find yourself part of a grim cultural moment, yet also facing stigma. There are extreme emotional highs and lows: the deep-seated fear of not waking up the next day contrasted with immense relief when recovery seems to begin. You might think improvement is on the horizon, but in reality, your body is still battling the virus. Support from loved ones is abundant, yet physical contact is out of reach. For some, Covid-19 is a brief ordeal; for others, like those labeled "long-haulers," the struggle continues long after testing negative.

My personal journey began with a road trip.

On March 15, I traveled from New York to Washington, D.C. with my husband, Mike, and our mischievous cat, Salem. With vacation plans dashed as the world began shutting down, my mom's house felt like a safe haven. Many millennials were making similar decisions as they returned to their childhood homes amid the chaos. Uniquely, I became one of the early Covid-19 cases in the U.S. by March 20. Nearly four months later, the effects of the virus still linger.

As we drove south, I distinctly noted my diminished appetite over the preceding days. Stress, I believed, was the culprit—I was a teacher managing energetic young children while schools transitioned to virtual learning. Loss of appetite is now recognized as an early symptom of Covid-19, but back then, information flowed chaotically, filled with uncertainty and fear.

That Sunday was quiet; by Monday, I had slept for 14 hours. By Tuesday, a high fever struck me, and the following ten days became a blur. Despite multiple emergency room visits, I wasn't admitted because I was deemed too young and healthy to face serious consequences. How little we understood then.

I consider myself resilient. Though I'm only five feet three inches tall, I indulge in red wine, meat, and potatoes while teaching young children. Yet, this Covid-19 ordeal knocked me off my feet. Along with a persistent fever, I could barely keep food down. The body aches were intense—my legs felt like they were being torn apart. I would sweat through sheets while feeling intensely cold. My heart raced alarmingly fast, reaching 150 beats per minute at one point. I developed mild pneumonia but was fortunate that it did not severely impact my lungs. The pain rendered sleep elusive, and I found myself in a disorienting state between wakefulness and slumber.

A pivotal moment for me occurred during a delirious episode when I ordered the film Little Women and found myself identifying too closely with Beth's demise. In my mind, I mused, "I feel as sick as she does, and though I wouldn’t mind dying, I don’t truly want to." I quickly turned off the screen and stared blankly at the American Girl dolls in my childhood room. As I transitioned out of the acute phase of my illness, I began to reflect on my experience.

I celebrated my 32nd birthday on March 30, confined to the upper level of my home where I had spent two and a half weeks isolated. My husband drove me to the hospital while masked, and my mother would leave necessities outside my door. On my birthday, they finally joined me upstairs, maintaining a distance. It marked my first meaningful human interaction outside of medical settings in what felt like an eternity. On April 3, I was declared "recovered" according to CDC standards. Documenting my experience on Instagram became my spring break project in lieu of travel.

My workplace and supervisor offered tremendous support during this time. Teaching young children over Zoom felt like an impossible task, but the adjusted schedule fit my recovery needs. I hoped life was returning to normal. The fevers and aches subsided, but an overwhelming fatigue took their place—a bone-deep exhaustion that rendered my body heavy.

I would attend morning Zoom classes, handle any necessary work, and then sleep until dinner. Long naps became routine, fueled by coffee. The short trek from my bedroom to my makeshift office was about all I could manage. Evenings were spent watching The West Wing with my dedicated mother and husband or enjoying virtual cocktails with friends. As the weather improved and my naps became shorter, I began swimming laps to regain my strength.

I also participated in a plasma donation study, contributing convalescent plasma to help those severely ill with Covid-19. It felt rewarding to share my antibodies, which were believed to offer some immunity. Miraculously, neither my husband nor mother contracted the virus, even after testing for antibodies.

By the end of the school year, I felt hopeful. I was swimming up to 100 laps a day and had more energy. Some days, I even managed to forgo a nap.

Unfortunately, my optimism was premature.

Many women will tell you that one of the most alarming experiences in the shower is feeling your hair fall out in clumps. This had begun before the school year ended, but I attributed it to my swimming routine. I convinced myself that the chlorine was to blame, along with my DIY hair highlights.

Yet, the shedding persisted. My shower resembled a scene from a horror film. I also started experiencing dizziness, lightheadedness, and fatigue—not the kind that comes from lack of sleep, but a peculiar weariness that made lying down feel necessary. My heart rate would spike with minimal movement, and I faced unexpected skin breakouts.

I began to encounter what is now referred to as "brain fog." I would lose my train of thought, and moments of distraction became frequent. Walking up the stairs often resulted in forgetting my purpose for the trip. I joked about a lack of blood flow to my brain, which, as I later learned, was not far from the truth.

My new doctor informed me that there are medical terms for the Covid-related issues I was experiencing.

The hair loss? Telogen Effluvium. Fortunately, it is expected to regrow in a few months, and I'm now on the lookout for some stylish wigs to hide my thinning hair.

Then there's POTS—Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome—a condition affecting blood circulation. I have a mild case, but it can be severe enough to cause fainting upon standing.

Lastly, Covid triggered thyroiditis, leading to hypothyroidism. While I may have had a predisposition, Covid accelerated the issue. Interestingly, I had blood tests a week before symptoms began, and my thyroid levels were normal.

Despite everything, I consider myself fortunate.

Many survivors face ongoing heart problems, blood clots, and other serious complications. I worry that the virus still poses a threat, but I feel reassured by the support of my family, friends, and medical professionals. I can work remotely for now, and until someone advises otherwise, I’ll continue to enjoy my pinot noir as a form of self-care.

As one of the first Americans diagnosed with Covid-19, I may be classified as "recovered," yet my true healing journey is just beginning. I often recall the quote by Dorothy Parker, “What fresh hell is this?”—a sentiment that resonates strongly in 2020.