“It's Not Just in My Head” by Krisha Chopra

“You’re just tired.” “You probably stayed up too late.” “Why are you so lazy all the time?” 

These are the words I hear almost every day. From classmates, teachers, even from my own family. But the truth is, I’m not just tired. I’m not lazy. I live with chronic anemia, a condition that affects nearly every part of my life, even if no one can see it. 

When people think of chronic illness, they often picture hospitals, IV drips, or surgeries. But not all illnesses look like that. Mine is quiet. In some ways, that makes it harder. I’ve never broken a bone or had some huge medical emergency. Instead, I’ve had years of faint spells, unexplained exhaustion, dizziness that comes out of nowhere, and questions that no one could fully answer for a long time. 

I’ve been dealing with this since I was around nine years old, though it took a while to get a name for what was happening. I used to think everyone saw black spots when they stood up too fast. That everyone got lightheaded walking up stairs or after gym class. That it was normal to feel like your heart was racing just because you stood in the sun too long. 

But as I got older, I started realizing something was different. Most people didn’t have to sit down every 10 minutes while shopping. Most people didn’t dread school hallways because they were afraid they might pass out on the way to class. Most people didn’t feel like their own body was a battery that never charged all the way. 

I was eventually diagnosed with a form of chronic anemia. My iron levels are consistently low, and my body doesn’t absorb or store iron the way it should. I take supplements every day, sometimes multiple times a day, and still, there are good days and bad days. Some days I feel mostly fine. Other days, standing up from my bed makes the whole room spin. 

But the hardest part? It's not the dizziness. It’s the disbelief. 

When you’re a teenager, people expect you to be full of energy. When you don’t match that expectation, you’re labeled “lazy.” My parents, even though they care about me, sometimes say things like, “Why can’t you just try harder?” or “You slept nine hours, what are you tired for?” They don’t always understand that no amount of sleep fixes this. It’s not about willpower. It’s not about attitude. It’s just my body, doing what it does. 

Even worse were the doctor visits. I once sat across from a physician who told me my symptoms sounded “more like depression than anemia.” That maybe I just needed to be more active and social. I left that appointment not only dizzy, but doubting my own reality. I started wondering: Is it really in my head? Am I just being dramatic? 

But over time, I’ve learned to trust myself. I’ve learned to listen to my body. I’ve learned that invisible illnesses don’t mean imaginary. 

There was one moment I’ll never forget, I was on a school field trip to an amusement park. My friends wanted to go on this massive rollercoaster, and I didn’t want to be left out, so I agreed.

As soon as we got off the ride, everything around me blurred. My vision went black around the edges. My legs felt like jelly. I remember crouching down on the pavement, pretending to tie my shoe just so I wouldn’t collapse in front of everyone. 

One of my friends laughed and said, “Wow, you really can’t handle rides.” I laughed too, even though I wanted to cry. 

It’s those small moments, where you have to mask, where you have to push through even though your body is screaming to stop, that make chronic illness exhausting in ways most people will never understand. 

And yet, I’ve found strength in it too. I’ve become more aware of my limits, and more responsible about honoring them. I’ve learned how to plan ahead — bringing snacks, staying hydrated, tracking my meds, and learning to say no without feeling guilty. I’ve also become more empathetic. I notice things other people might miss. If someone seems “off,” I don’t assume they’re lazy or moody. I’ve experienced that misunderstanding, and I try hard not to pass it on. 

Living with chronic anemia has also changed the way I define strength. It’s not always about powering through. Sometimes strength is saying, “I need a break.” Sometimes it’s advocating for yourself even when people don’t believe you. Sometimes it’s sitting out a rollercoaster ride, even if it means disappointing your friends — because you know your health comes first. 

Most of all, I’ve learned that my story matters. 

When I first read about this competition, I hesitated. I thought: Does my experience really count? But that doubt is exactly why I need to share it. Because if I’m feeling invisible, there are probably thousands of other teens who are too — dealing with symptoms they don’t have names for, or fighting for space to be taken seriously. 

I don’t know if my chronic anemia will ever fully go away. Maybe I’ll be managing it for the rest of my life. But I’m no longer ashamed of it. It’s a part of me — one that’s made me more resilient, more self-aware, and more compassionate. 

And that’s not something you can see on the outside. But it’s there. Just like the illness. Just like strength.