If you’re wondering whether I enjoy switching biologics and weight-loss meds like Pokémon cards, the answer is no. No, I do not. But here we are again, standing at the crossroads of “this worked until it absolutely didn’t” and “please let this be the combo that doesn’t ruin my life.”

This ongoing cycle feels a bit like a game of roulette, where the stakes are incredibly high, and the outcomes can drastically alter the course of my life. One moment, I could be on a promising track, finally feeling some semblance of hope with a treatment that shows signs of working seamlessly. The next moment, I’m grappling with disappointment as the effectiveness dwindles, leaving me to search for yet another alternative in a seemingly endless lineup of options.

Up to bat this round are Taltz and Mounjaro. Step right up, folks. Place your bets. The anticipation is palpable, and like a gambler at a casino, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and dread. Will they deliver the results I long for, or will they join the ranks of past treatments that fell short? Each new medication feels like a new character in this ongoing saga, and I’m left hoping that this time, the odds will be in my favor.

As I embark on this latest treatment journey, I can’t shake the feeling that I am not just a patient; I am a participant in a complex experiment, where my body is the testing ground. The hope that comes with a new regimen is always tinged with apprehension, an emotional balancing act that makes this process incredibly trying.

Let’s talk about why we’re here, because chronic illness is never just one thing going sideways. It’s more like a group project where nobody communicates and everything is on fire.

Tremfya was doing its job. My skin symptoms were about 90% improved, which in autoimmune-land is basically winning the lottery without having to talk to the press. Plaques? Calm. Flares? Minimal. I almost trusted it. Almost.

But the other symptoms, the ones that live deeper, the pain that feels like my joints are holding grudges, and the fatigue that laughs in the face of caffeine, started creeping back in. Slowly at first. Quietly. Like a cat knocking things off the counter while maintaining eye contact. It’s that kind of insidious return where you think you’ve finally reached a semblance of normalcy, only to be reminded that things can turn upside down in an instant. Every ache and twinge starts to feel like an unwelcome guest at a party that you thought was over.

Still, I thought I had cracked the code because I had help on the metabolic side. Zepbound was a dream. Quieted food noise. Improved energy. No gastrointestinal mutiny. I felt functional. Capable. Dare I say… human? The layers of fog that had shrouded my days began to lift, allowing me to engage more fully with life, to cherish small victories, and even to entertain the wild thought of planning for the future. Maybe there’s a version of me out there who can kick back and enjoy a cup of coffee without the looming specter of discomfort hanging overhead.

And then the pharmacy said, “Surprise! We’re switching you.” It felt like a gut punch, a reminder that no matter how far I’ve come, the road is full of unexpected turns. Enter Wegovy, stage left, wearing a championship belt and with absolutely no regard for my well-being. It’s like a wrestler who struts in with bravado but leaves chaos in its wake. There’s a sense of dread that bubbles up as I brace for the unknown: the fear of what new side effects might accompany this arrival and the uncertainty of whether it’ll keep my other symptoms at bay or if I’m merely trading one set of frustrations for another.

As I prepared to welcome this new player into my routine, it paved the way for a tumultuous journey of adjustments. Would it ride the wave of hope, or would it throw me into a spiraling pool of doubt? Wegovy did not tiptoe into my system. It kicked the door down.

Suddenly, IBS-D flare-ups became a daily gamble. Nausea hovered like an unwanted houseguest. Food noise came roaring back like it had been personally offended that I enjoyed silence. My hair, which I had painstakingly nurtured back from previous losses, started thinning again. And the fatigue… let’s just say “bone-deep” doesn’t quite cover it. This was marrow-level exhaustion.

I went from cautiously optimistic to horizontal. From productive to “Why does folding laundry feel like climbing Everest in flip-flops?”

And here’s the part that people who don’t live in chronic bodies often miss: when meds drain you instead of supporting you, everything else collapses quietly in the background. Writing becomes harder. Creativity dries up. The house gets messier. The mental load stacks higher. You start questioning whether you’re lazy or broken, even though you know better. Even though you know this isn’t a character flaw.

So now we pivot. Again. Yes, again… That alone on this journey is what makes many of us jump ship and say, “To hell with this.” The cycle of trial and error, of hope followed by disappointment, wears heavily on the spirit. With each new medication comes the weight of expectation—hoping this time will be different, that maybe this pill or injection could be the answer to a complex puzzle that is chronic illness.

We’re switching the biologic to Taltz in hopes it tackles not just the visible symptoms, but the pain and fatigue that hijack my days. It feels like a gamble, but what choice do we have? Living in a constant state of discomfort is exhausting, and the potential for relief gives us a glimmer of hope. We candidly discuss the possibilities with each passing appointment, staring down the curved road of treatment options that can stretch into eternity.

In addition to the biologic shift, we’re moving back to a tripeptide, which my body actually tolerated, Mounjaro, assuming the pharmacy gods smile upon me this time. This medication’s cousin Zepbound had previously shown promise. The mere thought of its return, even in a different form, ignites a flicker of optimism in an otherwise heavy heart. Yet, the uncertainty remains. Will it work again? Will side effects be tolerable like on Zepbound or will it wreck me like Wegovy? These questions loom large, but the desire for a semblance of normalcy drives us forward.

Each adjustment feels like a step into the unknown, but remaining stagnant is not an option. We adapt, we research, and we share our experiences in the hopes that one day we might find a combination that finally allows us to reclaim some of what chronic illness has taken. The path may be fraught with challenges, but amidst the turbulence, there lies an undeniable strength in the determination to keep searching for answers.

I sit here crossing my fingers, staring at my thinning hair, sighing under the weight of Psoriatic Arthritis and Fibromyalgia—the two in current flares—on what should be a “good” day. Because even on the best days, my body runs on hard mode. Simple tasks can feel insurmountable; even a brief walk could turn into an expedition filled with discomfort and fatigue. And when medications pile on instead of lighten the load, survival starts to look like my only accomplishment. I often find myself wishing for a normal that seems perpetually out of reach, where I could wake up without anticipating the physical toll that each moment might demand.

This is the part no one glamorizes. The constant recalibrating. The advocating. The explaining why you’re tired again. It’s an exhausting cycle, but one that is all too familiar. There are days filled with back-and-forth discussions with healthcare professionals, trying to voice frustrations about treatments that don’t work while still hoping they will listen and innovate. The hope you cautiously unpack every time you start a new med, knowing full well it could betray you like the last one did. It’s a delicate dance of managing expectations and bracing for disappointments while holding onto the flicker of optimism that perhaps this time, things will be different.

Every experience teaches me something new about resilience, about what it means to fight for a life that feels authentic amid the struggle. Though the days are long, and the nights often sleepless, there is an unyielding force within me—a reminder that I am more than my conditions. This journey, while painful, is also one of profound discovery, pushing me to cherish not just the good moments but to find value in the lessons learned through adversity.

Each hurdle I encounter is not merely an obstacle but an opportunity for growth. The trials that once felt insurmountable have started to reveal their hidden gifts—the strength I never knew I possessed, the friendships that have deepened in the face of hardship, and the quiet moments of clarity that remind me of my purpose. Through tears and laughter, I have come to understand that authenticity is forged not in the absence of struggle but rather in how we confront it.

But we keep going. Because we have to. Because stopping isn’t an option. Because somewhere between sarcasm, science, and sheer stubbornness, we’re still fighting for a life that feels livable. It may not be the life we envisioned, but it is our life, and that in itself demands respect and appreciation. Each day presents us with a blank slate—a chance to rewrite our narrative, to redefine what success and happiness mean, and to embrace our unique stories, full of imperfections and triumphs alike.

In this collective journey, there lies a shared understanding among us; it binds us as we navigate the complexities of our experiences. We learn that vulnerability can be a powerful ally, that kindness toward ourselves during the tough times is not just an option, but a necessity.

Here’s hoping this combo is less cage match and more truce. May we find common ground in our struggles and celebrate each other’s victories, big or small. As we continue to push forward, let’s weave our individual tales of resilience into a tapestry of support and encouragement.

Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B