Ritu Khattar

After completing my graduation in 2016 in Delhi, I moved to Bangalore to start my career. The first few months felt like everything was falling into place. But soon, small cracks began to show. I started losing my appetite. Fatigue, headaches, and a nagging cough crept into my days. Some days I barely ate a single meal; on others, I skipped eating altogether. My colleagues gently urged me to get checked, but I brushed it aside, until I couldn’t anymore. 

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By the end of that year, my body was at its breaking point. I couldn’t walk 200 metres without gasping for breath. It was only my mother’s insistence that led me to get tested. In January 2017, I was diagnosed with Tuberculosis. 

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I left my job and returned to Delhi to begin treatment under my parents’ care. Physically I was wrecked, but the emotional toll was even heavier. My days blurred into one long stretch of medicines and side effects. Questions about my health, whispered judgments, and my own sinking self-esteem made me withdraw into myself. For months, the four walls of my room felt like both prison and refuge. 

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Then came 24th March 2017, ironically, World TB Day. I woke up preparing for an interview, only to find my face burning and itching. The mirror reflected a stranger back at me: red patches and severe acne caused by the medicines. I screamed in disbelief. It felt like TB was stripping away not just my health, but also my confidence and identity. 

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There was no way out but through. The medicines couldn’t stop, no matter the toll. Alongside TB treatment, I now had to take more pills for acne, for hyperthyroidism, for everything the side effects unleashed. My weight shot up. My skin worsened. The comments, the bullying, the careless words of others, all of it left me feeling caged, asking the same haunting question: why me? 

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And yet, through the darkest moments, there were rays of light. My parents’ unconditional love. Friends who refused to give up on me. A school friend, now a doctor, who gently reminded me that side effects didn’t make me weak or less worthy, they made me human. Slowly, I started to reach out. I read about TB survivors. I listened to their stories. And in their courage, I found my own. 

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I began to take back control in small but meaningful ways. Morning walks to regain strength. Healthier food choices. Fruits and home-cooked meals instead of junk. Most importantly, I learned self-love. I looked in the mirror and decided to embrace myself—every scar, every curve, every change TB had brought into my life. Accepting myself was the first step to healing. 

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By October 2017, I returned to work. I even appeared for the CAT exam that November, securing admission into SP Jain Institute. B-school life was demanding, and I was still navigating lingering health issues, but I refused to let that become an excuse. I participated fully, academics, projects, extracurriculars. Some days felt impossibly heavy, but every night, I went to bed grateful that I was still moving forward. 

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In February 2019, I completed my medication. That day remains etched in my heart, the sheer joy of freedom, of being able to breathe without the constant shadow of TB. 

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Since then, life has changed in beautiful ways. I completed my MBA and today, I work as a Project Leader at a leading multinational company. I’ve rebuilt my fitness, regained my energy, and most importantly, my sense of self. The girl who once felt caged now stands tall, not because the journey was easy, but because it was hard, and I survived it. 

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The battle with TB was one of the most difficult chapters of my life. The physical pain, the scars, the bullying, the silent battles with my own reflection, each of them tested me in ways I could never have imagined. But those same trials made me stronger, more empathetic, and more determined. 

Today, I don’t ask “why me?” anymore. Instead, I ask, “why not me?” If my story can bring hope to someone still in the middle of their fight, if it can remind them that healing is possible and life can be reclaimed, then every tear and every scar has been worth it. 

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Because survival is not just about living through the storm, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.