Vedanti Sharma

I was supposed to be in London. Bags packed, dreams crisp like a fresh visa stamp, heart full of ambition and excitement. But in June 2024, I came back from France with a persistent cough and unexplained weight loss. Five kilos, gone. Deep breaths were hard. Then came the fever.

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My family doctor chalked it up to exhaustion, maybe viral flu. I was admitted for three days when the fever wouldn’t go away. We trusted him. After all, we had access to polished, private healthcare. But that privilege also made TB feel impossible—both to me and to the people treating me. It took a visa rejection and a flagged chest X-ray during a routine health clearance to push for further tests. That’s when the diagnosis came: Tuberculosis. The regular kind, not drug-resistant. But trust me—there’s nothing “regular” about TB.

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Treatment began. RIPE meds ruled my life for nine months. The first six weeks were brutal, my fingers ached, joints throbbed, appetite disappeared, periods stopped for five months. I felt like a stranger in my own body.

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But what no one tells you is how lonely TB is. People think: you’re on meds, you’ll be fine. But by month eight, you still feel awful. There’s no cast, no chemo, no visible marker of illness, so people stop asking. You become a walking, hurting ghost. I had support. Close friends. Therapy, which I snuck into quietly because hospitals never ask about your mental health. They ask about your cough. Never your crying.

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I dropped out of my master’s plans. Pressed pause on jobs, internships, everything I had lined up. That “break year” wasn’t planned, wasn’t graceful, and certainly wasn’t Instagrammable. I lost more than time. I lost my grandfather. I lost Rambo, my dog, my anchor during isolation. I lost the version of myself I had spent five years building to be “London-ready.”

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And yes, I was asked all the questions women get asked: Will I still look good? Will I still be able to marry? Have kids? Bounce back? Do men get asked the same? I doubt it. Women are expected not only to survive, but to do it flawlessly.

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You’d think my family would understand, my mother’s a spinal TB survivor. But even they were in shock. Support came wrapped in confusion and fear. I had to isolate myself. My dad and brother avoided sharing utensils, and didn't sit close. I don’t blame them—they were scared. But I knew they were counting down the days until it was safe to hug me again. My mother dropped everything to make sure I had what I needed. She knew exactly how it felt.

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Friends were kind. Curious. Concerned. First, chronic illness outlasts people’s attention spans. They mean well, but after four, maybe eight weeks, the texts fade. The invites stop. Long-term suffering is awkward.

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So what kept me going? Honestly, my own stubbornness. I didn’t want to be defined by a disease. I worked out gently, journaled every breakdown, tried to eat better, took my meds on time. I told everyone what I was going through. Maybe I made people uncomfortable with how open I was. But TB shouldn’t be a shameful story. And I wanted younger girls, especially, to know they’re not alone.

It’s criminal that in 2025, people still die from something curable. That diagnosis still relies on luck, privilege, and educated guesses. Misdiagnosis is rampant. Awareness is dismal. Nutrition support is lacking. And mental health? Ignored completely.

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We need to teach TB awareness in schools. We need nonprofits to step up—emotionally, medically, financially. We need to stop whispering the word “Tuberculosis” like it’s a curse. I went through the hardest phase of my life with every form of support—what happens to those who don’t have any?

This experience has given me purpose. I want to help make TB care and support accessible for everyone.

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So, what would I tell someone going through this?

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Be selfish. Prioritise yourself. Some people will drift. Let them. You’ll survive. You’ll rebuild. You’ll find strength you didn’t know existed.

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I didn’t go to London last year. But I’m still here. Still dreaming. Still fighting.

And that, to me, is a victory.