In the depth of that grief, I found my coping mechanism in scratching a spot at the back of my head, something I wasn’t even aware of until the day I reached back and felt only skin. The itching was maddening—a relentless, constant physical manifestation of the grief and anxiety I couldn’t turn off. I was caught in a cycle, knowing that every scratch was worsening the hair loss and risking infection, yet still driven by the need for even a moment of relief.

A biopsy followed. Not Lupus. Not Alopecia. Folliculitis. The doctor’s words carried a finality I wasn’t prepared for—the hair would never grow back, as scar tissue had formed and permanently blocked the follicles. Prescriptions weren’t working, and one—Bactrim—left me covered in hives. What I didn’t yet understand was that my body had also been struggling beneath the surface. I would later be diagnosed with Hashimoto’s and Rosacea, diagnoses that helped explain so much of what had been happening to my skin and scalp all along. My scalp hadn’t only been reacting to grief—it was already inflamed, already reactive. I just didn’t have a name for it yet.

My desperation for relief led me down a different road.