Why My Chronic Illness Blog Isn’t a Medical Advice Hotline (Even If It Looks Like One)

I woke up the other morning, checked my email—because chaos always starts in the inbox—and there it was: a polite but very official-sounding message inviting me to visit a “health care bloggers code of ethics” website. Apparently, I was being encouraged to accept their code, proudly display their badge, and join the ranks of noble medical sages dispensing wisdom to the masses. I blinked at it three times, the way you stare at a smoke alarm that goes off for no reason. Surely this email wasn’t meant for me, the man who struggles to remember where he left his inhaler but can recite the exact time a pot of rice needs to steam without lifting the lid.

I kept rereading it, waiting for the cosmic punchline, because the closest I get to being a health care professional is knowing which foods won’t send my sarcoidosis lungs into a dramatic flare. My blog isn’t a medical textbook—if anything, it’s the commentary track of someone trying to live his life while his immune system freelances with no supervision. But someone out there, bless their optimistic heart, skimmed my site and decided I must be out here diagnosing the nation one blog post at a time.

Once the confusion faded, it finally hit me: they probably mistook my blog for a medical resource because of the old header photo. Oh yes—the infamous Frankenstein-collage I once called a “design choice.” And by design choice I mean I took images of internal organs, mashed them together like a late-night Pinterest experiment, and thought, “Yes, this truly captures my emotional landscape.” To be fair, it did accurately depict the organs sarcoidosis has poked, prodded, and experimented on like a bored intern. But apparently it also gave off strong “Harvard Medical Review” energy, which was not the brand I was going for.

If you’ve visited my blog recently, you’ll see I’ve swapped that medical collage for something much more honest: a bright, unapologetic sun. It felt like a better reflection of the space I’m building here—a warm spot where people with chronic illness or writing dreams or just too many emotions can sit down and breathe for a minute. And honestly, I’ll probably change it again depending on my mood or whatever existential crisis I’m hosting that week. But the original header? Yeah… it may have sent the wrong message.

I can just imagine the scenario. Someone stumbles onto my site, sees a heart and lungs floating like a diagram from an anatomy final, and thinks, “Ah yes, a medical authority. Let me alert the ethics committee.” Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to decide if my dog ate my last gluten-free muffin and whether taking prednisone again means my taste buds will betray me like they have before. My blog is many things—messy, honest, sarcastic, occasionally emotional—but what it will never be is a substitute for a doctor. I’m not writing prescriptions; I’m writing feelings, food memories, and the occasional rant about life in a body that thinks inflammation is a cute hobby.

Still, I get it. First impressions matter. Online especially. One wrong image and suddenly you’ve been knighted into a profession you never trained for. It’s sort of flattering, in the way being mistaken for a celebrity from behind is flattering—until you turn around and the person looks disappointed. I can’t help but laugh, though. I’ve spent years explaining sarcoidosis to people who think it’s either a dinosaur or a new probiotic, and here I am accidentally giving off “licensed pulmonologist” vibes. Life is nothing if not creative.

The truth is, the whole experience made me rethink the purpose of this blog, at least a little. Not in a deep “I must rebrand my identity” kind of way, just in a “let me fix that header before someone emails me their MRI” kind of way. I share my story because navigating chronic illness is absurd, beautiful, frustrating, hilarious, and heartbreaking—often all before breakfast. I write because the world needs more honest stories about living with conditions that don’t have tidy endings. And I write because someone out there scrolling at 2 a.m. needs to know they aren’t alone, even if the only advice I’m qualified to give is: “Hang on, you’re doing better than you think.”

So no, I will not be joining the health care bloggers code of ethics or slapping a stethoscope badge on my homepage. My blog is not a medical advice hotline. It’s a life-with-sarcoidosis survival journal, a chef-brain confessional, a chronic-illness detective story, and sometimes just a place to vent into the void. But I’m glad someone out there thought it looked professional enough to count. That’s almost as good as the time someone assumed I was organized because I owned a label maker.

If anything, this little mix-up was a reminder that the way we present ourselves online does matter—but so does the clarity with which we tell our stories. And mine? It lives somewhere between hope, humor, and trying to make peace with a body that doesn’t always follow instructions.

If you relate to any of this—or if you just enjoy watching me stumble through life with dignity held together by good food and sarcasm—drop a comment below or subscribe. I’d love to know you’re out there too.