There was a version of me in 2002—forty years old, a working chef, exhausted in ways that made no logical sense, and listening to doctors insist that every alarming symptom was “stress.” Now that sarcoidosis is a familiar part of my vocabulary, looking back on that time feels like watching a movie where you want to yell at the character to turn around. Revisiting that moment made me rethink the “what if” game entirely and wonder how differently life looks when you finally know what your body was trying to tell you.
