You ever have one of those moments where life hits you with a plot twist so wild, you start questioning if you’re actually living in some poorly written sitcom? Like, you’re just minding your business, trying to adult, and BAM—life drops a grenade in your lap and says, “Good luck with this one, champ!”

Well, that’s exactly what happened to me while I was sitting in the patient’s chair, staring at my doctor like she’d just told me I was secretly a mermaid. “Solar urticaria” she said, spinning around to face me with the kind of calm that only someone who doesn’t have to live with your life can muster.

I blinked. Then squinted at her like she was speaking Klingon. “So, you’re just gonna hit me with a double whammy? First, I have fibroids, and now I’ve got—what did you say? Solar ur-mi-tris?”

She laughed. “Solar urticaria.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Hold up. Forget the fibroids for a second. We’ll circle back to those. But how does a girl born and raised in a tropical country suddenly become allergic to the sun at 28? Is this some kind of cosmic joke?”

She shrugged. “It happens.”

“Happens?! Happens to WHO?! Cool. Coolcoolcool. Just what I needed: a medical mystery wrapped in a riddle, sprinkled with a dash of “why me?”

Alright, let’s backtrack.

The year 2022 was long. Unnecessarily long. It was shaping up to be the year that made me question every life choice I’d ever made. My period had decided to overstay its welcome like an in-law with no return ticket. It had just decided to stage a never-ending protest, turning me into a walking crime scene and forcing me into what I like to call Inflicted Celibacy. And then, as if my uterus wasn’t enough of a drama queen, I noticed something strange. Every time I visited my new boyfriend, Christopher, not only did my bleeding intensify, but I’d also break out in hives.

HIVES.

Like I was allergic to the air in his house. Or maybe to him? Nah, that couldn’t be it.

Right?

Wrong.

I had chalked it up to his water. “must be the water,” I’d say, scratching my arms like a flea-ridden dog. Maybe his detergent. Maybe my body just hated his pillows. But looking back, deep down, I knew it was more than that. It was clear as day—I was allergic to him.

Yes. You read that right.

Not his cologne, not his laundry detergent, not even his questionable taste in Hawaiian shirts—him. The man himself. My body was basically screaming, “Girl, run!”

People talk about being allergic to peanuts, shellfish, gluten—normal stuff. But a whole human being? That was a new one.

Chris was supposed to be my soulmate. Or so I thought. Turns out, he was more of a soul-sucker. He played the role well, too. A seasoned womanizer with the charm of a used car salesman and the morals of a raccoon in a dumpster. As my friend Lina put it best: “You can’t shame the shameless.” And boy, was Chris shameless. He acted all understanding, went to doctor’s appointments with me, offered suggestions, even held my hand through it all. But, as it turns out, the call was coming from inside the house.

For two years, I bled like a stuck pig, lost weight like I was training for a marathon I didn’t sign up for and became so allergic to the sun I basically started living like a vampire. Meanwhile, Chris was all, “Oh, poor baby, let me take care of you,” while secretly being the human equivalent of a black hole sucking the life out of me.

But the universe has a funny way of slapping you awake. One morning, I decided to surprise Chris with an unannounced visit. He’d asked if I was coming over, but I lied and said my cramps had me bedridden.

(Side note: Why do we always lie about cramps like they’re some kind of shameful secret? Men will brag about a hangnail, but we’re out here acting like our uteruses aren’t staging a mutiny.)

Anyway, I pulled up to his house, and there he was, hands all over Olivia like she was the last slice of pizza at a frat party. They saw me, they jumped apart like church folks avoiding sin, but it was too late. I’d seen enough.

Now, the old me would’ve gone full soap opera, complete with dramatic slaps and a monologue about betrayal. But not this time. Nope. I just backed up my car, drove away, and never looked back. To this day, I haven’t heard from Chris or Olivia, and honestly? Good riddance to bad rubbish, as Selina would say.

And just like that, Christopher ceased to exist.

Fast forward a year later and enter Fred. Sweet, wonderful, normal Fred. He was everything I didn’t know I needed. He worshipped the ground I walked on, brought me soup when I was sick, and didn’t once make me feel like a walking medical disaster. Before I knew it, we were engaged. I was already mentally putting his last name next to mine.

Here’s where it gets weird.

I noticed something: I wasn’t having flare-ups anymore. My sun allergy? Gone. My period? Normal.

At first, I brushed it off. But then, like a movie montage, it all came rushing back to me—Chris, the bleeding, the hives, the weird vibes, the betrayal. And then it hit me like a truck:

 

I WAS LITERALLY ALLERGIC TO MY EX.

I’m not one for conspiracy theories, and I don’t believe in coincidences, but I do believe in science. And science was telling me that sometimes, people make you sick. Physically, emotionally, mentally—if they’re toxic enough, they will literally ruin your health.

I couldn’t ignore the signs. My body had been trying to tell me something all along: I wasn’t allergic to the sun or the water or even life itself. I was allergic to Chris.

It was one of those moments where everything suddenly makes sense, like when you finally figure out how to fold a fitted sheet. All the pieces fell into place, and I realized that some people come into your life just to make you sick—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Chris was my kryptonite, and Fred was my antidote.

I mean it.

Even my doctor was baffled. “Did you try any herbal treatments?” she asked, flipping through my chart like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Nope,” I said, grinning. “Just fell in love with the right person.” And just like that, my body healed itself.

Chris had laughed once, saying he knew I could never give him children. “Who wants a woman who bleeds all over everything?” he had sneered.

Well, funny thing, Chris. I had twins. Twice.

Oh, and you better believe I sent him and his family a Christmas card that year. A big, glossy one with all four of my kids smiling like little angels. Call it petty, but sometimes karma needs a little nudge. Happy holidays, sucker.

So, here’s to love, laughter, and finally figuring out that you’re not allergic to life—just the wrong people. And if anyone ever tells you that you can’t heal yourself with love, just point them my way. I’ve got a Christmas card with their name on it.