Dear Friends,
As I celebrated turning forty, the coronavirus plunged Japan—and the world—into a phase of uncertainty and isolation. Like so many others, I tried to carry on. I kept working. I kept taking care of everyone else. I kept doing what I was supposed to do.
But I wasn’t feeling like myself. Not at all.
I was physically and emotionally drained from years of overworking, keeping up with demands, and the sheer busyness of trying to hold my life together. My body had been quietly trying to tell me something for a long time, but I kept brushing it off.
Dry hair. Increased hair fall. Delicate, easily irritated skin. Disrupted sleep that never seemed restorative. Erratic moods that left me wondering where my calm, steady self had gone. These had become familiar companions.
Maybe it’s just aging, I thought. I told myself to be graceful about it. Other women seemed to face these challenges without falling apart. Surely I could do the same.
But then came the signs that couldn’t be ignored…the dizzy spells, pounding migraines, and a sudden, uncomfortable change in my physique. My face became puffy. My belly bloated in a way that didn’t shift no matter what I did. I felt heavy, unbalanced, and strangely detached from my own body.
The world was already spinning with pandemic fear. Now my own body felt foreign, too.
Seeking answers, I found myself at the “Ladies Clinic,” a place that always made me feel anxious because of my less-than-perfect Japanese. I knew enough to get by, but medical conversations were another matter entirely.
To my great relief, a kind young doctor greeted me, layered in protective gear. Despite the mask and shields, her eyes were warm. She spoke enough English to bridge the gaps, and where she couldn’t, she patiently found ways to make me understand. She ordered a series of tests and asked me to return in a week.
That week felt like an eternity. Worry gripped me. My mind ran through every possibility. Could this be serious? Was my body failing me completely?
When I returned, I sat nervously in the same chair, glancing at the open medical journal on her desk. She greeted me gently but with a more serious tone than before.
She explained that my prolactin levels were three times higher than normal, a finding that could sometimes indicate a brain tumor.
I barely registered the rest of her words. “Pituitary gland,” “excess prolactin,” “possible prolactinoma.” The room felt distant and blurry.
She handed me a formal letter of introduction to a Neurology clinic for further evaluation. An MRI was required.
I walked out of the clinic with tears slipping down behind my mask. I called my family. I tried to keep my voice steady. But I could feel the heavy weight of uncertainty pressing down on me with every step toward home.
The following week, I underwent the MRI. The machine was loud, cold, and claustrophobic. As I lay perfectly still, I prayed silently: Let it be nothing serious. Let this not be something that changes everything.
But then came the words I didn’t want to hear. The technician explained that another scan was necessary. Something wasn’t clear.
I tried not to panic. My mother was in the waiting room, her face etched with worry. The minutes dragged into what felt like hours.
Finally, we were called in to meet the neurologist. He was a surprisingly boisterous man who spoke in a loud, booming voice that contrasted sharply with the tension in the room.
He examined the scans carefully, pointing to the images of my brain.
Here, nothing! he announced. Here, nothing! He pointed again, as if to reassure us. Here, nothing!
The weight on my shoulders lifted slightly. My mother exhaled in relief, letting out a small, nervous giggle.
Nothing in my brain. What a wonderful insult.
But of course, the journey wasn’t over.
The diagnosis was now clear: hyperprolactinemia.
No tumor. But my pituitary gland was producing too much prolactin. They couldn’t find a reason. Sometimes, these things have no clear cause.
I was prescribed a dopamine receptor agonist to bring my prolactin levels down. It worked. But it came at a cost.
The medication caused nausea, disturbed my sleep, and led to vivid, haunting nightmares. There was no option to take time off work. I couldn’t abandon my responsibilities. I was still caring for my senior dog, whose health was starting to decline. I had elderly relatives who needed me. I kept going because I had no other choice.
Eventually, the medication brought my prolactin levels back to normal. I was able to stop taking it. But my doctor cautioned that the levels would likely rise again.
We may need to resume treatment soon, she said softly.
I nodded, but inside, I knew: I didn’t want to go back on that medication if I could help it. I had to find another way.
So I made a quiet promise to myself and to my doctor. I would return for regular checkups. But I would also begin searching for natural ways to support my body, manage stress, and keep my prolactin levels balanced.
That chapter of my life was heavy. Unfair, it seemed. As if life had placed yet another weight on my shoulders during an already overwhelming time.
But with time, I began to see it differently.
Sometimes, we get blindsided by changes and diagnoses we didn’t expect.
Sometimes, our bodies become louder than our plans.
Sometimes, the only thing to do is listen.
Three years later, I am still listening. Still learning. Still managing. And still finding small, sustainable ways to support my body and honor its needs.
In case you’re struggling with something right now:
You are not alone in your uncertainties.
You are not alone in your fears.
Your body is not your enemy. It is your messenger.
In the following posts, I will share the small, gentle things that have helped me keep my prolactin levels balanced and my nervous system calmer.
We may not always get to choose the journey.
But we can choose how we respond to it.
Next, you might like: Lowering Prolactin Naturally: What Helped Me (Vitex and P5P)