Adaora sat hunched over her desk at work, her fingers pressing into her abdomen as if she could physically smother the burning sensation beneath her ribs. It felt like a lit match had been dropped into her stomach, the flames licking upward into her chest. She glanced at the clock—3:07 p.m. The third wave of pain that day. She swallowed two antacids dry, wincing as they scraped down her throat.  

“You’re always popping pills these days,” her colleague Tunde remarked, leaning against her cubicle with a grin. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not… pregnant, are you?” He laughed, oblivious. Adaora forced a smile. If only it were that simple, she thought.  

Ulcers were invisible, and that was the problem. No one saw the knife-like stabs when she skipped meals during back-to-back meetings, or the acid rising in her throat when stress spiked. To her friends, she was “the complicated one”—the woman who turned down pepper soup at gatherings, who disappeared during dinners to sit silently in the bathroom, gripping the sink as pain radiated through her torso.  

“You’re too young for all these health issues,” her aunt had scolded last week. “Just pray more. And eat properly.” Adaora had bitten her tongue. Properly. As if the bland plantains and unseasoned fish she forced down daily were a choice. As if the doctors hadn’t already stripped her diet to its bones.  

The worst part was the tests. That morning, she’d sat in a cold clinic hallway, her wallet lighter by ₦50,000 after another endoscopy. The gastroenterologist had frowned at her file. “Your stress levels are sabotaging treatment,” he’d said, as though stress were a switch she could flip off. She wanted to scream: *How do I stop stressing when pain wakes me at 2 a.m.? When my savings are draining into lab fees?*  

At home, her roommate Lola blasted music while cooking jollof rice—tomato, spicy, *torture*. “Come eat!” Lola called. Adaora shook her head, retreating to her room. “Ugh, why are you always like this?” Lola sighed. The door slammed.  

That night, the pain crested like a tide. Adaora curled on the bathroom floor, tears mixing with sweat. She’d done everything “right”—avoided alcohol, caffeine, acidic foods. Yet here she was, feeling broken, misunderstood, and utterly alone. Will this ever end?  

Then, a breakthrough. At a new clinic, a doctor finally listened. Not just to her symptoms, but to her life. “Chronic pain isn’t just physical,” she said. “Let’s try a different approach.” Slowly, Adaora added meditation to her routine. She joined an online support group where others shared stories of invisible battles. She even found a nutritionist who crafted meals that didn’t taste like punishment.  

Healing wasn’t linear. Some days, the fire still raged. But for the first time, Adaora felt armed—not just with pills, but with people who understood. She began to speak up: “No, I can’t eat that.” “Yes, I need rest.” The more she honored her pain, the less power it held.  

One evening, Lola knocked on her door, holding a plain yam porridge she’d tried to make. “I Googled ‘ulcer-friendly recipes’,” she mumbled. It was salty and lumpy. Adaora ate every bite.