See, I don’t always do this. Only when the patches land on my feet. But when they do, trust me, socks become my best friend and worst enemy rolled into one. Every night it’s shea butter, socks on. Every morning it’s peel, inspect, sigh. A routine that I never signed up for but now feels like second nature.

And the funny thing? Routines for psoriasis are not even fixed. Each flare-up comes with its own “mini checklist.” Summers have one list, winters another, monsoon a whole new drama. Sometimes I follow them all, sometimes I slack, sometimes I’m just tired. But a few are constant: drink too much water, keep moisturizers in every bag, avoid long hot showers, and don’t scratch no matter how much it feels like heaven in that one second.

Psoriasis has made me look at routines differently. People think routines are all about “productivity hacks” or “morning rituals.” For me it’s survival. My ten minutes before and after showers aren’t about meditation or manifesting my dream life - they’re literally me prepping my mind so I don’t scald myself with boiling hot water for comfort. My brain likes to wander and when it does, my skin pays the price. So that pause is me telling myself, “Behave. Don’t ruin today.”

Going out needs a kit too: moisturizer, wet wipes, sometimes even medical tape in case I get cuts. (Nothing fancy, just the white tape you wrap around wounds.) Because I’m not about to brush against some public surface and invite infection like an idiot. That prep is less about skin and more about calming my brain: reminding myself that I can step into the world and not fall apart.

And then coming home? That’s my favorite. First thing I do: wash my feet. Always. Not cultural, not religious, just something I’ve built over the years. Especially when psoriasis lives there, I can’t just throw myself on the bed. I need to rinse the day off - the dirt, the sweat, the stares. Yes, the stares too.

Because let’s be honest, I’m still not used to them. Sometimes I wonder - are they looking at my skin? Or my weight? Or just staring for no reason? For years, I used my hair to deflect attention. Colored it, styled it, made it bright enough so people would look at that instead of the patches. It worked for a bit. But eventually, that ritual faded. This year I chopped my hair short and decided to stop hiding. New skin, new hair, new me (or at least trying).

That’s the thing about rituals. They don’t need to be holy, aesthetic, or “Instagram-worthy.” They just need to carry you through the day. My routines aren’t glamorous, but they keep me aligned. They’re like those quiet acts of resilience nobody claps for - and maybe that’s the point.

So yeah, my mornings don’t always start with socks. But when they do, it’s because those socks are part of my invisible survival kit. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade them for a productivity app, or meditation course, or even a double espresso. This is my version of balance, and it works - at least most days.

The world’s advice machinery revved to life. “Don’t stress.” “Try this cream.” “Have you tried this diet?” From uncles, aunties, strangers on the street - everyone had a golden tip. And much like landlines turning into mobile phones, the delivery changed, but the tone never did. We advanced technology - society stayed the same.

Stress is everywhere: angry coworkers, traffic, family expectations, that daily inner monologue where you replay mistakes. But when you live with psoriasis, stress is not just emotional, it becomes physical. My scalp feels tight like someone twisted elastic around it. I itch, I want to scratch, but I know if I do, it’s snowfall season all over my clothes and floors.

The worst part? People acting like you’re contagious. Taking a step back, avoiding hugs, giving that tiny look like skin = danger. They don’t realise that what flares me isn’t me touching them: it’s stress, judgment, whispers, fear. That kind of stress spreads faster than any patch ever could.

So here’s my PSA: psoriasis is not contagious. But stress? It travels. It jumps from one careless comment, one pitying stare, to a flare-up faster than you think. If you don’t have psoriasis, don’t pretend you know my skin’s journey. If you see someone flaring, a little empathy goes farther than advice ever will.

Once, I read a study showing that people with psoriasis who felt more social support and talked openly about their skin had slightly better quality-of-life scores, not a cure, of course, but maybe just enough to matter. (Talking about the non-contagious nature of psoriasis has been linked to reduced social discomfort in some patients.) PMC Sometimes the tiniest push- a shared laugh, a message that says “you’re not alone” matters more than we realise. That’s why I started this circle. If you ever want to talk about flare days, skin shame, or bleak jokes at midnight, you know where to reach out :)

Humor became my crutch - probably more than it should have. But sanity? Yeah, that flew out the window during my early homeopathy days. I had to juggle too many versions of me: me dealing with the skin, me dealing with the mind, me stuck in the past, me worrying about the future, and then - me trying desperately to stay in the present. Honestly, it felt like a whole sitcom cast playing inside one body.

The worst was when flare-ups came in phases. First, the “mystery patch” phase, where new spots popped up faster than I could count. Then the plateau phase, where nothing changed but you lived in constant maintenance mode: moisturize constantly, no scratching, lukewarm showers only, avoid harsh chemicals, this oils and that cream to not make it worse. And scalp psoriasis? Don’t even ask. That was my breaking point - the kind of thing that could make me cry mid-shampoo.

From skin purging to gradual healing, I spent a year going wall-to-wall: no stone left unturned - managing body, mind, and whatever was left of my soul. Add in the food saga: no sugar, no dairy (I’ve been lactose intolerant since 2016 anyway), then the cut all gluten experiment, then nightshades, then the endless “no processed foods” rule. Basically, I became my own walking elimination diet.

Some left little “ghost marks,” some disappeared like they were never there. That part felt magical. To live and thrive inside this skin, even when it was a battlefield, was its own kind of reward.

So next time you’re stuck in a situation, a flare, or whatever curveball life throws: as long as your lungs still fill with air, remember - your body’s with you. You can kick ass. And how.

After using medicated shampoo, my curly-girl method went right out the window. All the effort I’d spent months building vanished - and, little to my surprise, it came back sooner than my last period. Welcoming this permanent guest was not on the cards, especially while living alone, juggling work, life balance, and a mind that refuses to ever take a break. I wasn’t exactly the sanest version of myself at that point.

A few more patches started appearing on my stomach. As someone who has wrestled with body image issues and body dysmorphia, I wasn’t exactly thriving. Then came 2020 - social distancing, isolation, and suddenly severe social anxiety became my new reality. I tried everything I could think of: homeopathy, steroid creams, supplements, diets. Some things helped a little, some did nothing, and some made me wonder if my body was secretly trolling me. And of course, I had lots of time to read, experiment, and overthink - fun times, right?

I came across TSW (topical steroid withdrawal) early in this journey. Honestly, I wasn’t ready for it. Not at all. The scale of it scared the-well, let’s say it scared the hell out of me. That’s when I decided I would avoid steroids, no matter what, because clear skin today wasn’t worth risking a nightmare tomorrow. Around the same time, a family-recommended homeopathy doctor entered the picture, and I stuck with it for three years. That journey wasn’t just testing my skin - it tested my mental capacity to deal with my body, my life, and, frankly, society too.

During those years, I also went through a full-on food journey. Gluten? Cut. Sugar? Mostly gone. Nightshades? You bet - out the window and how! Supplements, homeopathy, and trial-and-error became my constant companions. And let’s not forget the small but real sacrifices: I took the COVID vaccine and that definitely triggered a flare, but skipped the booster. A new routine was made, as I know immunity is on overdrive- I always had to be extra careful not to catch colds, watched how I moved and tried not scratch myself, basically treated my body like it was glassware on display.

I sometimes post mini updates on Instagram for anyone who’s curious about the random chaos my skin throws at me — nothing fancy, just me trying to document the mess so someone else feels a little less alone.

I want to be clear: the doctor was lovely, and I have no complaints. But eventually, I realized homeopathy didn’t work for me. People often ask why I never tried Ayurveda? - honestly, what works for one person might not work for another. I won’t experiment with something unless I can give it my full faith, because otherwise, I’m just wasting time. And those years? I’d rather spend them learning patterns in my own body, observing, tracking, and using that as leverage for myself.

After all the advice, all the tips, all the “you should try this” moments, I decided to raise both hands in my room and silently but loudly tell the world: “I’LL DO THIS MU WAY”. Not out of hate, but because there’s no fixed study proving the exact cause or cure of psoriasis, and frankly, I don’t believe anyone who says otherwise.

Looking back, I’m grateful for what this journey has taught me - patience, curiosity, and the courage to see life one step at a time. Healing isn’t linear. There’s no universal magic formula. And right now, it’s about learning, growing, and not giving into the people who scream “this will cure you!”

Chronic illnesses like psoriasis have become the new “cancer” in terms of invisibility and misunderstanding. Not because they’re rare, but because they’re everywhere, and nobody talks about them like they should. The medical system can be transactional, friends and family offer platitudes, and online advice . . well that’s a whole other ecosystem.

Open Instagram or YouTube, and you’ll find hundreds of tips for “healing your psoriasis.” Diet charts, oil treatments, miracle creams, “detox water,” yoga sequences, and everything in between. Each post is full of sincerity, but with so many versions floating around, it can feel impossible to know what actually works.

Here’s the truth: some of it will help. Some of it will make no difference. And some of it will flare your skin up even more.

So what do you do?

You start with the basics. Ground yourself. Retrace your steps. Notice what your body responds to, not what the internet says it should. Water, sleep, stress, food, yess. They all matter, but in a way that’s unique to you. No one outside of your skin can prescribe exactly what will work.

And here’s the thing: building community matters more than chasing cures. Share your experiences, compare notes, vent, celebrate the small wins. Because psoriasis isn’t just a rash: it’s a life lived in flares and remissions. And sometimes the only way forward is knowing you’re not the only one.

I’m not here to offer miracle solutions. I’m not here to critique doctors or prescribe the perfect routine. I’m here to say: there is value in talking. In documenting your journey. In reading someone else’s and taking from it what resonates for you.

For all the people who have healed their psoriasis, who are in the middle of healing, who are just beginning their journey, thank you for sharing. Your words, your experiments, your failures, your wins, they’re what make a community, not some perfect cure.

And maybe, just maybe, that community is what will make this chronic illness a little less isolating. A little less terrifying. A little less like the new “cancer.” Because the truth is: psoriasis doesn’t define you. The network of people who see you, support you, and share honestly- that’s what shapes the healing.

Join the circle. Be part of a community that gets it, shares openly, and learns together.

The new diagnosis panic is its own genre: cut everything immediately, stop all dairy, sugar, end your social life, (because who dares eats a cake and birthdays), stock upon ointments that make you smell like camphor and disappointment, pretend family remedies somehow work (just apply hadli or neem paste beta) And quietly, panic, and think of forever. Add to this the greatest hits: homoeopathy, ayurveda, steroids, injections, miracle oil, red light therapy, alkaline water. Each of these weighs on your pocket, but definitely promising relief, reminding you that your skin is now your entire life and a “project” to be worked on. 

But here's the thing: What you actually need first, isn't the cure. It's stability. Nobody tells you that, because stability doesn't sell. “Slow down as stabilise”. Think of it like the building blocks so you don't burn out instantly, like the scaffolding for a building- not the sexy kind, not permanent, but necessary before you even think about the architecture. In practice, stability means dialing down the chaos: finding a treatment (yes, sometimes the dreaded creams or steroids) that actually calms skin enough to think clearly. It means tracking flareups and not blindly, cutting 20 food groups at once. Because one influencer swore gluten was satan or sugar was your mortal enemy. It means saying, “Let me get my life back from the red-alert siren before I play detective.” Because otherwise, you’re just in perpetual crisis mode, bouncing between miracle fixes, and your own exhaustion. 

This is where I started noticing the observed theatre of it. Healthcare in India is like that uncle at weddings who offer offers advice, you didn't ask for: dermatologist, prescribing steroids, like they're distributing ladoos, family insisting ayurveda will solve it because “naturally safe” and Google shouts detox plans that read like punishment rituals from a mediaeval monastery. Meanwhile, you're just trying to figure out if you can wear black without snowing, dead skin all over the place. 

What's wild is that some patterns repeat across the autoimmune spectrum. Eczema, arthritis, Hashimoto’s. The script changes, but the plot doesn't. Quick fixes, miracle talk, zero discussion of long-term clarity. It's almost like the system is designed to keep us as permanent patients rather than informed humans who can think critically about their bodies. 

So here's my counter-script: don't let panic write your first draft. Your job in the beginning, isn't to chase every new cure- It's to stabilise. Yes, you will experiment later. Yes, food, gut health and lifestyle matter, no doubt. But panic-mode bans and magical thinking aren't healing. They just noise and because this is my second essay here, let me tell you why I am even writing all this in the first place.

I'm not a doctor. I'm not here to prescribe you. What I am is Someone who sat in the waiting room smeared the oils, threw out the bread, roti, sooji, Googled at 2am, cried, and still came back to answer: Is there a saner way to do this? And every time I peel back another layer of research, I realise healing isn't a straight line- it's a circle. A circle of patients, critical thinking, and yes, sometimes bitter laughter at the absorption of it all.

Think of this Substack as that circle -a place where we can be both existential, frustrated, and practically grounded. Where  culture, autoimmune research, and the sheer comedy of human bodies, colliding with capitalism, all sits in the same paragraph. Because if we can't laugh at the idea that turmeric milk is somehow going to rewire our immune system, then what's the point? 

So if you've just been diagnosed, or if you’re years into the dance and still feel like you're Googling yourself into despair- pat yourself on the back and welcome yourself into the circle. And most importantly, take a deep breath and pause. Don't let the panic vending machine dictate your moves. Stabilise. Take another deep breath and know that clarity is the first treatment you deserve..

And if you ever want to share your thoughts or talk about your own journey, Just hit “reply” to this email, and I'd love to hear from you.

Disclaimer: I'm not a medical professional. Nothing here should be taken as medical advice. I'm just reading, researching, experimenting and sharing what I learn along the way think of it as feel notes from a fellow traveller and not a prescription pad.

Psoriasis. A word that feels heavy even typing it out.

It’s not “just dry skin.” It’s not “just a rash.” It’s pain that burns like a million tiny paper cuts. It’s the itch that drives you insane at 2 AM. It’s your skin splitting open in places you wish you could hide. And it’s the flakes - the constant reminder that no matter how hard you try to keep yourself together, you’re leaving a trail of yourself everywhere you go.

Now, living with this in our country is a whole different beast. Here, medical care can feel rushed and transactional. Doctors throw steroid creams at you without explaining long-term risks. Homeopathy promises miracles but often fans the fire. Family members tell you to “just stop stressing” as if that magically resets your immune system. And strangers? They stare. They flinch. Some even whisper. It’s not contagious - but stigma spreads faster than any flare-up ever could.

The shame seeps in quietly. You start second-guessing your clothes: Will this patch show if I wear black? Will flakes fall onto the chair if I sit here too long? Will people think I’m unclean?The guilt follows right behind: Did I eat the wrong food? Did I cause this by not managing my stress? Did I fail myself?

It’s exhausting.And yet, I know I’m not the only one. I’ve read posts from people all over the world describing the same invisible battles: the sting of soap on cracked skin, the way a handshake can feel like a spotlight, the endless cycle of hope → treatment → relapse → despair.

So why am I writing this?

Because I believe that if the medical system, the culture, the noise around us isn’t going to make life easier, maybe we - the people living it  CAN. This Substack isn’t a medical manual. It’s not a shop window for miracle cures. It’s going to be messy, emotional, and sometimes angry. But it will be honest.

I’ll share hacks that make life a little less miserable (like the perfect moisturiser timing trick, or clothes that hide without suffocating). I’ll rant about the nonsense we’re sold. I’ll talk about the shame no one names out loud. And I’ll celebrate the small wins - like the one day your skin feels calm enough to wear short sleeves without thinking twice.

If nothing else, I hope this space becomes a corner of the internet where we don’t feel so alone. Where you can read my words and think, finally, someone gets it. And maybe - just maybe - where we start building a community that sees beyond the patches, the flakes, and the stares.

Because psoriasis might cover my skin, but it doesn’t get to define me.

Not anymore.

This is where my story begins.

If you’re reading this, maybe it’s where ours begins too.