Tag: Alopecia

Falling in Pieces

When it started falling,
It left a trail of where I’d been.

No one said a word.
Maybe it was nothing.

But day after day,
It kept falling.

Too much.
Too fast.

There was no denying it,
Only proof.

Something was wrong.
I must be sick.

But I was young.
I was strong.
I felt fine.

It felt like a curse from above.
Telling me I did something wrong.
Telling me I deserved it.
Telling me I didn’t belong.

My hair isn’t mine anymore.
It belongs to someone else.

I started to fear
the touch of another person.

I miss the feeling
of fingers combing through my hair,
followed by a kiss,
and the comfort I used to know.

I miss the wind
How it once felt free.

I miss the water
How it once brought me calm.

I miss when my hair
didn’t feel like a lie.

I hate what’s become of me.
I hate this cage.

I hate the way I shrink inside.
Like I take up too much space.
Like I’m too much and never enough
All at the same time.

I grow envious
of the girl with someone
who twirls her hair.

Who tells her it’s beautiful,
how soft it feels,
how it’s part of her,
and why he loves her.

Who tucks her hair
behind her ear,
and whispers a secret
only meant for her.

All I can do
is watch from a distance,
and dream
of what it might feel like
to be her.

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The Alopecia Diaries

Dear Diary,

We are camping with the kids this weekend and of course we’re all excited about it.

I get excited thinking about watching the boys swimming in the lake.

Helping them build sand castles in the sand.

Having our little camp site set up with all our quirky gear.

Sleeping together in one tent, snuggling up tight.

Making delicious food on the BBQ and eating from paper plates and forks.

Having a night fire, roasting marshmallows and telling stories.  

When we got there, it sure was hot.

I love the heat, it’s just the heat doesn’t like wigs.

I know I could probably get away with going bald at the beach but I’m not brave enough.

The shocking difference of how you look bald even disgusts me when I see myself in the mirror.

It’s ok for men to go bald.  In fact, they look cool and badass when they do.

Women?  Not a chance.  They need beautiful flowing hair that looks attractive and feminine.

It’s as important as needing to get dressed in order to leave the house.

I follow one alopecia girl on Instagram and I admire her courage to go bald and eyebrowless in public.   

I’ve seen her pose in a bikini by a pool on a hot summer day and thriving in her baldness.

I’ve also seen her place her wig on her head while travelling on a train with no remorse.

At her wedding, she decided to not to be just one bride but two.   She was a bald bride and a bride with a beautiful wig on.   She wanted to show up as all of who she is, while sealing the deal of ‘until death do us part’ with her future husband.

She looked calm, content, happy and safe.

I adore her.

But I just can’t get over looking bald. I still want to hide it from everyone.  Forever. 

So anyways, back to the weekend.  I was sweaty, sticky and felt like my entire scalp was wet under my wig.

I wore a baseball hat for most of the entire time to help keep my wig down.

It sucks having to wear a wig.  

I get so jealous watching all the things other people can do that I can’t.

Like dipping their hair under water and feeling immediately cool and refreshed.

Riding a fast seadoo or speed boat and having no worries.

Having the freedom to wildly put their hair up or change their hairstyle on the beach with no mirror and without thinking twice.

I sometimes feel like I’m letting my kids down because of my limitations.  

They wish they could splash me with no hesitation or take turns pouring water over our heads and laughing.  Doing everything, everyone else does and behaving like everyone else.

I know they love me and I know they accept me for the way I am.  But every now and then my eldest tells me “I wish you didn’t have to wear wigs and that you were normal.”

I know he means well and isn’t trying to hurt my feelings.  He wants to see me “well” like everyone else.  I just keep telling him that until they find a cure that is safe enough to take, mommy just has to wait and deal with it and that she’s ok with it.

I hope I’m not an embarrassment to them.  My eldest told me once that he told all his friends at school that I wear a wig.  

Great.  This is going to be fun. 

But I didn’t get mad at him.  I knew he’s just a kid and he doesn’t quite understand disclosure and personal privacy yet.  Or minding others feelings.

So when the school bus comes I just wave and smile and think, “well shit, but who cares.  Life is wild and crazy.  These kids don’t really care about another mom anyways.”  

I went completely off track, sorry.  Back to the camping weekend.

It was so damn hot.  And very humid too.  

When it felt like I couldn’t take it anymore and my wig was gross enough, I decided to wash my wig in one of the shower stalls.

When I stepped in the shower stall, I noticed three things right away:

  1. There were no countertops.   
  2. There was a bench to sit on, but it was really dirty and gross.
  3. There was no mirror.

Fabulous. I didn’t know where to put my things.

As I’m scanning the room, I noticed there were some hooks on the back of the door.  

I was instantly grateful I brought a grocery bag with me so I can use the handle loops to hang the bag on one of the hooks. 

After washing myself and my wig, I stepped out of the shower, looking to put my wig down somewhere temporarily, but I forgot –  no countertops. Only a dirty and disgusting bench.  

I’m holding my ground and not putting anything down on that gross bench.

So I walked over to the door with the hooks and all my stuff hanging there. 

Then I realized what I have to do in order to make this situation work.

I’m gonna have to put my wig on one of the hooks as well.

I started looking at it and thinking how messed up all this was and how no one even knows what we go through sometimes.  

It looks like a wet rat just hanging there dripping.

I just want this whole weird process to be over with. 

I keep praying the lock on this door still works and hope no one knocks on this door right now given the very strange predicament I’m in.

As I reach for my dripping hanging hair – again super weird – and think about placing it on my head, I remember: “Oh yeah, no mirror. Great.”

I won’t be able to tell if I got the wig on right.

As I’m figuring out what I’m going to do, luckily I brought my hat with me. Thank god.

So I threw my wig on my head, tried combing my hair with my fingers and slapped on my hat.

I hoped everything looked ok.

Before stepping out, I made sure the sideburn hairs stuck out over my ears so it looked as natural as possible.

As I walked back to my campsite,  I went into our tent and zipped the door shut.

I tried to dry the hair as best as I could with a towel so I could apply the glue I need so I don’t have to wear this stupid hat for dinner too.

But the hair and the lace was still too wet for the glue to work.

Because there is never enough time, especially as a parent, I decided to just put the dumb hat back on again and try again tomorrow morning when the hair is dry.

When we went to sleep, I found a headband I could use to keep the wig secure enough while I slept.  I know my boys don’t mind, they’ve seen my wigs not fully glued all the way down before.

Nevertheless, it was a fun weekend.  We are back home now and trying to rest after an exhausting weekend with the crazy boys. 

So much laundry to do, so much unpacking.  I’m just going to do little bits at a time, and if it takes me a couple days before I complete it all, it’s all good.

Thanks as always for listening.  Until next time.

With love,

Jenna

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Getting Bullied Wearing Wigs

Growing up with alopecia felt like a battle I could never escape.

It was something I tried so desperately to hide — but everyone could tell.

The wigs I wore as a child looked artificial. There was no denying I had one on.

At school, kids teased me. They’d mock the way my hair parted — “Why does your hair grow in a circle like that? Are you wearing a wig?”

All I could manage was a soft “no,” shaking my head.

Because the truth was unbearable.

I couldn’t accept my own diagnosis, let alone let others know.

They’d think I was gross.

They wouldn’t want to be my friend.

They’d hate me.

So, I told myself: My best chance at belonging is if no one ever finds out.

I just wanted to be normal.

I remember one time, a soccer ball was deliberately kicked at my head — an attempt to knock my wig out of place and “prove” their suspicions.

When it happened, I calmly walked to my gym teacher and asked to go to the bathroom. I didn’t look him in the eye — I was too embarrassed. But he knew. He let me go.

I rushed into the stall and fixed my hairline as quickly as I could. Then I walked back into the gym like nothing happened. I didn’t face anyone. I didn’t say a word.

I just kept pretending I was normal. That my hair was real. That I belonged.

There was another time — a cruel game made up at school. The goal was to expose whether the latest rumor about someone was true.

For me, the rumor was that I wore a wig.

The game was this: one person pulled another’s hair until they yelled “ouch!” — the idea being if you didn’t feel it, it must not be real.

I had no choice. I played along. I screamed “ouch!” at what I guessed was the right moment, even though I didn’t feel a thing.

But I knew the truth.

I hadn’t fooled them.

The giggles after the soccer ball, the whispers in the hallway — they knew.

Still, I kept showing up. I kept going to events, hanging out with friends, attending school, doing everything I could to prove that I was “just like everyone else.”

I denied the teasing, denied the questions, prayed someone would change the subject when it came up.

Because if they found out, I would be a freak.

And I just wanted to be accepted. Understood. Liked.

What It Took to Finally Tell Someone

It wasn’t until years later, through therapy, that I started confronting the pain I had pushed down for so long.

Therapy forced me to speak about things I had buried — and in doing so, I started using my voice again.

I became accountable for my own healing.

And healing meant speaking up.

Sometimes that meant having hard conversations with the very people who hurt me.

I found that writing things down helped. There was something therapeutic about putting pen to paper. It gave me clarity — and courage.

When I had to say those words out loud, I read from the page. It kept me grounded. It helped me get through it without freezing up, softening the truth, or losing my train of thought.

Reading from a letter meant I didn’t have to make eye contact. I didn’t have to read their expressions. I just had to get through it — my truth, uninterrupted.

Some people had no words in response but appreciated the honesty.

Others were thankful to understand me better, and respectfully asked for time to process.

That was enough.

Because once I said it — I could breathe again.

And little by little, the things that once triggered me… stopped happening.

And if they did happen again?

I had the right to speak up.

I could say gently, “Hey — that actually hurts me. Can you not do that?”

That’s what healing looks like.

That’s what reclaiming your power feels like.

Learning to Speak Up

Over time, I started saying how I felt more often. I started saying “no” when something didn’t feel right.

I spoke up when I disagreed, voiced my opinions, even chatted with strangers.

And eventually, I found myself sharing about my alopecia — for the first time — with someone new.

It was a hairdresser. I knew they’d figure it out anyway. But instead of hiding, I chose honesty.

What followed blew me away.

They shared stories of other clients with alopecia. They told me about their journeys, what worked for them, how they coped.

I offered my own tips — advice I wish I had known sooner.

And I left the salon inspired. Energized. I imagined another girl hearing those same tips I’d just shared. I imagined her feeling a little more hopeful.

And that’s when it hit me:

My pain, shared honestly, could actually help someone else heal too.

Why I’m Writing This

I still struggle with words.

I still stumble when I speak, still feel guilt for expressing myself.

But this blog has become my safe space.

My outlet.

My voice.

If you’ve read this far — thank you. Truly.

You’ve given me the gift of being heard.

For the recovering hearts,

Jenna

If this story resonates with you or someone you know, I’d love to hear from you. 💌 Drop a comment, share your story, or send a message — let’s create a space where we feel seen. 🫶🏻

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Hair Isn’t Just Hair: Living with Alopecia, Navigating ADHD, and Finding My Identity

Alopecia is a disease—an autoimmune condition where the immune system mistakenly attacks hair follicles, treating them as a threat. There are three main types:

  • Alopecia Areata – Patchy baldness on the scalp or other parts of the body
  • Alopecia Totalis – Total baldness of the scalp
  • Alopecia Universalis – Total hair loss across the entire body

I have Alopecia Areata.

It started when I was just three years old — one small bald patch. My parents took me to the doctor, and the advice was simply to wait and see. Thankfully, my hair grew back. Everyone forgot about it… including me.

Eventually, I went on to have thick, beautiful hair — so thick my mom could only twist an elastic twice for a ponytail.

Losing My Hair, Losing My Identity

Then something changed. My grandpa passed away when I was around eight, and it was the first time I truly experienced grief. Shortly after, I started losing hair again — only this time, it was much more noticeable.

Another doctor visit followed. This time, I received a diagnosis: Alopecia. The doctor pointed out “exclamation hairs”—thin at the base, thicker at the tip. They’re a telltale sign that hair loss is progressing.

There’s a gut-wrenching feeling when you step into the shower and watch chunks of hair fall out. Some days are better. Others, worse.

I kept asking: Why me? No one else in my family had this. I was angry. Was this a test? A punishment?

I imagined life as a lottery. Some win health, beauty, and fortune. Others, like me, get dealt invisible pain and visible difference.

I never wanted to complain to anyone else. Instead, I just wished I could pretend I was like everyone else.

Hiding became my shield. However, the wind terrified me most—what if it blew just right and exposed my secret to the world?

Sometimes I’d trace the bald patches with my fingers, as if the shapes could explain why they existed. Strange circles. Mirrored patterns. Like brain scans. Or inkblot tests used to decode your mind.

Eventually, I gave up asking doctors. The treatments failed. Hope drifted further away until it disappeared completely. I surrendered.

But surrender didn’t bring peace. Instead, it felt like paralysis. I had accepted a version of myself I never wanted to be. I was no longer fighting for answers—I was simply surviving without them.

Still, those cards I was dealt led me here. They forced me to find strength I didn’t know existed. I learned what it means to crawl upward from rock bottom.

What Alopecia Took Away From Me

Alopecia took away pieces of my femininity. The intimacy of someone running their fingers through my hair. The simple, sensual feeling of wind in my hair, water rinsing over my scalp. All of those moments were taken from me.

Sometimes, I long for those cinematic gestures. The ones where someone tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Or gently pulls it in a passionate moment. Unless there’s a cure, I may never know what that feels like.

Having someone touch my wig is something I deeply avoid. It’s not what I want them to feel.

Above all, I miss freedom. The freedom of no limitations and no fear. That’s the hardest part.

What It Feels Like to Wear a Wig

Wearing a wig feels like putting on a tight, itchy net. Even the finest lace itches. I try not to think about whose hair it once was. Instead, I pretend it’s mine.

Most days, it feels stifling—too tight, too hot. Sometimes the glue doesn’t hold. Or the style I want isn’t possible. It can feel like a cage I can’t escape.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wanted to rip it off and throw it across the room in frustration.

But I know I can’t. I know I have to wear it—because it’s the only thing that helps me feel okay in this world.

The Strength I Needed to Live With Alopecia

Denial was my biggest coping strategy. I told myself the wig was my real hair. I told others the same. As a result, I denied myself space, voice, boundaries—even feelings.

It takes radical strength to carry this every day and pretend everything’s fine. You endure silently, without ever expressing the chaos inside.

Over time, I’ve changed. I’ve rebuilt. The girl I was is almost unrecognizable. Looking at old photos, I see the fear in my eyes. The tension in my smile.

Discovering I Also Have ADHD

Therapy helped me uncover more of myself. I wasn’t just living with alopecia—I was also living with undiagnosed ADHD.

There were signs. I would forget what I was saying mid-sentence. I lost things constantly. Focusing became nearly impossible. As a result, I blamed myself and felt defective—like I was broken.

What ADHD Feels Like for Me

Then I found others with ADHD online. I laughed at their reels, watching the humor unfold—and in those moments, I saw pieces of myself reflected back.

For the first time, I realized: maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was simply different. That discovery changed everything.

What I’ve Learned About Being Neurodivergent

Being neurodivergent doesn’t mean you’re less intelligent. It means your brain processes things differently. Some of us learn visually. Others need movement. Neurodivergence works much the same way.

Now, when my brain blanks or I freeze, I have tools. I understand what’s happening—and I know I’m not alone anymore.

The Latest Treatment for Alopecia: Litfulo

There’s no cure yet. However, in 2023, Pfizer released Litfulo, the first FDA-approved treatment for Alopecia Areata. It’s a JAK inhibitor, designed to regulate immune response.

While it’s promising, Litfulo carries serious side effects:

  • Lowered immune function
  • Risk of serious infections
  • Blood clots
  • Elevated liver enzymes
  • Potential long-term cancer risks

After reviewing these risks with my doctor, I’ve chosen to wait. For now, it’s not the right path for me.

This is my personal choice—not medical advice. Please consult your doctor for your own situation.

In the past, I tried creams and injections. They only brought temporary results. I still remember my mom gently applying numbing cream before those appointments. Her love softened the pain.

She was an incredible mother. I’m endlessly grateful for everything she did.

Until there’s a safe cure, we live with hair loss together.

With love,

Jenna

🔗 Learn more about Litfulo on Pfizer’s site

✨ Are you navigating alopecia or ADHD too? Let’s talk about it—drop a comment below or share this post with someone who needs support. We’re in this together.

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Why I Started Wig Girl Interrupted

The Reason

There’s an ache in my heart and a shortness of breath. An unnerving feeling that I am too late. That I’m doomed to never discover myself, to never show myself, to never be understood—and worst of all, to never explain myself well enough so I can be understood. The fear that I’m stuck forever interrupted and never whole, while everyone else around me seems to have done what they needed to feel complete. 

I’ve always been better at writing. My mind is at ease and I’m able to think more clearly. No one is looking at me, judging me, changing the subject, or half-listening. Even when I want to speak—or feel like I can—when is the right time to ever bring this stuff up? I’m not going to sour the mood of a dinner party, or open up during a short visit with family. I want those moments to be happy and meaningful. 

Speaking out loud is so different. I find it hard to concentrate on what I want to say, to express how I feel, and explain my situation clearly. I worry about boring someone, jumbling multiple thoughts, or forgetting the connecting piece mid-story. It makes me feel like I’m broken. I’d rather stay quiet and suppress my emotions than risk proving that belief true.

But suppression is a killer.

I’m such an expert at it, it became my default. I’ve suppressed so much, for so long, that I’ve never fully drained the deep-rooted emotions—and I’ve never truly felt free.

Where It All Started

In Kindergarten, I was extremely quiet—and right away, my family thought there was something wrong with me. I was put through hearing tests because they believed I might be deaf. But I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to give my attention.

Of course, any strong, confident child might’ve said something cheeky in response, but me? I believed in respect. I didn’t want to say anything unkind. I hoped that being kind would show people how I wanted to be treated—how I wished the world would treat everyone.

I was often forgotten, especially in moments of connection—like sitting around the dinner table. I committed to listening, to showing how much I cared. Because caring means you’re a good person, right? I always did what I was told. I never argued, never acted out. I agreed with people, even when I didn’t, hoping I’d be accepted. Liked. Loved.

I was labelled as “special” and treated differently. People spoke to me more gently, like I was fragile. And even though I was sensitive and deeply caring, I didn’t understand why I had to be handled like glass.

Then came the speech therapy, the learning challenges in school, and eventually—much later—a diagnosis at age 39: ADHD.

Repeating Kindergarten, struggling in school… it all seemed to confirm what everyone believed about me: there was something wrong. And I started to believe it too.

The Interruption

The way people took advantage of me—emotionally, relationally, even energetically—stripped me of my identity. I kept thinking, I just have to be nice. I just have to keep pleasing them. Then it will work. Right?

Who doesn’t want someone who agrees with them, supports them, says yes? I thought that was the recipe for love and happiness.

But being someone else’s shadow—always behind, always hidden—sets you up for self-erasure.

To this day, I am still healing from the interruption.

I have to learn what I like. I have to learn how to keep a conversation going, how to share myself, how to even know myself. I spent years serving others—never expressing, never opening up. People only got to know me when something they liked overlapped with something I quietly liked too.

I thought being agreeable and supportive would bring me happiness.I’ve seen multiple therapists, but one finally helped me understand what was happening. She was the one who suspected ADHD. And ironically, I started seeing her for marital issues—a whole other story that I’ll share in a future post.

The Truth Behind This Blog

This is me—getting the thoughts out. Letting the emotions breathe. Releasing the weight that’s sat on my chest for decades.

I’m writing for the ones who’ve felt forgotten. For the ones who’ve had their identity shaped by survival. For anyone who’s felt silenced, frozen, or misunderstood.

The constant interruption in my life was so severe, I couldn’t not share my story.

This is where I begin again.

For the healing hearts ❤️

With love,

Jenna

🫶 Know someone walking a similar path? Share this with them — it could be the sign they’ve been waiting for.

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🖤 Welcome to Wig Girl Interrupted

Hi, I’m Jenna — and I’m finally ready to stop hiding.

Starting this blog feels both exciting and terrifying. I’ve never done anything like this before — no personal site, no blog posts, nothing that asked me to be this visible. But after everything I’ve been through — from childhood hair loss to years of self-erasure — I know this step matters.

Sometimes the scariest things are the most important.

✨ Why I’m Here

For most of my life, I struggled to understand what was wrong with me.

I lost my hair as a child and spent years covering it with wigs, trying to blend in. I froze in conversations, avoided mirrors, and shrank myself in relationships that fed on my silence.

I was anxious. Confused. Emotionally exhausted. I didn’t have the words to explain what I was feeling — or why I felt like I was constantly fighting myself.

Then at 39, I was finally diagnosed with ADHD. That moment didn’t fix everything, but it helped me understand myself for the first time. It explained the chaos, the forgetfulness, the emotional flooding, the years of masking.

But even more than that — it helped me begin coming back to myself.

🕊 What “Wig Girl Interrupted” Means

This blog is my space to speak what was once unspoken — about identity, trauma, healing, and transformation.

The name Wig Girl Interrupted represents the pause I’ve lived in for far too long.

Interrupted by alopecia. By toxic relationships. By silence.

Now, I’m writing my way out of that interruption.

Here, I’ll talk about:

  • Life with alopecia and wigs
  • Living with ADHD (and the shame that comes with it)
  • Healing from emotional abuse
  • Rebuilding identity after years of people-pleasing
  • Finding my voice — even when it shakes

💛 If You’re Here, Thank You

If you’ve ever felt like your brain, body, or heart didn’t work the way they were “supposed” to…

If you’ve lost yourself in a relationship, a diagnosis, or the pressure to be everything for everyone…

If you’ve felt interrupted — by life, grief, shame, or silence — this blog is for you.

I don’t have all the answers. But I promise to be real.

If you’re new here, I recommend you Start Here.

Thank you for being here. I can’t wait to grow together.

With love,

Jenna

🪞 Healing is easier when we don’t do it alone. Pass this along to someone who needs to feel seen.

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