Woman Without D

The sun rays fought their way through the gap in the curtains, slicing across my eyes like a physical blow.

My alarm screamed—a digital screech that seemed to vibrate inside my teeth. I swiped it off, the silence rushing back in, but the relief didn't follow. I lay there, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air.

Which day is this? I wondered. It felt like the same day I had lived for the past six months. A gray, heavy loop.

"Get up, Sruthi," I whispered to the empty room. "Just get up."

I am Sruthi. On paper, I am a twenty-eight-year-old Senior Analyst at a top-tier firm. I am supposed to be in the prime of my life—ambitious, vibrant, climbing the ladder. But as I peeled the duvet off my body, I didn't feel twenty-eight. I felt ancient.

I had slept eight hours. I had gone to bed at 10:00 PM like a disciplined child. Yet, as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, gravity felt twice as strong as it should be. There was no "ready to conquer the world" energy. There was only a thick, syrupy haze in my brain and a body that felt like it was wearing a suit made of lead.

I shuffled to the bathroom. Under the harsh white vanity light, I brushed my hair.

Clump.

I stared at the brush. Another tangle of dark strands caught in the bristles. My heart hammered a jagged rhythm against my ribs. Stress, I told myself, feeling the familiar prick of anxiety. It’s just stress. You’re working too hard. But was I? I looked at my reflection—pale, dark circles etched like bruises under my eyes. I looked hollowed out.

I needed coffee. Not for the taste, but for survival. I brewed it black, dark, praying it would jumpstart a battery that refused to hold a charge.

The office was freezing. It always was.

I sat at my desk, the glow of the dual monitors reflecting on my face. It was 11:00 AM. This used to be my power hour. This used to be when I built spreadsheets that dazzled clients.

Today, I was reading an email from my manager, intent on replying.

“Please review the attached projections and cross-reference with Q3 data...”

I read the sentence. Then I read it again. The words seemed to swim, detaching themselves from meaning. Q3 data. What was Q3 again? My brain felt like it was wading through molasses. I minimized the window, overwhelmed by a task that would have taken the "Old Sruthi" ten minutes. Now, it felt like climbing Everest without oxygen.

I looked around. My colleague, Priya, was laughing on a call, typing furiously. She looked so... alive. Why was she able to do this? Was I just stupid now? Was I lazy?

"Hey, Sruthi, you coming for lunch?" Priya asked, popping her head over the cubicle.

"I think I'll skip," I mumbled, pulling my cardigan tighter around myself. "I have to finish this."

"You okay? You look a little washed out. Caught that bug going around?"

"Yeah," I lied. "Just a bit under the weather."

The truth was, I was always under the weather. If someone sneezed on the third floor, I was sick on the second floor by evening. My immunity was a joke. I was the girl who was always sniffing, always tired, always "just getting over something."

Then came the 3:00 PM crash.

It wasn't just sleepiness. It was a physical depletion so absolute it was frightening. I sat in the ergonomic chair that HR swore was the best in the market, but my lower back throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. My knees felt strange—weak, deep inside the bone, as if the structure holding me up was slowly eroding.

Maybe I need a new mattress, I thought, shifting uncomfortably. Maybe I need to do more yoga.

I stared at the cursor blinking on the screen. Blink. Blink. Blink.

I had been staring at it for twenty minutes. I was physically present, billable hours ticking away, but I was gone. I was procrastinating, tab-switching between news sites and social media, not because I didn't want to work, but because I physically couldn't summon the focus.

What is wrong with you? The voice in my head was cruel. You have a great job. You have a life. Why are you so miserable? Why are you so useless?

I left the office at 6:00 PM. I didn't go to the gym. I didn't meet friends. I went straight home, the phantom aches in my legs making the commute agony.

The darkness wasn't just in the room; it was inside my bones. That’s what nobody understood. They told me to "get out more," to "push through," as if willpower could fix the fact that my body felt like it was constructed from wet sand.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the closed drawer of my nightstand. It was 3:00 AM. Again.

My legs throbbed—a deep, dull ache that seemed to radiate from the marrow outward. I rubbed my knees, but the pain wasn't on the surface. It was structural. I felt brittle. I felt like if I took one wrong step, I would simply shatter into dust.

I thought about the office. The faces of my colleagues swimming in a blur. The way I had to read the same email five times because the words just wouldn't stick. The brain fog was a suffocating blanket. I was twenty-eight, but I felt eighty. I was fading. I was ghosting my own life.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered. The sound of my own voice startled me. It sounded dry, defeated.

I opened the drawer.

The strip was there. I had thrown it in the back two weeks ago, angry. I had refused to believe that this was the answer. It seemed too small, too insignificant to fix a problem this massive. I had looked at the doctor with cynicism when he handed it to me.

“You think this will fix me?” I had scoffed. “You think this is why I can’t function?”

I had refused to take it. I wanted a real reason for my pain, not this. I wanted a diagnosis that matched the magnitude of my suffering.

But tonight, the ache was too loud. The exhaustion was a physical weight pressing my chest into the mattress. I couldn't fight the gravity anymore.

I stood up. The floor was cold against my feet. I walked slowly to the dining hall, my hand trailing against the wall for support. The house was silent.

I pulled out the chair. The screech of the wood against the floor echoed like a scream. I sat down and placed the strip on the table. I popped the single orange capsule out of the foil. It sat in the palm of my hand—small, harmless-looking, yet heavy with consequence.

“One time,” I told myself. “I’ll try it one time. And if this doesn’t work... then I’m done.”

I reached for the glass of water. My hand shook. I placed the pill on my tongue. I swallowed.

I sat there for a moment in the dark, waiting for something to change.

I stood up to go back to bed, leaving the empty foil wrapper on the dining table, glistening slightly under the moonlight filtering through the window.

The silver lettering on the back caught the light:

Cholecalciferol (Vitamin D3) - 60,000 IU. Dosage: Once a week.

You are not alone in the dark. Studies show that nearly 76% of urban women are living with Vitamin D deficiency. It is currently the most under-diagnosed "silent epidemic" among working professionals. It isn't just about strong bones. This deficiency is a leading biological trigger for depression, chronic fatigue, hair loss, and lowered immunity.

If you saw yourself in Sruthi’s story, don't guess—get tested. Take the sun. Take the pill. Take your life back.