Usually, I’m a rational person, at least most of the time. As a journalist, I’m used to questioning and thoroughly checking my sources. Historically, I’ve been a great supporter of research.

However, after living with a chronic illness for three years, I’m open to trying almost anything for better health—things I might have once dismissed. This includes chromotherapy, sound baths, mushroom extract, Reiki, leg compression boots, and strategic humming.

If the devil (hopefully the Liz Hurley Bedazzled version) offered me full health in exchange for my soul, I would have a hard time saying no.

In this state, I’m easily persuaded. I find myself cautiously believing in alternatives due to my disillusionment with conventional medicine, hoping for a remedy while sitting cross-legged in front of an infrared light, wearing nothing but protective sunglasses.

My journey began after contracting Covid-19 at a Harry Styles concert in June 2022. Three months later, I was diagnosed with post-Covid-19 syndrome, commonly known as long Covid because it tends to stick around.

Since then, I’ve experienced a variety of symptoms from the over 200 possible ones. These include heart palpitations, digestive issues, joint pain, feeling my heartbeat in my arms, severe brain fog, and exhaustion that leads me to Google if it’s possible to die from tiredness. Sometimes, a brief phone call requires days of rest. Climbing even a few stairs demands a pause, and answering a single email often plunges me into a deep sleep.

When life gets this challenging, the wellness industry’s guarantees are extremely tempting. This is an industry valued at $6.3 trillion globally, featuring incredibly persuasive figures like celebrities, influencers, and even casual acquaintances who swear by a miracle supplement. I shudder at the thought of how much I’ve contributed to this industry financially—and I refuse to do the math to find out. I’ve endured enough already.

Whenever someone recommends something new, I haven’t had it in me to ask “Where’s the rigorous scientific proof of this thing’s efficacy?” when I’ve had “Help me! I will do anything to feel well” playing inside my head on a loop for thousands of days. Sometimes this is fine, even great – there are many alternative things that really work for me – I love my acupuncturist! Somatic dance! Shiatsu!

Other times, it has been more sinister.

During the screening call for a wellness program I now believe to be at best a pyramid scheme, at worst a cult, I was asked if I felt able to “put aside” my “critical thinking” before they signed me up. I practically begged them to let me.

Thankfully, one day into a dangerously stupid three-day initiation course designed by some guy called Paul or Peter or Ian, I saw it for what it was, sent an eviscerating email and received a full refund. I had found the limit of my wilful gullibility.

I found it again by accidentally taking part in a ceremony to commune with angels because it was advertised as a nice relaxing group meditation. And again, when my local gym offered a free rehabilitation program that went against all the prevailing advice on treating my condition but conveniently herded me towards a long-term membership.

These are times when suspending my scepticism has felt like a betrayal to myself, when I feel that I’ve been exploited. Now I feel extremely protective of other people like me, too sick to necessarily have the clarity of mind to tell the false promises of wellness culture from the legit.

What else? I’ve done 90-minute sessions lying in a sealed hyperbaric oxygen chamber, which felt somewhat like road-testing my own coffin.

A small, frighteningly positive man poked my spine and pulled my arms and pummelled my back while he bellowed things like “your immune system works perfectly”.

I’ve submerged myself in ice-cold bath tubs. Sweated in saunas. Let a man strike a drum balanced on my belly so the vibrations would stimulate my cells. Stirred mushroom powders into hot water for an alleged boost to my cognitive function. Prodded my collarbones, armpits and groin to drain my lymphatic system. Had my chakras realigned. Asked a psychic what to do. Drunk what must now be gallons of celery juice.

All of these things exist on a spectrum of efficacy and intentions – from a floret of kale to a full-blown cult. We will each have our own quota of what we are able to believe. On hard days, I still worry I’m too vulnerable and not discerning enough. On better days, I’m just grateful to have things to try.

Recently I’ve been going outside first thing, to ask the sun to set my circadian rhythm. I down a pint of water and electrolytes. Place a little device that looks like a high-end sex toy on my sternum to stimulate my vagus nerve. Stand on a vibration plate to move muscles that may otherwise atrophy after roughly 900 days of lying down. Dance aggressively to a Selena Gomez-heavy playlist to release trapped emotion from my body. Put my legs up a wall at every possible opportunity. And guzzle a handful of supplements, thinking to myself, at the very least, maybe I can have some placebo effect, as a little treat.

Do I think these things have helped? Yes.

Am I sure about that? No.

But what else can I do? There is no treatment protocol, no known cure for long Covid. Experts disagree on what it even is – tiny blood clots preventing oxygen from circulating my body properly? Mitochondrial dysfunction? Inflammation? An extreme histamine reaction? Dysautonomia?

So long as we know so little about something that affects my life so completely, there is always the possibility that something wacky could help.

Until there is an advance in medical science and evidence-based treatments, all I can do is hope. Hope, rest, stay hydrated and try my very best not to join a cult again.