Healing Hurts Too: A Diary of Nose Surgery Recovery

It’s July 24th, and I’m sitting up in bed writing this, which honestly feels like a small miracle. Two days ago, on the 22nd, I had surgery to correct a deviated septum. I’ve had issues with it for a while—years really—but I didn’t realise how much it had been affecting me until I finally got the diagnosis. Turns out, all the random illnesses, the weird congestion, the difficulty breathing, the low-grade exhaustion—yep, all linked to this crooked bit of cartilage in my nose.

Recovery hasn’t been the gentle healing montage I pictured. It’s been rough. I knew surgery would be challenging, but I didn’t expect to feel this… flat. Like my whole body hit a wall and then just gave up trying to function properly. It’s wild how one part of your body being slightly out of place can cause so much chaos, and how putting it back in place can feel like your body’s been turned inside out.

I haven’t been able to drink much since the operation, which sounds minor, but it’s made everything else harder. My mouth is constantly dry from all the mouth breathing—like desert-level dry. I wake up and it’s as if I’ve swallowed a handful of cotton balls. Water doesn’t even taste like water anymore, it just feels like a task. I have to remind myself to drink, to eat, to keep going. It’s like my instincts are switched off and I have to do everything manually.

To make it worse, I dropped 3kg in 3 days. Not in a “yay I’m so lean” way—in a “my body is shutting down” kind of way. My appetite disappeared. Food made me nauseous, smells were overwhelming, and my body was completely disinterested in fuel. I was so dehydrated and depleted that I couldn’t even cry, just sat there blinking slowly like a half-alive plant.

Yesterday was honestly one of the worst days I’ve had in a long time. I vomited so many times I lost count. I barely left bed except to stumble to the bathroom, and I felt completely helpless. The nausea was so intense and relentless, like being stuck on a boat in a storm that wouldn’t end. I couldn’t keep anything down. Even sips of water came straight back up. I felt vulnerable in a way that’s hard to explain—completely out of control, at the mercy of my body. And I’ll admit it: I was scared. Not in a dramatic “something terrible is going to happen” way, but in that quiet, private way where you suddenly feel very small and fragile.

Thankfully, my doctor gave me anti-nausea medication, and I finally managed to keep something down. It’s crazy how a little pill can feel like a lifesaver. It didn’t solve everything, but it gave me a bit of ground to stand on. I could sip water without dreading it. I could eat half a banana and not worry it would immediately come back up. It was the first moment I felt like maybe—just maybe—I was moving forward.

Today feels… better. Not good, exactly, but definitely better. My face feels a bit more regular again—less swollen, less alien. I’m still stuffed up and uncomfortable, but it’s not as intense as it was. I was actually able to leave my bedroom today—not because I had to, but because I wanted to. That’s new. It felt good to move, even just a little. It felt like reclaiming something.

I even ate a little more today. Nothing fancy, just soft, safe food. But I could actually taste it, and it stayed down. Huge win. It gave me a little burst of energy, just enough to sit up, take a few deeper breaths (well, as deep as I can right now), and write this.

I’m still doing all the necessary things—using the saline sprays, taking my antibiotics, resting between the tiniest activities. Every time I tilt my head back to put in the drops, I try to imagine them clearing the way for easier breathing down the track. It’s not glamorous. Nothing about this recovery is. It’s slow and weird and messy. But it’s also full of little turning points—moments where I go, “Okay, that didn’t feel as awful as it did yesterday.”

My goal for tomorrow is simple: go for a five-minute walk and just see how I go. I don’t care if it’s slow. I don’t care if I have to sit down halfway through. I just want to feel the outside air on my face, even if I can’t properly breathe it in through my nose yet. I miss movement. I miss having energy. I miss my regular rhythm. But I’m learning that healing has its own rhythm, and you can’t rush it.

There’s something really humbling about being forced to pause like this. I’ve spent so long pushing through—training, working, ticking boxes, showing up. This recovery has stripped all of that away and left me with the basics: drink water, eat a little, rest, repeat. That’s all I can do right now, and I’m trying to be okay with that.

I don’t know exactly when I’ll feel like myself again. But for today, it’s enough to know that I feel a little better than yesterday. That I was able to eat, to sit up, to write this. That I wanted to leave my room. That I have a goal for tomorrow. These are all small wins, and I’m claiming them.

So here’s to dry mouths and saline sprays, to nausea meds and soft foods, to getting out of bed because you want to, not because you have to. Here’s to healing, even when it hurts. And here’s to breathing clearly one day soon—through my nose this time.

One small step, one quiet breath at a time.