Maleah Jacobs Intuitive Consultant

Can’t stop won’t stop. xx

I would like to formally apologize to absolutely nobody because we still do not have enough information.

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From explaining what’s already obvious.

Andromeda is here too. 🦄

This is one I posted on my personal Facebook account and people seemed to like it so here you go. 👑

Listen, I have this friend. She’s the kind of friend who makes you believe in things like grit and resilience and the power of duct tape. You know, the one who keeps going when most of us would throw our hands in the air, give up, and eat a family-sized bag of potato chips in bed. (Not that she wouldn’t do that too, but she’d probably multitask and use the salt from the chips to replenish her electrolytes.)

This friend? She’s a force. A tornado in a pair of ethically sourced sneakers. The sort of person who can juggle catastrophe and comedy in the same sentence, which is a skill when your life is less Eat Pray Love and more Survive, Sweat, Laugh.

Meet My Friend: A Professional Survivor

Here’s the highlight reel:

She lives with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), which means her body is basically made out of knock-off Legos and sheer willpower. Add in POTS (the charming condition where her heart throws a tantrum every time she stands up) and Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (which is like being allergic to existence), and you’ve got a recipe for a fascinating biology experiment.

And yet, she’s thriving—not in a glossy, Instagram-filtered way, but in the messy, real, “one step forward, sometimes two steps back” kind of way.

The Slow Dance of Progress

See, here’s the thing: she didn’t just wake up one day with a body that decided to protest against the laws of nature. She was born with it. These conditions were woven into her DNA, quiet at first, then louder, until they eventually started throwing elbows and demanding attention.

Getting sick wasn’t a single, dramatic event. It was a gradual shift—a slow unraveling of things she thought she could count on. And getting better? It’s been the same: a process. Progress doesn’t come in fireworks and confetti; it comes in small victories and consistent care.

She’s recently spent time in world-class hospitals, surrounded by people who listened, believed her, and worked tirelessly to help her piece her life back together. Her doctors? Incredible. Her care team? Top-notch. These are the people who didn’t just see a complicated patient—they saw her. And because of them, she’s getting better, day by day.

Advocating for Herself, With Help

That doesn’t mean it’s been easy. She’s still had to be her own advocate—because even with the best care, no one knows her body better than she does. She’s learned to walk into appointments armed with questions, research, and an unwavering determination to collaborate with her care team.

But this isn’t a story about a broken system. It’s a story about what happens when the right people come together at the right time. It’s about teamwork, trust, and the kind of healthcare that makes you believe in humanity again.

Trauma, Healing, and the Weirdness of Recovery

And healing? Oh, it’s a wild ride. Because when you’ve lived for so long in survival mode, learning to trust that your body can improve feels… almost suspicious. She’s unlearning the habits of constant vigilance, letting herself believe that better isn’t just possible—it’s happening.

Progress looks like this: fewer fainting spells, more energy to tackle the day, and moments where she catches herself laughing—not out of defiance, but because things are genuinely good.

Wait. This Friend Sounds Familiar…

And as I sit here, typing this, I realize something: this isn’t just any friend I’m talking about. This isn’t some abstract hero I conjured up to inspire you.

No.

This friend? She’s me.

Yup. It’s Me. Maleah.

Yeah, I am the friend. The one who’s been through it, who’s still going through it, and who’s finally starting to see the light at the end of this absurdly long tunnel.

I’ve spent years fighting for my life—not in the dramatic, cinematic way, but in the quiet, grueling, day-after-day way. The kind of fight that doesn’t come with applause or recognition, just exhaustion and a deep gratitude for every tiny step forward.

And yet, here I am. Still fighting. Still laughing. Still caffeinating. Still me.

Why I’m Telling You This

Because maybe you need to hear it. Maybe you’re out there, struggling with your own version of this story. Maybe you’ve been sitting in a dark room, wondering if it’s just you, if you’re the only one fighting battles that no one else can see.

You’re not. You’re not alone, and you’re not broken, and you’re definitely not weak. And if you ever doubt that, just remember this: I’m out here too, duct-taping my life together and figuring it out one impossible day at a time.

So here’s to us—the survivors, the fighters, the ones who keep showing up even when everything in us is screaming to quit.

Here’s to the grit, the mess, the chaos, and the ridiculous, beautiful, relentless hope that keeps us going.

Here’s to the half-empty water bottles scattered like breadcrumbs across every room because hydration is a battlefield.

Here’s to the Google search history that could make a med student blush: “Why do my fingers hurt when I breathe?” “Can you be allergic to standing up?” and “Am I dying or is this just a Tuesday?”

Here’s to the journals filled with half-written thoughts, the Post-Its of forgotten ideas, and the to-do lists that prove progress isn’t linear, but it’s still progress.

Here’s to the slow dance of healing—messy, weird, and entirely worth it.

And here’s to you. Beautiful, complicated, raw, unstoppable you. Keep going. You’re the hero of this story, and every chaotic, gritty, not-so-glamorous step you take is proof that you’re doing something extraordinary.

We’re the heroes of this story, whether anyone else sees it or not. And if no one else will say it, let me be the first: you’re doing amazing.

Keep going. Keep shining. Unless you’re not feeling like shining. Take a lie down. “Watch tv with your eyes closed” as my dad was fond of saying and doing.

If you’re lucky enough to have good health, or just less sh*tty health, congrats. And be mindful that you’re not always looking at people whose insides match their outsides.

Maleah