Losing my hair is something that I felt viscerally, in my gut. Every neuron in my amygdala screamed, “something is very wrong here,” as hair rained down like pine needles from a January Christmas tree. At times it was physically painful, but what was harder was coaxing the logical part of my brain to calm the panic. And it wasn’t about how I look bald, but I didn’t feel like some character in a movie shaving their head in front of a mirror in a moment of empowerment; quite the opposite. I had no control or power. This was just something happening to me, which is how much of this feels. I’m in constant search for what I can control which, it turns out, is very little.