A few days ago, I came across a long text about influenza A. I skimmed through it at first—the word "epidemic" no longer frightens me as much as it used to.

It seems we're all tired of being afraid.

But then I went back and read it carefully.

And that's when I started to feel uneasy.

They're writing about a wave of influenza A right now, and that for many, its severity this season has been even worse than COVID.
Not because it's something new or unknown, but because we've relaxed too quickly.

It's as if they've decided that since the pandemic is over, there's no longer any danger.

It wasn't the statistics that caught my attention. It was the story.

A woman wrote about her father. An ordinary man, in his early sixties, with no dramatic diagnoses.

He fell ill "as usual": fever, aches, weakness.

He didn't even go to the doctor right away, saying he'd get through it, as always.

A few days later, he was taken away with complications.

And then a phrase appeared in the text that made me stare at the screen for a long time: "We thought it was just the flu."

For some reason, that "just" sounds especially scary now.

We're used to comparing everything to COVID.
If it's not, then it's not dangerous.

But influenza A doesn't ask if you're ready.

It hits quickly, sharply, sometimes without a chance to pause.
High fever, sudden weakness, breathing that suddenly becomes labored.

I find myself paying more attention to myself. To the people around me. To the coughing on public transport. To the fatigue that doesn't go away.

After COVID, it's as if we've decided to become brave.
Or sometimes, indifferent—they're the same thing.
. We've learned to joke about illnesses, ignore symptoms, and keep going. But our bodies don't hear our jokes. They simply give up when they're not heard.

And there's something very human about all of this. We're not afraid of the disease itself, but of the reminder that we're not omnipotent. That everything can change in a few days. That familiar stability is a very conditional thing.

I'm not writing this to scare you. I'm writing this because it's important to me to stay alive—not just physically, but also internally. To notice. To think. Not to ignore warning signs just because they're inconvenient.

Sometimes, self-care doesn't start with medication, but with honesty. With the phrase: "Something's wrong with me, and it's worth paying attention to."

Perhaps adulthood isn't fearlessness. And the ability to stop in time and say to yourself: "I am important."

And if, after everything we've already lived through, we learn at least this, then it wasn't in vain.