It started with a dance competition and ended with a prescription for doxycycline. Like all tragic love stories, this one began innocently enough—just me, a mom in leggings, and a clingy suitor with six legs and a thirst for drama.
When I spotted the first tick crawling on me, I figured it was a one-time fling. A weird little fluke. I flung him off like a bad Tinder date and stomped him into oblivion. End of story…or so I thought.
Naturally, I gave the other dance moms a heads-up. “Hey, just found a tick crawling on me—check your kids!” I felt like the town crier of pest-based PSA announcements. But really, how bad could it be? We weren’t hiking through the Appalachian Trail—we were on a college campus in upstate New Jersey.
It was not just one tick.
Monday morning came, and with it, a new chapter in my parasite romance novel. I noticed something on my arm that looked like a mole. Except this mole had legs. It was an engorged tick, passionately attached, halfway through what I can only describe as a multi-course meal for one.
In a moment of pure panic and questionable decision-making, I pulled it off with my bare hands. No tweezers. No antiseptic. Just me and my raw survival instincts. Then, in the heat of the moment, I flushed my tiny ex down the toilet without even a goodbye—or a sample for testing. Classic breakup mistake.
Now, I’ve done this dance before. I had Lyme disease when I was 13. My daughter had it a few years ago. I knew the signs. I knew better. But like any cautionary tale about love gone wrong, I ignored my instincts. I told myself, “Let’s just wait and see.”
About a week later, I woke up feeling like I’d been ghosted by my immune system. Every muscle ached. My glands were swollen. I had a low-grade fever and a level of fatigue that made folding laundry feel like a feat of endurance. I gave it a day. Maybe it was just mom burnout.
Wrong again.
By the next day, I was a human puddle. I finally made it to the doctor, and there it was: a confirmed tick-borne illness. My overly attached bug had left me with 21 days of doxycycline and a burning desire to wrap my entire body in bug spray.
So now, as I work through my antibiotics and reflect on my short-lived relationship with that clingy crustacean, I offer this advice: tick season is real, it’s brutal, and it does not care how busy your weekend plans are.
If I had a do-over, I’d wear bug spray even on college campuses. I’d check everyone—myself included—from scalp to soles. I’d use tweezers, never fingers. And I’d absolutely save that tick like the receipt for a regrettable purchase. Most importantly, I’d call the doctor before things got dramatic.
