Problematic Peanuts

When I eat peanuts, my body doesn’t panic - it protests. It begins quietly, with a tingle at the corner of my mouth, easy to dismiss if I wanted to. Then my lip erupts into a red, itchy rash, swollen and irritated, like my skin is calling attention to something I’d rather ignore. It’s never been life-threatening, never dramatic enough for emergency rooms or injections, but it’s uncomfortable and visible, and that’s enough to shape how I move through the world. I first noticed it as a kid after sneaking peanut butter straight from the jar. My lip burned and puffed up, and my parents argued over whether it was an allergy or just irritation. That uncertainty stuck with me. Doctors said it wasn’t severe, but it also wasn’t nothing. In school, peanuts were everywhere, passed casually between classmates who never had to think twice. When my lip flared, people joked about it, asked if I’d been stung by something, laughed when I laughed along. It wasn’t painful, just embarrassing, just obvious. Over time, I learned that minor reactions still deserve respect. I started checking labels, avoiding snacks, saying no without apologizing. Not because I was afraid, but because I was tired of pretending it didn’t matter. Now, I mostly stay away from peanuts, though sometimes I forget or decide the taste is worth the consequence. The rash still appears right on schedule, familiar and irritating. I treat it, wait it out, and move on. My allergy doesn’t control my life, but it reminds me to listen closely to my body, even when the warning is small and written plainly across my lips.