I grew up with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, but most people never knew. I hid it because I was embarrassed. While other kids were running and playing, my joints were stiffening to where I could barely keep up. But I forced myself to smile, to pretend, to make it look like I was fine.
Inside, I wasn’t fine. I felt broken before my life even began.
The First Loss
I still remember when I finally had to quit dance at 12 years old. I could no longer move the way I used to and had to watch my body lose its flexibility right before my eyes. I said I "just didn't want to anymore," but in reality, I so badly wanted to continue, I just simply couldn't anymore.
I remember watching my younger sister getting ready for her recital — sparkly costumes, hair slicked back, cheeks dusted with glitter. I sat there pretending I didn’t care. Pretending I wasn’t jealous. Pretending it didn’t hurt.
But it did.
I wanted so badly to be up there with her too, twirling under the lights, part of the world she got to belong to. Instead, I clapped from the audience, hiding the lump in my throat. Everyone thought I was just the sister who didn't want to dance anymore. No one knew that I was grieving. Grieving all that I couldn't do anymore.
That’s the kind of pain I carried as a child — emotional pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Especially not a kid. That day I learned how to swallow disappointment, how to bury dreams, how to say “I’m fine” even when I wasn’t.
Shrinking Myself
By the time I got to college, years of hiding had left me with no self-esteem. I walked onto campus already convinced I wasn’t enough.
So I decided if I couldn’t be healthy or strong, at least I could be skinny.
I obsessed over shrinking myself. If I couldn’t control my health, at least I could control my size. Gut issues fed into it; body dysmorphia amplified it. The less I ate, the more invisible I felt. I told myself it was discipline. In reality, it was desperation.
Rock Bottom
The gut issues only got worse. Then mold toxicity hit, and everything collapsed.
My body shut down. My friendships fell apart. I moved home because I couldn’t keep up with life anymore. And I kept shrinking, until one day I stepped on the scale.
69 pounds.
I stared at the number, numb. Part of me was terrified. Part of me was proud. Both were lies. I wasn’t living — I was disappearing.
Looking back now, I know I had an eating disorder wrapped up in all my gut issues. I had lost my period for seven years. My body wasn’t even capable of creating life anymore because keeping me alive was already too much.
And the darkest truth? Most nights I didn’t want to wake up. So many nights I thought it would be easier to just stop fighting. I didn't want to be here anymore.
The Climb Back
But I didn’t stop. I don’t even know why. Maybe it was hope, maybe stubbornness, maybe something bigger keeping me here. But I kept going.
I saw practitioner after practitioner trying to fix my ongoing list of chronic illness symptoms. Tried every supplement, every protocol. Cut out sugar, alcohol, gluten, dairy. I lived on meat and vegetables and thought if I could just be “perfect” enough, I’d heal.
But it didn’t heal me. It just made me lonelier.
That’s when I stumbled into mindset work. I realized that even if I ate the cleanest diet in the world, it didn’t matter if I was still feeding myself hatred every single day.
A Glimpse of Hope
The first time I felt a real shift was at a Dr. Joe Dispenza meditation retreat.
I remember sitting in a room full of strangers, eyes closed, everyone breathing in unison. My body was still fragile, but something cracked open in me that day.
For the first time in years, my chest unclenched. Tears streamed down my face, not from despair but from relief. In that silence, I felt possibility again. Not control. Not obsession. But possibility.
Maybe I could heal.
Maybe I wasn’t broken.
Maybe life wasn’t done with me yet.
It was just a glimpse. But it was enough. Enough to keep me going.
Rebuilding Trust
And then came the hardest part: weight gain.
After years of chasing smallness, watching my body expand felt like betrayal. My clothes didn’t fit. My reflection looked like a stranger. I cried. I raged. I fought it.
But deep down, I knew this was trust. My body was saying: I believe you’ll feed me now. I believe you want me alive. I knew I needed to do this in order to truly heal.
That didn’t make it easy. But it made it worth it.
Finding Something Sweet in the Middle of It All
In the midst of all of this — the pain, the protocols, the endless healing attempts — I started this blog. At first, it was just a way to document what I was going through, to feel a little less alone.
But somewhere along the way, I found baking again. Not the kind of baking I grew up with, but a new kind — healthier, lighter, gentler on my body. Creating gluten-free, dairy-free, sometimes paleo, sometimes plant-based treats became more than recipes. It became therapy. It became connection.
Through sharing those recipes, I started to connect with others who were also navigating health struggles, or who just wanted to enjoy sweets without the crash. It gave me purpose at a time when I felt like I’d lost everything. At one point, this page was the only thing keeping me going.
What started as survival turned into creativity. And what started as isolation slowly turned into community.
Where I Am Now
I wish I could say I’m “healed.” I’m not. Healing isn’t a straight line, and it doesn’t come with a finish line ribbon. I still have days where I miss the version of me who fit the world’s idea of "tiny" and perfect. I still catch myself grieving the years I lost.
But I’m healthier. I’m stronger. I’m softer, too.
My gut issues are finally calming down. My energy isn't just survival-level anymore - I can actually do things I love without crashing. My hair is fuller. My skin is brighter. Little by little, my body is showing me that it's healing.
And I'm learning to love even the parts of me that haven't gone away - like my stiff joints. They're still part of my reality, but instead of resenting them, I'm learning to thank them for carrying me through all of this. I'm choosing to love the body I once hated.
I’ve learned to meditate. I’ve learned to sit with myself in silence and not hate what I find there. I’ve grown through pain I thought would crush me. I’ve learned that healing isn’t about punishing your body into submission — it’s about creating safety inside of it. I've learned that you truly have no idea what anyone else is going through and someone might need your kindness more than you could ever know.
And yes, I still care about health. I still love making nourishing recipes and creating healthy desserts that heal instead of harm. But it’s not about fear anymore. It’s about love. I’m still balancing my hormones, still supporting my gut, but I’m doing it while also having a cocktail on my birthday, laughing with friends, and saying yes to life.
I used to think survival was my story. It’s not. My story is that I came back. I’m learning to love myself again. I’m learning to trust my body. I’m learning to finally live after 26 years of surviving.
And in the middle of it all, I discovered something sweet: this blog. What started as a lifeline for me — baking healthier sweets in my parents’ kitchen when I was too sick to do much else — has grown into the very thing that helps me share hope with others.
And this time, I'm not pretending.
If you’ve walked through something similar — chronic illness, gut struggles, body image battles, or just feeling lost in your own skin — I’d love to hear your story too. Leave a comment or send me a message. You’re not alone, and sometimes sharing is the first step toward healing.
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