My Health Journey

Content note: This post discusses chronic illness, an eating disorder, and past suicidal thoughts.

I grew up with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis, but for most of my life, I didn't really talk about it.

I was diagnosed when I was eight, and as I got older, I became increasingly embarrassed by the things my body couldn't do. While other kids could run around without thinking twice about it, my joints became stiffer, my mobility changed, and there were more and more things I had to think about that other kids didn't.

Most of the time, I tried to hide it and act like everything was fine.

It wasn't always fine.

Growing Up with Arthritis

What was difficult wasn't just the physical pain or stiffness. It was slowly realizing that my body was going to affect parts of my life that other kids didn't even have to think about. It was a form of grief I wouldn't wish on any child.

There were activities I loved that I had to stop doing. There were things my friends could spontaneously say yes to that I had to think about differently. And because I hated explaining why I couldn't do something, I often acted like I simply didn't want to.

Dance was probably the clearest example of that. I had danced growing up and loved it, but as my joints became stiffer and I lost mobility, my body couldn't move the way it used to.

Eventually, I quit when I was 12. At the time, I told people I "just didn't want to dance anymore." That wasn't true. I wanted to dance more than anything. My body just couldn't do what it used to do.

I remember watching my younger sister get ready for her recital in her sparkly costume, with her hair and makeup done, and pretending I didn't care that I wasn't doing it anymore. I did care. A lot.

I wanted to be up there too. But it felt easier to let people think I had simply lost interest than to explain that I still wanted to dance and my body wasn't letting me do it.

I think that's one of the hardest things about growing up with a chronic illness that people can't always see. There were a lot of things I wanted to do but couldn't, and instead of explaining that over and over again, I got really good at saying I was fine.

Even now, an innocent comment about me not seeming athletic or not wanting to do a certain physical activity can hit a nerve that most people probably don't realize is there.

As I got older, some of those fears have changed too. I started wondering how my health might affect my independence, relationships, and the kind of life I'd be able to have. Some of those fears have gotten quieter with time. Others I'm still learning how to live with.

When my Health Got Worse

College was when everything really fell apart. I was living in a house with toxic mold, and during that time my health deteriorated significantly.

I was already dealing with arthritis and gut issues, but this was different. I felt sick all the time. I had very little energy, my digestive issues became severe, and eventually I reached a point where I could barely live a normal life.

And when my health fell apart, the rest of my life went with it.

I stopped going out. I lost friendships. I stopped doing the things people my age were doing. Eventually, I moved back home with my parents because I was too sick to continue living the life I had been living. I went from having a (somewhat) normal college life to feeling like I had no life at all.

At the same time, my relationship with food and my body had become extremely unhealthy. I became more and more restrictive with what I ate. Part of it came from desperately trying to figure out what foods made me feel sick, but restriction also became something I could control when everything else about my body felt completely out of my control.

At my lowest, I weighed 69 pounds. It's hard to admit now, but even though part of me knew something was seriously wrong, another part of me was still proud of seeing such a low number on the scale.

I had spent so long convincing myself that smaller meant healthier, more disciplined and more attractive that I couldn't fully see how sick I had become. Looking back, I can recognize that I was dealing with an eating disorder on top of everything happening with my physical health.

I also lost my period for seven years, which was one of many signs that my body wasn't doing well. But as difficult as the physical part was, what happened to me mentally was just as serious.

I became incredibly depressed. There were nights when I didn't want to be alive anymore. I remember going to bed and hoping I wouldn't wake up the next morning. I wasn't making plans to end my life, but I had reached a point where I genuinely did not want to keep living the life I was living.

I had lost my health. I had lost friendships. I had lost the independence and any social life I had before getting sick. I watched people my age date, travel, go out with their friends and move forward with their lives while I felt completely stuck.

My world had become incredibly small. And I had no idea when—or if—it was going to get bigger again.

That's difficult for me to write now because my life looks so different today. But I also don't want to rewrite that period into something easier or prettier than it actually was. I was really sick. I was incredibly lonely. And I was suicidal.

Most people who know me now would probably never guess that there was a period of my life when I genuinely couldn't picture having the life I have today.

Trying to Feel Better

For years, I saw different practitioners and tried what felt like every supplement, diet, and protocol imaginable.

I cut out sugar, alcohol, gluten, and dairy. For a while, I basically lived on meat and vegetables because I thought if I could eat "perfectly" enough, eventually I would feel normal again. Some of the changes I made helped me learn what worked for my body, but becoming more and more restrictive wasn't fixing everything.

It was also making my life incredibly small. Eventually, I became interested in mindset work and meditation. One experience that really stuck with me was attending a Dr. Joe Dispenza meditation retreat.

I don't look at it as one magical moment that suddenly fixed my health. It didn't. But it was one of the first times in a long time that I remember feeling genuinely hopeful about my life again.

I had spent years obsessing over everything that was wrong with my body and everything I needed to "fix." Meditation gave me another way to work on how I was feeling mentally while I continued figuring out my physical health.

For me, that mattered.

Learning to Gain Weight

One of the hardest parts of getting healthier was gaining weight.

After spending years believing that being smaller was always better, watching my body change was extremely uncomfortable. My clothes fit differently. I didn't always recognize myself in the mirror. There were plenty of days when I hated it.

And to be completely honest, body image is something I still struggle with sometimes. But I also knew that maintaining the body I had at my lowest wasn't healthy for me. Learning to eat more, become less restrictive, and allow my body to change has been a process.

I definitely don't have it completely figured out. There are still days when I wish my body looked different, and there are still moments when seeing a number on the scale affects me more than I wish it did. But I understand now that being as small as possible was never the same thing as being healthy.

I'm still learning how to take care of my body without constantly trying to control it. I'm still learning to accept its changes and remember that gaining weight also happened alongside getting so much of my life back.

Finding Something Sweet in the Middle of It All

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I started this blog.

At first, it was simply somewhere to document what I was going through and share some of the things I was learning. I had no idea it would eventually become what it is today.

Somewhere along the way, I found my way back to something I had always loved: baking.

Because of my own dietary restrictions at the time, I started experimenting with gluten-free and dairy-free desserts and sharing the recipes I made.

It gave me something to focus on during a period when my world had become really small.

Then people actually started making the recipes.

I started hearing from other people dealing with dietary restrictions and health struggles, or simply looking for recipes that worked for them. Slowly, something I had started from my parents' kitchen became a community.

And during some of my lowest points, having this page gave me something to look forward to and work toward.

Eventually, it became my job.

It's still pretty crazy for me to think about.

Where I Am Now

I wish I could wrap this story up by saying I'm completely healed and never struggle with any of this anymore, but that wouldn't be true.

My joints are still stiff. There are things I wish I could do that my body simply doesn't let me do.

I still struggle with body image sometimes.

There are parts of growing up with arthritis that I'm realizing I'm still grieving even now.

But sometimes I think about the version of me who couldn't picture a future for herself and wish I could show her what my life looks like today.

Because my life is also so much bigger now.

I'm healthier. I have more energy. I travel. I go out with my friends. I dance even though my body doesn't move the way it once did.

I have people I love.

I'm learning how to get stronger in ways that work for my body instead of constantly being angry at it for what it can't do.

And I have a career that started from baking in my parents' kitchen during a period when my world felt incredibly small.

I think one of the biggest things this experience has taught me is how little we actually know about what other people are carrying.

For most of my life, people didn't know any of this about me.

Most still don't.

They didn't know why I quit things I loved or why I couldn't participate in certain activities. Most of the time, I didn't explain it.

It was easier for me to say I didn't care, didn't want to participate, or was fine than it was to explain something I didn't really know how to put into words.

I still catch myself doing that sometimes - apologizing for who I am or overexplaining why I can or can't do something. I'm learning that I don't owe anyone an explanation for what my body can and can't do.

I don't think there's a perfect ending to a health journey like this.

Some parts of mine got better. Some things I'm still working through. Some things I may always carry with me.

But the fact that I now have a life I genuinely love isn't something I take lightly.

I'm really proud that I stayed long enough to build it.