I remember the first time it happened vividly. I was fourteen, sitting in a cramped middle school bathroom stall, holding my breath to keep from crying out. A searing, pulsing pain had erupted under my arm, and I could barely lower it without agony. At first, I thought it was just a pimple or maybe an ingrown hair.

As I exited through the doorway of my friend's house, I noted the barely lightening color of the early morning sky silhouetted subtly against the treeline. It’s a little past 5 AM, and like most people, she’s fast asleep in her bed. I would be right there with her, if I could; but it had been hours since she knocked out and I just couldn’t stare at the ceiling anymore. So, like any good house guest, I cleaned her table of takeout boxes and soda cans, bid her pleasant dreams, and left.

February, a month discernible to most as the time for love and awareness, ironically transformed to an honorable recollection of remembrance for my beloved “Pwa-Pwa” on February 15, 2024. One year earlier, my grandmother had slipped while going to the bathroom shortly after midnight. Ringing through the house, the words “Amae, amae!” were screamed repeatedly. “Amae,” meaning mother in Burmese, my mother jolted out of bed.

I was the kid with fire in his eyes, he who could not be stopped. I sprinted through life without a care in the world. It felt as though there wasn’t an obstacle I could not overcome. I steamed through school and got home with energy to burn. I’d run outside, lift weights, study, and play piano for hours, with time to spare to help out my parents with our family business, a mini-golf course. Then, after a full day of effort, I would sleep soundly, dreaming of what I would do next, what mountain I would climb tomorrow.

The sky still holds your name

There are moments in life that split time into a “Before” and an “after”. For me, that moment was the day I lost my cousin. He wasn’t just a relative, he was my best friend, my role model, and more than anything, he was like a brother to me. We grew side by side, sharing birthdays, secrets, and dreams for the future. When he went to China to study medicine, I cheered him on with pride.

“Lydia, could you pass me my cane?” my dad asks. I chirp yes and hand it to him, a childlike eagerness in my actions. He thanks me and balances his weight on it, walking with a limping gait. I slip my hand into the free one by his side. For me, this was our routine. For him, this was his life.

I am like a tree. Strong and rooted — but not unshakeable. Trees go through seasons, and so do I. Each season brings emotions that flood my branches: sadness, anger, happiness, anxiety. Yet still, I stand. Still, I grow.

But for a long time, I didn’t feel like I was growing at all.

I grew up beneath an invisible tree, not shade-giving or sweet-smelling, but still always there. Some days it drooped low enough to brush my shoulders, other days it loomed silent and cold, like a ghost I never invited.

A train ride is not always smooth. Train tracks are laid with precision, fastened tightly with screws and metal rods, but what happens when there is a sharp curve in the road that forces the train to diverge from its linear path? The train conductor must pivot and move the train to match the curve.

I was always tired. Always hungry. Always on edge. I never knew why. I

just felt different, like my body was trapped in a slow-motion version of everyone else’s. As a kid, I thought everyone felt this way, like they were swimming against an invisible current no one else noticed. But deep down, I knew I was alone.

Why did God create thunder? If you were to ask a group of people if they liked thunder, most would say no. The loud roaring clash coupled with the blazing blue light in the sky often raises a fear in people that compares to no other. Animals too, birds probably hold their young in their soft comforting wings protecting them from the commotion they hope will pass. My own dog runs and hides under any heightened thing she could find, wherever that may be my desk or under my bed, she simply waits there for me hoping I'll come and rescue her.

My medical history is a years-old graveyard of pregnancy tests and EKGs. Fainting spells, severe joint pain, chest pain, dizziness, fatigue: these were the symptoms I carried with me from clinic to clinic and hospital to hospital as I begged doctors to tell me what was wrong. Their explanations varied, ranging from menstrual hormones to physical manifestations of anxiety.

You’re back on the bathroom floor again, knees pressing into the cold tile, hands gripping the edge of the sink as your body trembles. Your stomach twists in that now-familiar way, and the fluorescent lights above seem to make the nausea worse. You already know what’s coming. It’s part of your morning routine now. Quietly, so no one hears, you throw up, wipe your face, and pull yourself together. Then you get dressed, force yourself out the door, and go to school.

It was December — a month usually filled with warmth, lights, and the feeling that everything would be okay. But for me, that month became the darkest time of my life. My sister died by suicide, and from that moment, nothing felt real anymore. Grief became something I wore like a heavy coat every single day, invisible to everyone around me, but impossible to take off.

A couple years ago my tío was hit by a car.

My family was in a state of chaos when we heard the news and I didn't know how to react. My cousin, his daughter, was also a bit detached from the situation. She had already been living with us prior due to his lifestyle. He was usually out on the streets and it was hard to find him.

When I was just a toddler, I was diagnosed with food, environmental, and animal allergies. My mom opted to provide me with allergy shots to mitigate this condition because my allergies also severely affected my asthma, another diagnosis that accompanied my allergies. As a child, having difficulty breathing due to my allergies and asthma was all I knew, so I thought that was the norm for everyone.

I didn’t eat the cake at my cousin’s birthday. 

It sat right in front of me on the plastic picnic table. Chocolate, three layers thick, with that shiny fudge frosting I used to love. The kind that gets everywhere. Fingers, lips, probably your elbows if you weren’t careful. Everyone was buzzing, grabbing paper plates, laughing too loud. 

Growing up, I never needed a medical definition of autism; I had my brother, Liam. His world has always been full of contrasts. In school, he often struggled to understand the unwritten rules of social interaction, while on the swim team he was surrounded by friends who loved him for his humor and energy.

It was a normal morning by all accounts, it was just past 8 am. I hadn’t done anything except eat breakfast but my heart pounded like I'd just done the mile at school. I had gone up those stairs hundreds of times. ButI remember everything about it because something felt off, first came the dizziness then the static that clouded my vision.

I was nine when I got into the backseat of the car after school one day and my mom said “Oonagh is going through a really hard time right now. You need to be accommodating and kind.” Oonagh is my little sister. I am not sure why this is the moment that is burned into my brain like a branding, but it is the moment that everything started to change, slow at first, and then all at once.