“The Taste of Persimmons” by Anonymous Teen

I never used to like persimmons. Their skin was oddly tough, the fruit inside slippery and hard to handle. I didn’t understand why anyone would bother with them when apples were so much easier, so crisp and predictable. Persimmons felt complicated. But then one day, I tried again. I found the right tool to peel them. I took my time. And to my surprise, I liked the taste. Sweet, but not in a way that shouted. Gentle, subtle, and comforting.

Now, I see a bit of myself in that fruit.

Living with a chronic illness is a little like trying to love something most people overlook. It doesn’t always announce itself. It creeps in, quiet and persistent, changing everything without ever asking for permission. For years, I didn’t even know what was wrong. I was just tired. All the time. But not the kind of tired that a nap could fix. It was the kind that sat behind my eyes like fog, the kind that made lifting a pencil feel like lifting a brick, the kind that made my bones ache when I had done nothing at all.

In school, that kind of exhaustion doesn’t earn you sympathy. It earns you suspicion. I was the student who stayed late in the lab to watch a malfunctioning microwave because no one else noticed how dangerous it was. I got detention for it. I was the one accused of cutting my hair in class, even though it was a classmate who did it. The hair was mine, so I got blamed. Another detention. I learned early on that fairness is not always part of the system. Sometimes, doing the right thing still means getting punished.

As my illness made school harder, I tried harder. That was my answer to everything. More flashcards. More late nights. More sacrifices. I studied until midnight, even when my body begged me to stop. I gave up sleep, gave up social time, gave up hobbies. I gave up parts of myself, piece by piece, hoping it would be enough to get through. But often, it wasn’t. While others got perfect scores after a full night’s rest, I’d barely scrape a seventy. It felt like pouring water into a bottle with a hole in the bottom. No matter how much I gave, it never filled.

My mom would try to help in the only way she knew how. When I failed another chemistry test or didn’t make it into a program I had my heart set on, she would bring out leftover birthday cake. She’d ask if I was okay. I’d say no. Then I’d ask her to leave me alone. And still, she brought out the cake. A quiet gesture. A band-aid for a wound too deep to reach with sugar and frosting.

But there’s another layer to this illness that most people don’t see. Living with a chronic condition also means becoming an expert at pretending. Pretending to be okay when you’re not. Smiling when your body is screaming. Saying “I’m fine” when the truth would take too long to explain and still not be believed. Sometimes, it’s easier to perform happiness than to try to justify why you’re falling apart. People don’t want the full story. They want the polished version. So that’s what you give them. Until you almost forget what the real version feels like.

I kept looking around and seeing people who had more. Not just more money or better resources, but more rest. More support. More guidance. I used coupons when we went to

restaurants while my friends ordered freely. They had tutors and older siblings who helped with college applications. I had YouTube videos and secondhand advice from internet strangers. And yet, I kept hearing that hard work was all I needed. That if I just tried a little harder, it would all work out.

But that’s not always true.

There’s a kind of loneliness that comes from being told you’re on an equal playing field while knowing deep down that you’re not. I planned an entire school event once. Every detail accounted for. I had spent months organizing, emailing, coordinating. I was so proud of it. Then, on the day it was supposed to happen, the teacher told me they had changed their mind. Just like that, it was canceled. No explanation. Just indifference. That crushed me more than any exam grade ever could.

The worst part wasn’t even the illness itself. It was the way adults looked past me. When someone plagiarized my work and I tried to speak up, I was told to let it go. They said it would be “smoother” that way. They warned me that if I made noise, there would be consequences. I remember their exact words. “We can let her go. She’s on financial aid anyway.” That sentence sat in my chest like a stone.

I felt small. Powerless. Invisible. And that’s when I realized why I wanted power. Not the kind that controls people. The kind that protects. The kind that listens. I wanted to be in the room where decisions are made, so no one else would have to be silenced the way I was.

Still, in all the darkness, there were small lights. My friends—who didn’t always understand what I was going through—offered me warmth in their own ways. They brought me meals when I couldn’t eat. They texted me when I disappeared for days, just to check in. They bought me things I needed when I couldn’t bring myself to move. They reminded me that I mattered even when the world told me I didn’t.

I didn't get into the prestigious research scholars program I applied for, but I won first place at the regional science fair with a solo research project I designed from scratch using public lab equipment and free resources. I wasn’t chosen for the leadership position in student council, but I became the youngest student representative on our district’s equity and inclusion board, where I helped implement real policy changes. These achievements didn’t come with applause or ceremony. But they were mine. And they were enough.

The truth is, I am still learning to be okay with not being okay. I used to think there was only one path to success, but now I see that life branches in a thousand directions. I used to think everyone else was ahead of me, but I realize now that I was learning lessons many never have to face. I was growing roots while others were sprouting leaves.

Like the persimmon tree in my backyard. My family planted it five years ago, and for the longest time, it did nothing. Just a spindly stick in the dirt. We watered it anyway. We believed in it anyway. And now, finally, it has begun to bear fruit. Not quickly. Not dramatically. But steadily.

And that’s how I want to grow. I want to stop chasing the path everyone else is on and learn to embrace the one that fits me. I want to stop comparing myself to people who never had to carry what I carry. I want to live a life that makes room for rest, for joy, for softness. I want to believe that trying still matters, even when it doesn’t lead to perfection. And I want to stop pretending that I am fine when I am not, because healing begins with honesty, even if the truth is messy.

I used to love longyan, even though it gave me mouth sores. Now, I think I prefer watermelon. It reminds me of summer. Of breathing deeply. Of being allowed to exist without proving anything. The world does not stop spinning when we slow down. If anything, it starts to make more sense.

So I sit here, writing this, as I bite into a persimmon. The skin peels easily now. The taste is familiar. And it is sweet. I had just needed to give it time. Maybe everything good in life is like that. Complicated at first. But worth it.