“The Fire in my Eyes” by Jason Ramey, 15

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.

I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be wise. I wanted to be helpful and kind. I wanted to be the best person that I could be. I wanted to be great, and I was ready to overcome any hurdle to achieve that greatness.

It was midsummer when things started to slow down. My workouts started to hurt, piano playing was strenuous, I started sleeping poorly and having to take midday naps. I felt so tired that any amount of studying seemed impossible. I struggled to remember things or think quickly. And I was angry, constantly, no matter the situation. I was being mean to everyone I cared about.

My knees ached with a deep, bruising throb, like I’d run miles barefoot. My fingers burned after ten minutes at the keys. Just climbing the stairs felt like hiking a hill made of wet sand.

My family noticed. I used to be so regimented, so productive. It was so dramatic of a change, but I am a teenager. My mom figured that the joint pain was just growing pains, my dad assumed I was sore from weightlifting and was angry because of adolescent change, my brother imagined I was just starting to get lazy.

Friends or family would ask me how I was doing, and I truly and desperately wanted to say I was okay, but often, the only response I could muster was ”I don’t know.”

I started to fear. Was I lazy? Am I a mean person? The fire in my eyes was smouldering. I didn't do as much as I used to. Who was I if I wasn’t the boy seizing every moment? My anxieties had their answer: a failure. My sense of worth was wrapped tightly around my productivity. Every trophy, test score, and perfectly executed day made me feel like I mattered. Without that, I didn’t know who I was.

The weeks went on, my eighth grade year began, but school was different than ever before. My heart of fire kept trying to force my failing body and mind to go beyond what it could handle, and I was slipping. I began to forget my homework assignments in Algebra 2, and English felt as if it was a foreign language. I snapped at my friends during lunch. My fingers seared in band class, and my knees could barely support me during gym. By history, I was barely awake. My fire was relegated to its coals.

Then I would get home, feeling as though I had run many marathons, so tired I could barely stand, but I would fight through a workout, some piano practice, and then I would just lay down for hours, trying to do something, anything, but the effort was futile. But as I was laying down, even worse than the joint pain or brain fog, I felt the crippling weight of being a failure. Anxiety whispered in my ear,"Without achievement you are nothing”.

Each day was a battle against my body, one I always lost. And, having lost my fight, my anxiety would whisper insults to my defeated soul.

Clearly, this was not normal, this was lasting months. November came, and I realized that this was not normal. I was not just lazy. This was too much, so I got a doctor's appointment.

The doctor quickly saw it. I live in Northwestern Pennsylvania, and there are so many infected ticks here. It was clearly Lyme Disease, which is normally treated very quickly with antibiotics, but because of how long the bacteria was in my body, there was permanent damage done to my joints, and the path to recovery was long. Potentially, I would never be restored to my life before, but at least now there was a path.

I had treatment, antibiotics, harsh ones. They were severely hurting my digestion, and that caused its own host of problems. I was barely eating, but my mind was starting to recover. And now, I had a name for my enemy, a reason besides myself that I was struggling.

I wasn’t angry all the time. I had my moments, but I was beginning to have less brain fog. My joints felt better, but they still hurt incredibly. But most importantly, I was learning to be satisfied with living despite my struggles.

As the course of the antibiotics ended, I was told that the pain that was left may last for a long time, and that I would work with a rheumatologist from now on. My path was clear, I set my heart on recovery, and I realized that I could not keep fighting my body. It was not the enemy and I could not keep fighting it. I needed to gently work with my body, not war with it.

It’s still a struggle to work at the golf course, my workouts have to be a little shorter. My piano playing sometimes takes a little more time to get comfortable. Some days the fire is a little dimmer, some days it’s bright as ever, but it never goes out.

I have learned from this too. When I see someone struggling, I do not assume that they are lazy or weak. I think about the way my bones felt as though they were withering, and how I tried so hard, and now, when I see someone struggling, I simply empathize. I can never know what wars they are fighting, but I can understand that my judgement is not going to win a single battle.

I’m not the same as I used to be. I have to focus on keeping my habits, and I’m still tired and don’t have as much motivation. My joints still hurt, and believe me, my anxieties still try to call me a failure. But the truth is, me, and my body, are still pursuing greatness, and in fact I’ve already achieved some greatness.

Before, greatness was measured in speed and strength. Now, I measure it in patience. In endurance. In waking up tired but trying anyway.

Greatness doesn’t just mean awards and achievements. Greatness is also learning to carry on through exhaustion. It is learning to reclaim your mind. It’s learning to be gentle and kind to your body.

And yes, greatness is being the kid with rekindled fire in your eyes, not because I’m unstoppable, but because I’ve learned to empathize, to persevere, and to keep going, no matter the obstacles.

After all, greatness is not explosive passion. It is a slow burning candle of resilience and empathy, that illuminates the world around it.