“The White Pill” by Giselle Cartagena, 17

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. When I was finally diagnosed with hypothyroidism in sixth grade, it was not relief I felt. It was a quiet, sinking realization that this was the invisible weight I would carry for the rest of my life.

The hardest part was not the diagnosis itself. It was all the signs before, the tiredness that never left, the hunger that never satisfied, the mood swings that left me apologizing for words I barely remembered saying. I was exhausted in ways no one else seemed to understand. Teachers told me to focus. Friends told me I was distant. I thought I was just lazy or broken. It took time for my mom to see what I couldn't, that this was not me, but my body fighting against itself.

When the diagnosis came, I was eleven years old. I did not cry. I did not shout. I just quietly folded the information into the corner of my mind where the word different already lived. I was going to need medicine every day, a tiny pill that would make me normal. But normal was something I had never been.

The pill was small. The impact was huge. Every morning I swallowed it, I felt both grateful and trapped. Grateful for a chance at feeling better. Trapped by the knowledge that this was forever, a lifetime contract with a disease no one could see. Some days, the exhaustion was so deep it felt like I was moving through fog, dragging a body that was not mine. Other days, the world would spin too fast, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

At school, I put on a brave face. I smiled. I joked. But inside, my brain was heavy, fogged, slow. I forgot things I had studied, lost track of conversations, and sometimes could not remember why I had walked into a room. My teachers thought I was not trying; my friends thought I was distant. What they did not see was the constant battle just to keep going.

One day sticks in my memory like a scar. It was a day packed with a history test, volleyball practice, and volunteering at the Friendly Center. The night before, I barely slept, my body refusing rest. Morning came, and I dragged myself out of bed, each movement a struggle. At school, I blanked during the test. In volleyball, my legs would not respond. I was dizzy, exhausted, and ashamed. My coach pulled me aside, concern in her eyes. I nodded and smiled, but inside I was breaking. That night, alone in my room, I cried not just from tiredness but from the weight of invisibility. Yet, I showed up again the next day because quitting was not an option.

Living with hypothyroidism has shaped me in ways I never expected. It has taught me patience with myself and others. It has shown me how many people carry invisible battles, and how much kindness those people need. More than anything, it has taught me discipline. Taking care of myself, taking that pill, resting when I need to, and asking for help is not a weakness. It is survival.

Resilience is not always about grand gestures. Sometimes it is the quiet decision to get out of bed when every cell in your body screams to stay hidden. Sometimes it is the courage to ask for support when you feel like you do not deserve it. This illness has made me strong in ways I did not realize I needed to be.

My mom has been my rock. She did not just help me manage my medicine; she helped me manage the shame and fear. She taught me that taking care of yourself is an act of love, not selfishness. Outside of home, my mentors, coaches, and friends believed in me even when I doubted myself. They did not expect me to be perfect, just present. Their support gave me the strength to lead as volleyball captain, to mentor younger kids, and to volunteer in my community.

This journey has given me a purpose beyond my struggles. Volunteering at the Friendly Center, coaching volleyball, and mentoring peers are not just activities; they are ways I fight invisibility. I want others who feel unseen to know they matter. These experiences sparked my passion for public service and policy, not just to change systems, but to make sure no one falls through the cracks unnoticed.

Every morning, I take a tiny white pill. It is more than medicine. It is a symbol of my journey, my battles, my resilience. Hypothyroidism does not define me. It has shaped me, made me compassionate, patient, and determined.

I started feeling like I did not belong, but now I know I belong because of my story, not despite it.

I carry something invisible every day, but I show up anyway. That is my quiet victory, and it is what I am most proud of.