“STRONGER THAN THE STORM” by Anonymous Teen
I stepped onto the familiar tiled floor of my enormous school, tickled with nervousness but fueled with hope. My sophomore year was here, and I was determined to make it memorable. I quickly became involved in my school’s student government, made new friends, and danced under homecoming’s glowing lights, certain the year would only get better. But nothing could have prepared me for the quiet storm brewing in my life. One that would strike without warning and change everything.
Just days after the dance, I woke up with blurred vision and a lightheaded, dizzy sensation. I brushed it off, expecting it to fade, but it lingered throughout the day, the week, and into the next. Fear quickly washed away denial, and my parents’ worry deepened with every passing day. After a week, we finally went to the emergency room, desperate for answers that would ease my peculiar symptoms. That was when the storm truly began.
At first, doctors called it anemia. Later, though, an MRI revealed something far scarier: inflammation in my brain. Fear clenched my chest and constricted my throat. What could this all mean? Would I be okay soon? Yet, I found the comforting fact that most children with this illness make a complete recovery after treatment, and I wanted to believe I’d be one of them.
For a few days, I received treatment, and my symptoms began to ease. Although I missed a lot of schoolwork and longed to see my friends, I stayed hopeful, convinced I’d recover soon. But shortly after I was discharged, alarming new symptoms appeared, and the fear I had tried to push away came rushing back. That’s when I realized my condition
was far more serious than simple brain inflammation. Two weeks later, reality struck like lightning, and my world came to an abrupt stop: Multiple Sclerosis. The storm wasn't just passing anymore—it had a name, and it was here to stay.
When I was first diagnosed, I wasn’t as sad as I thought I’d be. Instead, a strange fire lit inside me, a determination I’d never felt before. I told myself this illness wouldn’t define me, and for a while, I made good on that promise. I used that energy to catch up on schoolwork and pushed forward as if life would return to normal.
But at the time, I didn’t truly understand what living with MS meant. The only word I can use to describe it now is unpredictable. My optimism began to crumble when new symptoms hit: numbness swallowing the entire left side of my body, tingling and burning sensations, and stiffness in my knee so severe I couldn’t walk without limping or relying on a mobility aid just to get around my house.
I didn’t feel like myself anymore. It was as if an intruder had taken over my body, and I couldn’t make it leave. I had been so sure things would get better, but each new symptom felt like a betrayal. The resolve I once clung onto quickly gave way to panic attacks and a darkness I didn’t know how to escape.
Depression and anxiety began to creep into my life, two shadows I’d never thought would follow me. Some days, simple tasks like brushing my teeth or grabbing a bite to eat felt impossible. Every day, my chest would tighten, and my pulse would pound for no reason, as if danger lurked in every corner. My thoughts became relentless, viciously generating worst-case scenarios that left me frozen in fear. It felt like I was at war with my own mind, and I was the one losing. I tried to “stay positive,” like my family urged, but the harder I forced optimism, the deeper I sank into despair. I was finally in the eye of the storm.
Yet even in my darkest moments, the determination I once felt never completely faded. It lingered as a small flame of hope—a belief that the “better” I was desperately searching for was just within reach—and it kept me moving forward. Little by little, that hope began to shape my days, and I started to notice things shifting around me.
As my mental health suffered and my physical symptoms persisted, I often felt isolated, like no one could truly grasp the cargo that my illness placed in my life. But even in that loneliness, that glimmer of hope allowed me to see the strength and support surrounding me. My family wrapped me in comfort when my symptoms were at their worst. Friends filled my days with laughter, reminding me that life could still hold beauty. A therapist and psychiatrist helped me untangle the fear and despair, while a team of neurologists at the children’s hospital gave me the treatment I needed to start healing. Even my school counselor, who also lived with MS, became a guiding light and showed me that I wasn’t as alone as I thought. And my Christian faith reminded me of the same. That God saw my struggles and was quietly strengthening me through it all.
Going to school was a constant struggle. I was grateful for friends who brightened my days, but their presence couldn’t quiet the relentless anxiety that shadowed me. The pressure to keep up with schoolwork wore me down, and my racing heart made it nearly impossible to focus in class. On my worst days, I would retreat to my counselor’s office, looking for a place to breathe. During one visit, after an anxiety attack left me shaking, she offered a piece of advice that has stayed with me ever since: take things one day at a time.
Those words lifted a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying. After my diagnosis, every day felt unbearably heavy, and even thinking about tomorrow felt suffocating. But learning
to take things step by step helped me let go of the need to control the future and savor the present moment. I began practicing mindfulness through meditation, deep breathing, and even just sitting quietly in my room with calm music, letting myself simply exist. When catastrophic thoughts crept in, grounding techniques helped pull me back to the now. Over time, I found a peace I’d never known before. Learning to live in the present became one of my greatest tools for calming the chaos inside me.
The last and hardest lesson I learned was to give myself grace. At first, I hated the days my body refused to cooperate, like in the mornings when I sometimes couldn’t get out of bed, or when the pain and fatigue forced me to cancel plans or fall behind in school. I saw those moments as failures, as proof that I was weak. But over time, I realized that fighting myself only made the storm feel stronger. I had to learn that it was okay to rest, to give my body space to recover without guilt, and to remind myself that needing help or taking breaks didn’t make me less capable. Extending the same kindness to myself that I would offer a friend became one of the most healing practices in my journey, and it’s something I still practice to this day.
Learning to treat myself with grace didn’t make the storm disappear overnight, but it gave me the strength to endure it. And eventually, on top of leaning onto my supportive village and taking things day by day, the clouds began to part. The sun warmed my skin, the sky stretched open, and for the first time in months, I felt stillness. My symptoms had faded, and though my diagnosis had once felt devastating, I stood stronger than ever. I regained my spark, and the shadows of depression and anxiety that I thought would never leave faded away. Being diagnosed with MS was the hardest experience of my life, but, in many ways, it was the most transformative.
One of my favorite comfort shows says, “Everybody has something that happens to them that splits their lives into two.” For me and for many other teens, that moment is our diagnosis. But the quote continues: “But don’t let heartbreak weigh you down. Build something new out of the pain.” That’s what I’ve done and what you can do too. Instead of letting MS dictate my life, I use it as proof of my resilience, something I’ll carry with me through every flare-up and challenge ahead as I continue to live my best life.
If you’re reading this and your storm still feels unrelenting, I want you to know something: storms don’t last forever. Maybe your skies feel darker than mine ever did, or maybe you’re just starting to feel the first raindrops. But no matter how heavy it feels right now, it will pass. It may not look the same as it did before, and it may take longer than you’d like, but one day, the clouds will break. The sun will return, and you’ll find yourself
standing in the light again—stronger, softer, and more resilient than you ever thought possible.