I don't remember deciding to faint. Not clearly, anyway. But I remember the way my body folded—slowly, carefully—onto the classroom floor. I remember the gasps. The teacher is rushing. My heartbeat pounding behind my eyelids that, oddly enough, didn't want to stay shut.

I was nineteen and still bedwetting.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Spin.

That was my serving ritual. The same, simple one that I had done a hundred times before. But on that particular night, everything changed on the word spin.

A pendulum goes from its highest to its lowest point as it swings back and forth upon a thread. As the pendulum swings, it encounters several points of movement, each representing a moment of transition and continuity. Life is much like a pendulum, a continuous series of ups and downs, lefts and rights, and setbacks and overcoming's.

I’ve always been drawn to blank pages. They used to terrify me—so much white space, so many things I didn’t know how to say. But over time, I began to realize that blank pages understood me in a way that people didn’t. They didn’t flinch at my fears or judge my lows, they simply listened.

The same question, no matter what, used to consume my entire being: Will I ever feel good enough? I tried my entire life to make myself feel good enough, whether this is earning straight A’s or getting elected class president. From the bottom of my aching heart, I hoped that the happiness I felt with these victories would amount to how I felt when I looked in the mirror.

At the age of twelve in 2022, the entire world outside of me just faded. The days just were too hard, as if carrying an armored school backpack filled with bricks, and others couldn't perceive them. I'd look through the glass at the outside trees, at the street—but the entire world just didn't shine and just seemed like all paint faded.

My journey began in 2018 at 12 years old. I was diagnosed with primary lymphedema, this came with many challenges, physical and emotional. And now, as an 18-year-old male navigating life as a college freshman with this condition, I have come to realize that the rare disease community is constantly faced with challenges, that often go unseen by family, friends, and even the medical community.

Since my brother’s first cries echoed through the hospital walls, my life has been woven with the hospital scent and the beeping of heart monitors. Kidney failure had its claws on my brother, and it had an unimaginable toll on my family and me. I was merely three when I witnessed my baby brother in the ICU, fighting for his life.

The dinner table was set, and joyful music softly filled the background silence. As everyone exchanged gentle greetings and took their seats, the warmth of a home-cooked meal, prepared over hours, promised a delightful evening with family. My grandparents, eager to see me after my return for the break, repeatedly inquired about my school life—how it was going, if I was still friends with a certain girl, and whether I had a boyfriend. We bowed our heads to pray, expressing gratitude for the cherished moments spent together.

Death. You don't know how you'll react till your face to face with it. 6 years ago my brother was at death's door and it shifted the foundation of my family.

Many people face obstacles that set them back, but this was more than just an obstacle. It changed my whole perspective on life.

I painted the outside of the leaning tower. Bright, beautiful colours. People admired the tower’s strength and its beauty. However, I spent all the paint on the outside. The inner walls had scraped off paints, something I couldn’t afford to fix.

I am the leaning tower.

I was diagnosed with asthma at five years old, but it wasn’t until we moved to Atlanta around age ten that it really hit hard. The air was thicker. The secondhand smoke from our building, the dampness, and dust only made it worse. I remember sneezing so much that I burst a blood vessel, and a red spot sat on my eye like a warning light. I couldn’t run outside like the other kids.