They call it bipolar disorder. 

It’s a word, a label— a neat little definition that attempts to box the chaos: “A mental health condition that is characterized by extreme mood swings that range from manic highs to depressive lows.” 

I called it the animals in my chest. 

My ribs always stuck out — I was on the skinnier side, after all. I never questioned it … until the day I felt my left arm graze against a protruding bone. I took a closer look, and noticed a visible bump on my left side that appeared to be my rib sticking out. On the other side, it seemed that my right rib was tucking inwards.

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.

Disorder: an expression I had denominated as abnormality, malfunction, wrongness. In accordance with the simplistic definitions my mind had assigned, educational environments introduced the cruciality of first impressions, how perceptions held the potential to build both admiration and skepticism, lingering throughout a singular composited evaluation from my classmates.

They called me fat. Over and over again.

The truth is, I wasn’t even fat. Not that it should matter. But I wasn’t. I was just a girl with a body, normal, growing, soft in places, strong in others. But for some reason, they chose me. Maybe because I was quiet. Maybe because I didn’t fit in perfectly. Or maybe because it’s easier to break someone else than face your own cracks.

I thought she was just weak.

In sixth grade, my class had to read about a 12 year old girl (I don’t remember her name so we’ll just call her Claire) that went to the hospital because of this horrible headache. I truly thought that she was just being a “whiny baby” about it.

I thought I was saying goodbye forever. Tubes, machines, and panic surrounded Uncle T.’s hospital bed all because of a silent killer hiding in our bloodline.

My Uncle Travis had always been there for us. He was there for my mom when she found out she would be a single parent, with me still in the womb, providing a roof over our heads until we got on our feet.

Their volume grew with every attempt to reason. Every desperate “but” was torn down by an even more convincing “what if” from my opponent. My opponent wasn’t playing fair, making up evidence, and even worse, had the favor of the judge. I had spent countless hours constantly evaluating thoughts, feelings, and memories, building a well established argument for the case, but it was never enough.

If it weren’t for my love of soccer, I might never have discovered my congenital knee condition ----something to do with thin joint cartilage and synovitis with fluid buildup. I still don’t fully understand the medical terms. All I know is that one day, I was running freely across the field, and the next, I could barely walk.

When I was 10 years old, I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. I didn’t really know what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t something most kids had. My mom, dad, and both of my grandmas had it, so it didn’t shock me—but it still hit hard. I just remember feeling confused and kind of scared. Everything changed after that.

If you were to see me in the grocery store or at the park, you would probably never guess that I am sick or that I am disabled. You would probably see just a teenage girl. Today, I hope to open your eyes to see what you would otherwise never know about myself or countless others who suffer from invisible and dynamic disabilities and illnesses. I also want to recognize all the people who have stood by me every step of the way.

Coney Island, I was 11 years old and it was April of the year 2020. Me and my family were enjoying a nice walk across the board and having a wonderful time. On this walk my mom noticed I was walking funny. I would lean to one side, my footing was peculiar and my balance seemed off. This is what I was told but I never realized.

I've always had this super annoying friend. She followed me everywhere and never failed to interrupt at the worst possible moments. Despite the frustration she's brought me, I had to learn to live with her, because deep down inside I knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

One day out of 365. One hour of exercise. One second for a disk to slip. All it took for my life to change was one day, one hour, and one second. More than half of my high school career will be spent with chronic back pain, the years in which I'm supposed to fight for my spot on a varsity soccer team and sit in a classroom for hours.

I was fourteen when it started. Freshman year of high school. Everyone else seemed to be figuring who they were and what they wanted to become, and I was just trying to make it through the day. Suddenly, my body became a war zone. My mind was unsure whether focusing or surviving was more important.

These days, I feel like teenagers are not teenagers anymore. I feel like they are older than their age. For example, there’s a girl who is only 13 years old — the age when she should be studying, eating, and playing — but instead, she’s looking at herself and feeling like she has to change because of what others say.

It all began when my family had to move to Laval Quebec in 2021 for my dads job. I was excited at first and thought I would enjoy my new life there. However, I struggled so much socially because of the different social culture. I made no friends, often got bullied, and submerged myself into schoolwork. That’s when I developed a passion for my academics, along with major social anxiety.

I never imagined that a single word, “cancer,” could change the course of my entire life. My junior year of high school was supposed to be spent preparing for the SAT, going on college tours, and enjoying late nights with friends. Instead, it became a year of doctor visits, surgery, and radiation. It all began with a small lump I noticed on my neck while getting ready one morning. I had no other symptoms except this marble-sized swelling on the side of my neck.

“She cries when I try to talk to her.” 

Can you run more tests? 

“There are no signs of autism.” 

Are you sure? 

“Yes.”