When I was five, I believed there were monsters under my bed; they were monsters consumed with darkness. They resembled wraiths and had no mercy; they were able to snap you into a million pieces, drag you into the darkness, and leave you with no way out. Back then, it would have been impossible to convince me otherwise. The thought of these monsters being merely in my head was absolutely preposterous. But like all things, we grew, the monsters and I, in perfect harmony. I was no longer afraid, I didn’t need someone to check under my bed, and I no longer believed monsters existed. 

“You’re just tired.” “You probably stayed up too late.” “Why are you so lazy all the time?” 

These are the words I hear almost every day. From classmates, teachers, even from my own family. But the truth is, I’m not just tired. I’m not lazy. I live with chronic anemia, a condition that affects nearly every part of my life, even if no one can see it. 

What do you do when the person who gave you life is also the one who made you feel  like you didn't deserve to be here? That exact question haunted me for a very long time. I’ve lived with depression and anxiety for years. The rough kind. The kind that affects  you even on your best days. I smiled through school, through volleyball, through everything - but  I was quietly drowning inside. No one saw it; I barely saw it myself. 

The beeping taunts me. It seems to know that a fever of 101 degrees or greater means immediate care and an overnight stay for those with my genotype. The perpetual beeps seem in tune with my pounding heart as I look down at the thermometer anxiously waiting for it to tell me my fate. As these rhythmic mockings come and go with no answer, I look over to the pile of books, mounds of flashcards, and stacks of practice sheets I amalgamated over the months to prepare for my test tomorrow when the beeping stops.

What if obstacles were actually opportunities to discover who we truly are? Each challenge reveals a stronger version of ourselves. Personal growth pushes us to redefine our limits, confront insecurities, and build resilience. I have lived with a chronic speech impediment for as long as I can remember. It is not just about mispronouncing a few words; it’s an invisible condition that affects every part of my day.

I used to wish I could hide. Not because of who I was inside, but because of what others saw on the outside. Growing up with severe eczema, my skin wasn’t just dry or itchy—it was raw, red, and painful. I felt like I was always being stared at, judged, or misunderstood. But over time, that same skin that once made me feel ashamed became the reason I found purpose, confidence, and a voice. Living with a chronic skin condition hasn’t been easy, but it has made me who I am—an advocate, a leader, and someone determined to make others feel seen. 

The heart of who I am is my dream to one day save lives, and it's something I share with anyone I connect with. Coming to America as a low-income Dominican immigrant meant that my older sister, who was of high school age, took up a job rather than continuing High School here in the States.

When I was a kid, I had little monkey ears. Perhaps it was because bananas were my favorite fruit and I’d eat one every morning for breakfast, or the fact that I was really into the cartoon Curious George. So obsessively immersed that I brought a stuffed animal, Curious George, for show and tell at school, when others brought memorabilia or their favorite Barbie doll. But in reality, it was my prominent uneven ears that sparked the comparison.

Storms break out in the most unexpected places. They are powerful, relentless, violent, and devastating—but sometimes, they can also be miracles.

My storm was no different from the others: the same fierce gusts, the same terrifying thunder, the same piercing drops of rain. And yet, this storm had a very peculiar beginning—it started inside me.

At ten years old I played and laughed with my godfather, a reverend and community activist who never lost the desire to make the world a better place. I loved him, his energy, his stories, and his jokes. But two years later, it all started going awry. He began asking me over and over again: "What's your name, pretty young lady? “You’re getting so big, how old are you now? What grade are you in now?”

The term, “Azhdilt,” (Have self-discipline and be prepared for challenges), is commonly spoken in Dine (Navajo) households. In a poor rural community, access to medicine and healthcare was a privilege only for those with functioning vehicles. Witnessing family members in pain due to the lack of technological advances in local clinics and hospitals, where it felt like most doctors could only give rudimentary help, like prescribing a bottle of Tylenol or recommending another hospital four hours away.

Being a teenage girl often feels like you are a specimen placed under a microscope, being studied under an observant gaze. You walk into a room and it feels as if a spotlight has been placed on you and you’re being evaluated on everything from the placement of your feet to the stray hairs on the top of your head. For me, that spotlight has always landed on my left eye.

I was once told, "Your struggles don't define you," but I disagree. As an 18-year-old diagnosed with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), fibromyalgia, and multiple mental health disorders, I have learned that struggles are not limitations but merely catalysts for growth.

It all started with migraines. Debilitating, vomit-inducing migraines that would last for  days. My parents started believing that my pain was real when I was writhing in my bed from the  pain on Friday nights and Saturdays. "If she's doing this on her own time, maybe she isn't trying  to pull a Ferris Bueller during the week." I couldn’t leave the house without my sunglasses, and  even then I was having daily migraines. This was when I was in fourth grade. When I was in  high school, there were a few years that I wore sunglasses indoors because the lights in the  classrooms were so painful. Naturally, I received harassment from students and teachers on a  daily basis. My symptoms soon expanded and worsened.  

When I left elementary school, I didn’t think much about my height. I was the right size for my age, healthy, and ready to face the craziness of middle school. I wasn’t exactly a towering figure, but I blended in with my classmates. There was comfort in that. But somewhere between childhood and adolescence, something strange happened, my growth quietly… stopped.

My name is Carter, I am 14 years old, and I have the chronic condition asthma. I have had asthma my whole life, and have had to manage it to ensure I stay healthy. As I grow up to be a young man I have found ways to fully participate in life, while maintaining my health.

Unable to eat certain foods, constantly feeling sick, barely getting sleep: all the symptoms my mother had before getting diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. Crohn’s hasn’t turned mine or my mom’s life upside down, but it has caused us to navigate life differently when it comes to adjusting with this chronic illness.

The doctor ordered my parents to start taking pills when they reached their late forties. My doctor prescribed me my medication at age sixteen. A thirty-year difference between us, and yet our schedule is the same every night: take pills, drink water, and swallow the bitter taste of sulfur before it can dissolve and intrude on our taste buds. The only difference is that theirs were for blood pressure and vitamins, and mine was for obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I have Asperger’s Syndrome. It’s a high functioning autistic disorder. Some people might not think of it as a chronic illness. But according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, this is the definition of a chronic disease: “conditions that last 1 year or more and require ongoing medical attention or limit activities of daily living or both.“ (CDC, “About Chronic Diseases”) So yes, generally autism isn’t considered a chronic illness, but according to the previously mentioned definition, it should. It lasts your whole life because it can’t be “cured”.