More Than the Illness I Speak About

People know me as the woman
who writes about pain.

The one who speaks of flares,
hospital rooms,
doctor’s appointments,
and the quiet grief
that comes with living
inside a body that struggles.

They know the zebra.
The spoons.
The advocacy.

And I’m proud of those things.

Because if my words
help even one person
feel less alone,
then every sentence
has been worth writing.

But that isn’t all that I am.

I am the daughter
who treasures time with her mother.

I am the sister
who loves deeply.

I am the friend
who laughs until her stomach hurts.

I am the writer
whose heart spills onto every page.

I am the singer
who still finds music,
even on days
when pain tries to drown it out.

I am the cat lover
who smiles at gentle paws
and quiet companionship.

I am curious.
Creative.
Hopeful.
Compassionate.

I dream.
I celebrate.
I grieve.
I grow.

My illness is woven into my story,
but it did not write every chapter.

There are pages filled with joy.
Pages filled with love.
Pages still waiting
to be written.

So if you know me
only by the diagnosis I carry,

keep turning the pages.

Because somewhere beyond
the doctor’s notes,
the medications,
and the pain,

you’ll find a woman
who was never meant
to be defined
by what she battles—

but by the life
she continues
to build
despite it.