Just when I thought I was learning how to live with multiple sclerosis, life handed me another diagnosis.
Lupus.
I remember hearing the word and feeling as though the ground shifted beneath me once again.
Part of me wanted to scream.
Part of me wanted to cry.
Part of me was simply exhausted.
Not physically exhausted-although I was certainly that.
I was emotionally exhausted.
It felt as though every time I learned how to carry one burden, another was placed on my shoulders.
I remember sitting alone after receiving the diagnosis, staring into space and wondering how much more one person could endure.
I had already spent months trying to understand multiple sclerosis.
Now I was being asked to learn another disease.
Another list of symptoms.
Another set of medications.
Another future filled with uncertainty.
I didn't feel brave.
I didn't feel strong.
I felt tired.
Very tired.
The kind of tired that settles deep inside your spirit.
The kind of tired that no amount of sleep can fix.
From the outside, most people couldn't see what I was going through.
That was one of the hardest parts.
lupus didn't always leave visible scars.
There were no flashing signs announcing my pain.
No cast.
No wheelchair.
No bandages.
To many people, I looked perfectly fine.
But inside, my body was fighting a battle every single day.
There were mornings when getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain.
Mornings when every joint hurt.
Mornings when fatigue wrapped itself around me like a heavy blanket.
Yet life didn't stop.
Bills still needed to be paid.
Responsibilities still existed.
People still depended on me.
So I did what so many women do.
I kept going.
I got dressed.
I went to work.
I smiled when people asked how I was doing.
I carried pain that nobody could see.
There were days when I sat at my desk feeling completely drained, praying for enough strength to make it through the next hour.
Not the next week.
Not the next month.
Just the next hour.
Sometimes survival becomes that simple.
One hour at a time.
One step at a time.
One prayer at a time.
The emotional battle was just as difficult as the physical one.
Fear became a constant companion.
I worried about my future.
I worried about my family.
I worried about whether my body would continue to decline.
I worried about things I couldn't control.
The uncertainty was relentless.
Every new symptom raised questions.
Every doctor's appointment created anxiety.
Every test result carried the possibility of bad news.
There were nights when fear kept me awake.
Nights when I stared into the darkness wondering what tomorrow would bring.
There were moments when sadness settled over me like a cloud.
Moments when I felt isolated.
Moments when I questioned whether anyone truly understood what I was experiencing.
Chronic illness has a way of making you feel alone, even when you're surrounded by people who love you.
Not because they don't care.
But because they cannot fully experience what your body endures.
They see your smile.
They don't see the pain behind it.
They hear your words.
They don't hear the conversations happening inside your mind.
They witness your strength.
They don't always see the effort it takes to appear strong.
There were times when depression quietly entered my life.
I didn't always recognize it at first.
I told myself I was simply tired.
I told myself I was having a bad day.
But eventually I realized I was grieving.
Grieving the life I thought I would have.
Grieving the version of myself that existed before illness arrived.
Grieving the certainty that had once made me feel safe.
What I didn't understand then was that grief is not limited to death.
Sometimes we grieve lost dreams.
Lost expectations.
Lost versions of ourselves.
And that grief deserves to be acknowledged.
Yet even during those difficult seasons, God never stopped meeting me where I was.
Some prayers were long.
Others were only a few words.
"Lord, help me."
"Lord, strengthen me."
"Lord, carry me."
Those simple prayers became lifelines.
There were days when faith wasn't a feeling.
It was a decision.
A decision to trust God despite unanswered questions.
A decision to believe He was present even when I couldn't feel Him.
A decision to keep moving forward when everything inside me wanted to give up.
Looking back now, I realize lupus taught me lessons I never wanted to learn.
It taught me patience.
It taught me humility.
It taught me compassion for people carrying invisible burdens.
Most importantly, it taught me that strength is not the absence of weakness.
Strength is continuing to move forward despite it.
lupus challenged my body.
It challenged my emotions.
It challenged my faith.
But it also revealed something important.
I was stronger than I realized.
Not because of my own power.
But because God was carrying me through every step of the journey.
And while I believed lupus would be one of the greatest battles I would ever face, another chapter was already waiting.
A chapter filled with fear unlike anything I had known before.
A chapter that would change how I viewed life itself.
A chapter that would begin with my heart.