Beauty in Brokenness

One Year

This week marks one year since everything changed—before I even knew I was sick.

I remember the night vividly. I had been sitting on the ground doing homework, but when I tried to stand, my legs collapsed. Panic set in as I screamed for my parents, helpless in a way I had never felt before. I wanted to believe it was just exhaustion from my junior year of high school and intense track training, but deep down, I knew something more was wrong.

The pain escalated quickly. I lost my ability to walk, and with it, I felt like I was losing myself. Hours in physical therapy became a fight to hold onto my mobility—only for it to slip away without warning.

As the weeks passed, the pain deepened. My energy drained. My personality shifted. It was the beginning of an exhausting cycle of doctor appointments, tests, and specialist visits, searching for answers that never seemed to come.

Then, almost exactly seven months after my first symptom, I finally got them.

On July 3rd, I was referred to yet another specialist—one with a long waitlist. By chance, a patient canceled, and we got in. We expected more tests, more waiting, but not answers. Yet, that was the day I first heard the words ankylosing spondylitis.

I had never heard of it before. As my doctor explained that my immune system was attacking itself and that this would be a lifelong battle, I felt everything at once—relief, because after months of suffering, I finally had a diagnosis. Fear, because I had to learn to live with something that would never go away.

When I started using my wheelchair full-time, it opened up conversations I had rarely had before, even with those closest to me. Friends at school became more curious about my pre-existing diagnosis of Spina Bifida. Suddenly, I heard the question, “How are you feeling today?” more often. But instead of feeling pressured to hide what I was going through, I saw it as an opportunity—to be open, to be honest, and to embrace my reality.

For months, I struggled with my weakness. I wrestled with the fear of what my future would look like. But in the middle of my doubt, I found the truth of 2 Corinthians 12:9-10:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

God never promised a life without suffering, but He does promise to be with us in it. He doesn’t call us to hide our struggles—He calls us to sharpen one another (Proverbs 27:17). But that kind of growth requires something from us: vulnerability.

One year ago, I had no idea what was ahead. Today, I still don’t have all the answers, but I do know this: I am not alone. And I never will be.

Maybe your story isn’t the same as mine. Maybe your struggle looks different. But pain, uncertainty, and fear touch all of us at some point.

If you’re walking through your own season of uncertainty, I want you to know this: Your story isn’t over. The pain you’re facing right now isn’t wasted. Even when you can’t see it, God is still writing something beautiful.

So what if, instead of hiding our struggles, we shared them? What if we leaned on each other instead of pretending we have it all together? What if we trusted that even in our hardest moments, God is making us stronger?

Because the truth is—He is.