I was born with a heart murmur and significant hypotonia. For the first year of my life, I slept with bars on my legs every night. As a young child, my parents would listen as I cried from what doctors called “growing pains.” Except the pain never really went away.
The irony is that I was always the girl in motion. I loved to dance. I was active, driven, determined, and full of energy. From the outside, very few people would have guessed anything was wrong.
But from a very young age, my body was telling a different story.
I lived with constant pain in my muscles, joints, hips, hands, and neck. My legs would unexpectedly buckle beneath me. I was always looking for something to lean against—a wall, a counter, a shopping cart—because my body rarely felt stable. At times, my neck felt so unstable it was like a bobblehead, as though it could barely support the weight of my head. I learned to push through it because I didn’t know any other way.
I could accomplish almost anything— for a while. Then I would crash. People assumed I was simply doing too much, stressed, anxious, or even depressed. What I know now is that my body wasn’t running out of determination. It was struggling to produce energy at the cellular level.
My mind wanted to keep going, but my body often could not keep up.
Because I looked healthy, people assumed I was healthy. In many ways, I felt like I was living a double life. The world saw someone who was energetic, driven, and always smiling. What they didn’t see was the constant pain, the instability, how hard I was working just to keep up, or what happened after I got home. I became incredibly good at hiding what was happening because I didn’t want people to see me as weak or incapable.




