“Small Victories Each Day “

The hospital room has become a world of its own—a place where time stretches and blurs, where exhaustion settles deep in my bones. This is my third attack of MOGAD, and it’s been the hardest yet. I’ve been here for a month now, fighting numbness, weakness, and the relentless uncertainty that comes with losing vision in my left eye. The treatments—steroids, plasma exchange—leave me drained, but I keep going, because I have to. What keeps me afloat is the love that finds its way through these sterile walls. My husband visits every two days, his presence a lifeline. When he walks in, the room feels lighter, and for a moment, I can almost forget the beeping machines and the ache in my arms. My children visits, messages and calls from family and friends remind me that there’s a world waiting for me outside, a home that needs me, and people who love me just as I am—broken, healing, and everything in between. It’s hard to accept this fate, to know that each relapse chips away at my nerves, ...

Some days, I wake up and the world feels impossibly heavy. Living with autoimmune disorders like MOGAD and POTS means that pain is my constant companion—an invisible weight that others can’t see, but I feel in every movement. There are mornings when just getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. The simple act of walking to the kitchen, grabbing a pencil to draw, or tending to my garden—things I once did without a second thought—now require all the strength I can muster. It’s hard for people to understand what they can’t see. Pain is invisible, and unless someone has walked in my shoes, even for a minute, it’s impossible to truly grasp how difficult it is to move, to work, to do the things I love. Sometimes, it feels like the only time people believe the severity of my struggles is when I end up in the hospital for weeks at a time. I’ve had so many surgeries—just on my left arm, there have been seven. Each one leaves its own mark, a reminder of the battles I fight every day. T...

It’s hard to believe that almost two and a half years have passed since my world changed. The ache of missing her is a constant companion—sometimes sharp, sometimes dull, but always there. I miss the warmth of her hugs, the sound of her laughter echoing through the house, and the simple comfort of her presence. But it’s her, my little girl, whose absence I feel most deeply. No matter how much she grows, in my heart she will always be my baby. I remember holding her as a baby, her tiny fingers curling around mine, her soft breath against my cheek. There was a sweetness to those moments that I carry with me still—the way she would nuzzle into my shoulder, the gentle weight of her in my arms, the scent of her hair. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can almost feel her there again, safe and small and loved beyond measure. Now, I see pictures of her and I’m grateful to know she looks happy and complete. But the longing to be part of her life, to share in her joys and comfort her in her s...

There are days when the weight of my heart feels almost too much to carry. I look at my husband and wonder if he truly sees me—the woman who loves him, who aches for honesty, who just wants to feel safe in his arms. I try to show him my love, to care for him in all the small ways that matter, but he keeps his world locked away behind secrets and half-truths. When I ask for honesty, he acts like I’m the one hurting him, like my need for truth is an attack. I want to believe him, but how can I when he hides so much? It’s not just him. My children, my stepchildren—they all seem to keep me at arm’s length. I try so hard to be a good mother, to teach them, to love them, to be there for them. But sometimes, like the day I read my stepson’s words—how he doesn’t love me, how he only pretends so he can get something from me—I feel my heart shatter. I never thought I’d see those words with my own eyes. I’ve tried to guide him, to show him the right path, just as I have with my own kids. But all ...