Strength in Invisible Battle

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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. The episodes of MOGAD have been especially cruel. Three times, I’ve lost my sight, each episode damaging the nerves in my eyes a little more. Each time, I’ve had to find the strength to adapt, to keep going, even as the world around me becomes less clear. It’s a journey that’s forced me to redefine what strength means. It’s not about pushing through without help—it’s about surviving, adapting, and finding hope in the smallest victories. Even when others can’t see my pain, I know the courage it takes to face each day. But the impact of these disorders goes far beyond the physical. Every day, I struggle with side effects and symptoms that make even the simplest tasks feel overwhelming. My concentration slips away, and I forget things I used to remember so easily. My body doesn’t move as quickly, and my thoughts aren’t as clear. Getting out of bed is a challenge—my heart races, dizziness takes over, and sometimes I pass out. Missing just one day of medication can set me back for weeks, making every moment a battle. I used to be a teacher for 19 years. I loved being around children, creating lessons, and caring for a classroom full of bright, eager minds. That was my passion, my purpose. Now, I can’t do that anymore. My vision is blurred, driving fills me with fear, and pain lingers in my arms, legs, and back after even the smallest effort. The loss of my independence is one of the hardest things to bear. I was always strong, always capable, but now I have to ask for help with things I once did without thinking—making a sandwich, carrying a plant inside, or simply preparing myself for the day. Mentally, it’s a struggle. Anxiety, depression, and PTSD are constant shadows. I’m only 43, still young, but I feel so limited compared to the woman I once was. The hardest part is accepting that I need help, that I can’t do it all on my own anymore. It’s a daily battle to find hope, to remember that even in the darkest moments, there is still strength within me. This is how my life has changed, and this is the truth I live with every day.



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