It’s 8 a.m., my alarm goes off, and I try to roll out of bed. But the second I move, I know something is wrong. My hips are on fire, my legs are stiff, and even my arms feel like I spent the night lifting weights. I lay there wondering, why do I keep waking up like this?

And then the tears come. Because the truth is, I’ve done a lot of damage over the years. Not just mentally and emotionally, but physically too. There’s always that little voice asking: am I being dramatic, making a mountain out of a molehill, or have I really broken myself in ways I can’t undo?

I eventually force myself up and start moving until the pain eases. But the sadness lingers. I want to be the kind of mom who has the energy to chase her little boy around the park—not the mom who’s too exhausted to keep up. I kept asking myself: what is it going to take to get back to a place of mental, emotional, and physical health?

For years, doctors ran test after test. Thyroid problems, vitamin deficiencies, lifestyle changes—they explained part of it, but never the whole story. And then, three years ago, everything came to a head.

It started with something so small—pink eye. Instead of giving me drops, my doctor prescribed oral antibiotics. Within three days, I was violently sick. I couldn’t stop throwing up, I became incoherent, and I couldn’t answer the simplest questions—what year it was, who the president was. I couldn’t take care of my son.

At the ER, a CT scan revealed what had been there all along: Chiari Malformation. It had shown up on previous scans, but this time it was much worse.

From April to July of 2022, I went from a functioning mom to bedridden. I lost vision, slipped into depression, and felt myself decline so fast it terrified me. When I finally met with a surgeon, he told me he didn’t think surgery would help—but he was willing to do it if I wanted. I was desperate. I said yes.

And here’s the part that makes people’s jaws drop: I chose to do the surgery—and the recovery—without pain medication. Some people couldn’t believe I would even consider it with my history. Others flat-out didn’t think I’d follow through. But I did. I stayed clean.

And let me tell you—brain surgery without pain meds was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than detox. Harder than relapse. Harder than clawing my way back into recovery, over and over. But this time, it wasn’t just about me. It was about showing up for my son. It was about proving to myself that I could face pain without running from it.

Fast forward to today: I’m healthy. I can care for my son. I’m a full-time student, on the President’s List, and I enjoy life more than I ever did during those years I was just fighting for answers.

The pain, the surgery, the struggle—it’s all part of my story, but it doesn’t define me. What defines me is that I didn’t give up. And if there’s one thing I want you to take from this—it’s that no matter what your battle looks like, no matter how heavy it feels, you can keep going too. Healing doesn’t always come the way we expect, but it does come. Don’t give up.