I was born into a world
where every breath was a battle,
where sunlight felt like fire,
and rain was a threat.
From childhood,
I learned to live between coughs and cold medicines,
to smile when my body screamed for rest,
to carry dreams larger than my fragile frame.
There was a woman I loved—
an aunt who cared for me,
but whose life was stolen
by cruelty wrapped in tradition.
They called it dowry.
I was too young to understand then,
but her silence spoke louder than words.
She was gone,
and something inside me stirred—
a promise, a fire, a purpose.
My grandmother told me,
“If you want to escape pain,
become a collector.”
I held onto those words,
even when pain followed me like a shadow.
When my first period came,
it was not a rite of passage,
but a war—
bleeding that wouldn’t stop,
pain that swallowed me whole,
nausea that became my companion.
Doctors gave me pills,
hormones to balance what was broken,
but balance never came—
only more weakness,
more nights spent praying for relief.
Still, I went to school,
studied through the haze of sickness,
walked into exams with trembling hands,
determined not to give up.
When dengue struck,
when malaria came,
when jaundice joined the fight,
I asked the sky,
“Why me?”
But the silence was all I received.
And still—I didn’t quit.
I faced words I wished I never heard:
“You’ll never be cured.”
A cold room, a cold report,
a life sentenced to pills forever.
No sweets, no cold drinks,
no simple joys—only rules I had to follow.
I cried alone.
I told no one.
I was tired of being the problem.
But my father never gave up on me,
even when doctors said to stop.
I gave up on some dreams—
NEET was too much to carry—
but I held onto hope.
Then came the storm—
COVID,
the death of my grandmother,
a coma that stole two years of my life,
grief that felt endless.
Still, I didn’t quit.
I found my way back,
joined a university,
fought through migraines and fears,
until another diagnosis came—
calcium deposits in my brain.
But something miraculous happened.
The medicine healed more than expected.
The disease I thought would haunt me forever
began to fade.
I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s science.
Maybe it’s grace.
But what I do know is this:
I am not my illness.
I am not my pain.
I am the girl who didn’t quit.
To anyone reading this,
who feels broken, unseen, tired—
you are not alone.
Hope isn’t always a roar.
Sometimes it’s a whisper—
“I’m still here. Not today.”
You don’t have to be perfect.
You only have to keep going.
Because strength is not the absence of pain,
but the courage to rise
despite it.
