It was a Friday night at the theatre. I had just executed a staged tumble center-stage, nailing the landing as my character made their entrance—but something felt off. Did I land wrong? Was I hurt? The spotlight pooled around me, and adrenaline pushed me onward. Ninety minutes later, the curtain fell, and I had made it through the performance.
It was the fourth weekend of a six-week run, and I thought I had just endured my second injury of the show. Later that night, as the adrenaline faded, the reality set in: my knee was swollen, stiff, and painful, resisting every attempt to bend it. I iced it, elevated it, and promised myself I would rest—but only until the next night. Calling off was never an option. I had no understudy. I would wear a brace, take the meds, and push through. After all, this was live theater.
In the months leading up to that performance, rehearsals had been grueling. My body ached constantly, sore from head to toe, and every morning felt like I had survived an intense full-body workout. I attributed much of the pain to being a bigger girl, dismissing it as nothing more than fatigue or old habits catching up. Years of being gaslit by doctors taught me to ignore the pain and simply push through. Sprains, fractures, repeated bronchitis—every concern was met with the same advice: “Exercise more. Lose weight.” So, why waste my energy asking questions that would yield no answers?
That Friday night, I went to the theater determined to perform. We adapted the staging: my director and cast found ways to incorporate my leg brace, altered scenes, and eliminated falls. The show went on, fueled by adrenaline, even as I felt pain radiating to my other knee, elbow, and hip. By Sunday evening, I was exhausted and knew I needed rest—but I had no idea this was only the beginning of a life-altering journey.
Monday morning, I woke in a haze. My head pounded, my body burned with fever, and light stung my eyes. Panic set in as I realized I could barely move. My limbs felt trapped under invisible weights, every attempt at motion met with excruciating pain. Tears streamed down my face as I dragged my arm toward the phone to call my mom, already at work. She rushed over, and I was taken to urgent care, barely able to walk, each step a torture.
After a brief exam, the doctor held up my hands. “So, how long have you had arthritis?”
“I’m 21,” I replied, a mix of confusion and disbelief.
He looked at my hands again. “These are extremely inflamed. This is a severe case of arthritis.”
I was prescribed pain medication and referred to a rheumatologist. Normally, appointments with specialists could take months, but my mom, determined and fierce, managed to secure a slot that Wednesday. It felt like a miracle.
I expected answers, maybe reassurance. Instead, I learned that I was in the middle of a flare from a possible autoimmune disease—Systemic Lupus Erythematosus. My immune system, which should protect me, was attacking my own body, causing inflammation and pain. Words faded in and out as I tried to process: no cure, long-term, manageable, treatment, unknown. My tears fell freely on my mom’s hands as she held mine, grounding me while my mind spun.
And then I thought of the show. “Would I be able to perform on Friday? Would I ever perform again?” I pleaded with the doctor, explaining that I only needed to be physically capable for exactly 90 minutes over the next two weekends. Reluctantly, he agreed, prescribing a mix of painkillers, steroids, anti-inflammatories, and immunosuppressants.
Friday night, the medication worked. For ninety minutes, I performed as I had before, feeling normal—until the curtain call, when every joint screamed in pain. I repeated this for the next weekend, closing the show despite my body’s rebellion. Later tests confirmed it: I had Lupus, and it was attacking my joints.
At 21, my life had flipped upside down. I took the time to rest, process, and regulate my treatments—but depression followed. The disease controlled my body, my future seemed uncertain, and the thought of never performing again broke me. I had been performing since age ten, telling stories, making people laugh and cry, and now my passion felt out of reach.
Even so, I refused to surrender. I applied to performance programs, and despite the diagnosis, I got accepted. My mind wavered between hope and despair: the programs were physically demanding, stressful, and long hours could trigger flares—but I was determined. I compartmentalized my disease, took my medications, and pushed forward, refusing to let Lupus define me.
For almost two years, I balanced college, performing, rehearsals, and social life—all while hiding symptoms, relying on medications, and maintaining a facade of health. But my body fought back. Medications wore me down, bloodwork showed organ strain, and I had to confront reality. I took a break, paused performing, and discovered a new passion: costuming. Behind the scenes, I found creativity, fulfillment, and the ability to work at my own pace while still contributing to the art I loved.
By 2015, Lupus struck again, this time targeting my lungs. Pain wracked my back and chest, and after countless ER visits and tests, I was diagnosed with Shrinking Lung Syndrome. At 47% lung capacity, I faced the very real threat of losing my breathing ability. High-dose medications stabilized me, and I realized the fragility of life. I resolved to experience everything I could, while I could.
For years, I lived in cautious remission, traveling with my mom, working, and building a life. Then the pandemic hit. My disease worsened, joint damage accelerated, surgeries loomed, and mental health struggles intensified. With every flare, every hospital visit, every expense, survival became a daily challenge. Autoimmune disease is invisible, but its costs—physical, emotional, financial—are all too real.
Yet I continued to fight. I learned to listen to my body, advocate for myself, and live authentically. I shared my journey on social media, building a support system and raising awareness about invisible illnesses. I am a Lupus warrior.
This disease has reshaped my life in every possible way, but I am learning to love myself and my body, despite its limitations. I still create, perform, and dream—but now I do it with intention, gratitude, and resilience. Lupus may be a part of me, but it does not define me. And my story is far from over.
