Nadia A.
If you’re reading this, you are not a burden.
Today I texted my parents, “I feel like a burden,” like my very existence is cumbersome. A chore. An obligation. Of course, they assured me this wasn’t true, and that if anything, I was nothing short of a blessing. Consciously, I accepted this response. I let their consoling words sway my loud and tormented mind into one of peace and quiet. But subconsciously, I wondered how true this could really be. They may have asked for a second child, but I hardly think they expected her to develop a chronic illness. One that would change the trajectory of all of their lives.
Up until I was about 13 years old, I was a relatively healthy child. I’d occasionally catch the common cold, develop a stomach bug here and there, but nothing I couldn’t ever quickly recover from. And I had always, always, been a perfectionist. Not just in my academics, but in the way I presented myself as well. I wanted people to look at me and think to themselves, “Wow, that is one impressive kid.” But, in December of 2014, I suddenly fainted in my driveway. This would be the first time, but certainly not the last, that I would have to be rushed to the emergency room due to sudden medical scares.
For months, these episodes kept happening to me–sometimes presenting themselves in different ways. I began to have seizure-like activity and convulsing in the middle of my classes. My head would loll in strange ways, my eyes staring blankly around a room I would physically be in, but mentally be absent from. Eventually, the episodes progressed so much that I could no longer identify myself upon waking up. I couldn’t tell you my name or where I was from. I didn’t even recognize those dearest to me. I will never forget the hurt on this woman’s face when I couldn’t tell her who she was. The tears that formed in her eyes. The slight quiver of her lips. I would only later come to realize that woman was my own mother.
I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for that; for hurting her in that way. And I know in my heart it wasn’t my fault. There was nothing I could do. But perhaps that was the worst part of it upon my realization, the feeling of helplessness. The understanding that you can hurt the people you love most even when you don’t realize you’re hurting them. Even if it’s completely and utterly out of your control.
In the beginning of the following year, I finally received a diagnosis. I had a nervous system disorder called Dysautonomia, or more specifically, POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome). “It’s chronic,” the doctor told me and my family.
“There is no cure.”
A lot of things went through my mind that day. I think I had so many thoughts that my mind became sort of empty and blank. But I could still hear everyone talking around me, discussing next steps. There was medicine of course, and ways to mitigate symptoms. But ultimately, I would have to live with this for the rest of my life.
Since I’ve been diagnosed, I have returned to the hospital countless times. I’ve ridden in more ambulances than I can count. I’ve fainted in class, in public, at work, and in many other places. There have been times that I’ve felt that I’ve gotten better, or that I’ve gotten worse. I’ve graduated high school, I’ve graduated college. But at the source of it all, I have felt myself to be a large, insurmountable burden.
Have you ever felt this way? Like maybe you’re too much, or too little? Or that whatever troubles you (whether it be a chronic illness, or depression, or some other ailment), outweighs the beauty of who you truly are?
If so, let me be the first to tell you, no matter what life throws at you, nothing will ever dull the light that shines within your heart. You are so much more than the obstacles you face, so much more than a grade or score–so much more than what you think of yourself to be. And most importantly, you are not, nor will you ever be, a burden. The fact that you are here now reading this is a testament to your ability to overcome it all. And the fact that you are alive at all is a miracle in and of itself. Your presence is a breath of fresh air in a world that can so often suck the life out of you.
I know this can be hard to remember. I struggle to remember it myself. But if you remember nothing else, remember this: your journey is not linear. There will always be days when you feel you’ve hit the lowest of lows. You may even hit rock bottom.
But while life is happening to you, you are also happening to life. Lean into that. Revel in your journey. And never forget that through it all, you are loved.
Nadia A., Southern Methodist University
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my letter. I hope my words have made an impact on you in some way, shape, or form. To show my continued support to the Dysautonomia community, my family and I have created a scholarship fund dedicated to college students with Dysautonomia. Our goal is to encourage students with Dysautonomia to pursue their wildest endeavors, whatever they may be. Please click on the following for more information about our mission, scholarship application and ways to donate:
Connect With Us
To follow IfYoureReadingThis at SMU on Instagram, get in touch with our chapter, and learn about more resources available to SMU students, visit our chapter’s homepage.
author Contact
This author has opted to allow readers who resonate with their story to contact them. If you would like to speak to the author of this letter about their experience, please use the form below.