When I hear “Ink and Illness,” my mind immediately connects it to the patchwork of challenges that shape my daily life. Fibromyalgia is one thread in this complex tapestry, relentlessly affecting every facet of my existence. On its worst days, even the act of forming a sentence feels insurmountable. Yet, writing remains my quiet rebellion. Against the pain, against the chaos, against the constraints these conditions try to place on me—every word I write is a victory, a small defiance that says, “I am more than this.”
Fibromyalgia doesn’t exist in isolation for me. Its relentless burning pain and unpredictable flares are joined by chronic migraines, which force me into retreat without warning. These migraines were the first hints of dormant fibro, which finally awoke after the trauma of a car accident—a single moment that set off a chain reaction within my body and life. The fibro flares steal my energy, making movement an uphill battle and turning even the lightest keystrokes into acts of perseverance.
It doesn’t stop there. Severe anxiety and CPTSD weigh heavily on my mind, while ADHD and ASD create a delicate, volatile dance. Sometimes, they align, allowing me to dive into hyperfocused bursts of creativity where the rest of the world melts away. But often, they clash—ADHD’s frenetic energy meeting ASD’s need for structure—leaving my thoughts spiraling. On those days, writing feels like clutching at clouds, but even a single sentence can feel like triumph.
Asthma, insomnia, GERD, hypothyroidism, and hypoglycemia unaware all layer additional obstacles into my daily life. They sap my strength and add unpredictability to my routines, making every small accomplishment feel monumental. And yet, I write. Because when I write, I take back a part of myself that my conditions threaten to claim.
The losses these diagnoses have caused are profound. My body, once reliable, now feels like a battleground. I lost my career in the medical field after my accident—a calling that wasn’t just work but a source of purpose and connection. To lose that was to lose a part of myself. Yet, I have learned to rebuild, piece by piece, word by word.
Despite it all, I embrace my mantra: Identify, Adapt, Overcome. It’s not just a philosophy—it’s how I survive. I identify the challenges in my way, adapt my strategies to navigate them, and overcome them as best I can, celebrating even the smallest victories. This website itself is a testament to that. Every post I create here, every word I share, is my way of flipping off the limitations these diagnoses try to impose. It’s my declaration that I am more than a collection of symptoms. I am a writer, a creator, and someone who refuses to be silenced.
Every sentence I write is an act of defiance. Whether it’s against the pain of labrum tears in my hips, the grinding ache of spinal cord disc degeneration, or the crushing weight of depression, each word is a tangible reminder that I still have a voice. On the hardest days, dark humor carries me through, a wry laugh at my body’s endless list of grievances. On others, sheer determination sees me through the storm of symptoms, pushing me forward one keystroke at a time.
Illness and mental health struggles are woven into my writing, often emerging during the moments when my pain is most demanding. Writing about these experiences isn’t easy—it’s raw, and it forces me to confront my reality head-on. But it’s also healing. By giving shape to my struggles, I reclaim control over them and turn pain into meaning.
On some days, PTSD or hypoglycemia leaves me so drained that self-doubt creeps in, whispering that I’m not enough. But the stories refuse to let me go. Even when I second-guess characters like Delilia from Blood and Moonlight, the act of creating feels like a necessity. My characters might carry echoes of my struggles, but they are not defined by them, just as I refuse to be defined by mine.
Before my accident, I thrived in the medical field. I found joy in helping others, often working extra shifts because it was more than a job—it was a calling. Losing that part of myself was devastating. But where one avenue closed, another opened. Writing became my lifeline, a way to help others in a different capacity. Through sharing my words, I found a new purpose, creating moments of connection and understanding that transcend my own pain.
Writing doesn’t erase the pain, the anxiety, or the exhaustion, but it gives them a voice. Each word I write is a declaration: I am still here. I am still fighting. I am still creating.
This website is more than a collection of posts; it’s a testament to resilience. It’s where I prove, time and again, that I can Identify, Adapt, and Overcome. If this resonates with you, if you’ve ever felt the weight of illness or the triumph of small victories, or seen something that felt like that to you when you watched. I invite you to share your story in the comments. Together, we remind each other that, no matter how heavy the struggle, we are never truly alone.❄️
Who am I? 
I would love to hear from you!