I remember sitting in the exam room beside my mother. I don’t recall my dad being there. My memory goes blank in that space, which tells me he likely wasn’t. My mother, though, was right next to me—tense, hopeful, bracing.

They handed me a gown. I lay on my side as he explained he would perform a diagnostic test.

She let me play Christmas music all year long and do cartwheels down the narrow hallway of her single-wide trailer. After dinner, we’d take evening walks around her senior park. She would point out neighbors and share just enough harmless gossip with a wink and a grin. Those small rituals became a rhythm of calm. A sanctuary disguised as ordinary life.

And then, in the middle of that moment, my one true friend stepped in. She stood by me. She spoke up for me. It was a startling juxtaposition—betrayal and loyalty side by side—and I was left completely speechless, unable to translate the chaos of my thoughts into words.

For her, it may have been nothing more than defending her buddy. But for me, it was life-changing.

Every morning, I walked to school giving myself a pep talk and bracing for what I knew was coming. I reminded myself that words could not hurt me because that was often the message I received from my mother, that I was strong and could simply choose to ignore them.

The next stretch of my life, which I’ll share in the coming posts, was even more difficult. I faced medical events that were far more frightening. Bullying intensified. School became a battleground where I struggled not only to learn, but to belong. Life didn’t slow down to let me recover. It demanded more of me.

Every morning my mom packed my lunch, and underneath my food she tucked a clean diaper. My routine was to take my lunchbox to the restroom after eating and change my diaper. I have no vivid memory of doing this, yet I know I must have done it daily. I remember feeling a constant pressure to keep everything a secret. I was responsible for handling it on my own.

I remember being in the kindergarten and noticing the little industrial toilets made just for kids. Their presence felt like an invitation into normalcy. That imagined normalcy never came. I didn’t use them because I wore diapers to school.

After a relatively short stay at Oakland Children’s Hospital, my parents brought me home—without much of a plan, but with a whole lot of courage. I was just an infant with my bladder exposed outside of my body. My mother, only 24 years old, suddenly found herself caring for a medically fragile baby with a rare and alarming condition.

Her labor was long and exhausting. Once I arrived, something was immediately wrong. The delivery room did not erupt with the usual joy or cheerful announcement. There was no, “Congratulations! It’s a girl!” Only hushed voices, whispered conversations, and the worst sound of all—silence.