As a kid, I played nearly every sport you could think of. After school, my mom would drop me off at soccer practice, feed me in the car, rush me to tennis lessons, and after, leave me at basketball workouts. Playing sports was one of the only things that truly distracted me from the reality of life, the anxiety of school, and social pressures. Athletics contributed not only to my physical strength but also to my mental toughness and confidence. I was unaware of how quickly one doctor’s appointment could change my life, making me an outsider in the only environment I’d ever known. 

My battle with Graves Disease began a few months before my diagnosis. I experienced symptoms including constant headaches, fatigue, the struggle to climb a flight of stairs without gasping for air. This immediately worried my parents, as I had always been physically fit. My pediatrician completed a work-up and encouraged me to visit an endocrinologist who would diagnose me with the chronic illness, Graves disease. In retrospect, my diagnosis was only the eye of the storm; that perfect calm in which everything seems to be over. I was thrilled to finally have a label for what was causing my upsetting symptoms. I was oblivious that a much more difficult obstacle lay ahead. My Graves disease, although successfully treated, morphed into something beyond my body, attacking my mental psyche, controlling my thoughts and behavior. My physical symptoms were just the dangerous opening battle. My ensuing psychological struggle was the war.

It began with sports. My endocrinologist immediately placed me on two months of no intense physical activity. I was horrified. I can still feel the tears welling in my eyes and the cracks in my voice as I explained the seriousness of my illness to my coach, profusely apologizing for my sudden upcoming absence. My devastation stemmed from my belief that I would never compete on the same level as my peers again along with the loss of my peaceful. When I finally returned to sports, my old teammates looked at me differently. They would whisper about me behind my back, making me feel like an outsider in the only environment that was ever reassuring. I was no longer fit, athletic, and cheerful, but out of shape, and seemingly, out of place. 

Furthermore, I was often too sick to attend school, so my classmates began to question my absence over text. “Yo, Amanda. Where u been?”, one of my peers asked. As I read the text in fear, I contemplated how I could possibly explain to my peers the severity of what I’d just endured. Due to my shame and anxiety, I told him I was attending to family matters to avoid the difficult conversation of my illness. After I completed treatment and was able to return to school, I required certain aids, like leaving classes early, which only contributed to my isolation and constant state of misery. It was difficult to re-enter an environment that operated successfully while you were struggling someplace else. I missed out on countless exams, homework, and hangouts with my friends. I was swamped with incomplete assignments and helplessness. 

Instead of embracing this isolation and outsider perspective, I decided to view this situation optimistically. Athletically, I worked extremely hard off the field to regain my physical fitness. My teammates began noticing the effort I’d been putting in and they applauded me for my dedication. Academically and socially, I found ways to complete my work with the help of teachers, friends, and tutors. 

Being an outsider allowed me to realize the importance of dedication. My disease forced me into a spiral of isolation and feeling that I was too different ever to be accepted by my society. However, this experience altered my perspective on life, encouraging me to work harder to achieve my goals and not allow my symptoms and setbacks to encompass who I am.