A year into the pandemic, 6 months after my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer, and 2 months before my 25th birthday, I was diagnosed with SLE (systemic lupus erythematosus) which then led to my second diagnosis of lupus nephritis (lupus in the kidneys). SLE is when your immune system attacks its own tissue which can result in organ damage and/or failure. This is a chronic disease so there is no cure, just treatment. Some symptoms are fatigue, body & face rashes, fever, and swelling & pain in your joints - sometimes my mom and I would even share her ice gloves she used for chemo when joint pain got too bad. In addition to these symptoms, there are side effects to the medications you must take, like weight gain, hair loss, acne, headaches, high blood pressure, night sweats, jitters / shaky hands, lightheadedness, and nausea. Contrary to what you may think, this essay is not about letting go of my diagnosis (mostly because I quite literally can't). This about me letting go of myself.

For about 6 months after my diagnosis, my therapist would frequently say, "You have to let go of yourself. You have to mourn you, your body, everything you once knew about yourself, and who you once were." She was right, as most therapists are. I was spiraling - I was confused because I didn't know what was happening to my body. In fact, I was uncomfortable in my own body - I felt like I didn't belong in it. I didn't know who this person was, what she wanted, what she needed. Every decision I made felt like life or death - every doctor's appointment, every medication and supplement, every second, third, and fourth medical opinion. But, honestly, I was scared - I didn't know what was happening to me; I didn't know what would happen to me; I didn't know what I was supposed to do; I didn't even know how to help myself. I felt completely out of control. I didn't know who I was - not that I knew who I was before any of this happened - but I thought I was strong; I thought I was independent; I thought I was self sufficient, yet, I cried every single day, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror, I could barely make myself breakfast without feeling like I was going to pass out. The parts of me that I valued most, the parts of me I thought made me beautiful were gone, and I had no clue how to get them back. 

Now, exactly a year and 7 months after my diagnosis, I can't exactly say how I 'got through it', but I made it to remission and I'm happier. It took a shit ton of therapy, but it mostly took asking for help from people who love me. It took giving myself patience and grace. It took acceptance of losing every single part of me that I  thought made me, me. I wrote this to myself almost a year ago and want to end my essay here:

Change is hard - it's uncomfortable. And there's going to be a lot of it for the rest of your life. You're going to want to hold onto familiarity - whether that's material things, people, places, ways of thinking. Let it go - holding on to these things will make the change more painful than it needs to be. Everything is temporary, always.

Cry about it as much as you physically can, then cry more. The more you cry, the more you let it go. Do not resist it. Get angry, frustrated, disappointed, sad, but accept it. Feel everything you're feeling, sit with it, understand it.

Everything goes as fast as it comes.