As a teenager, I was an Olympic hopeful in Nordic skiing. I got the opportunity to race all over North America, Europe, and Scandinavia. Because of the infinite chances for improvement, I loved training and racing.
I pushed myself just as hard in high school races as I did in international races because it didn’t matter that I was going to win the high school race. All in all, I wanted to keep improving. So, I raced against myself most of the time, but it got me almost to the Olympics.
In 2010, I got sick after a bilateral leg surgery. My current doctor believes that the surgeon accidentally caused a cytokine storm in my body from the trauma of this invasive surgery, and that killed my gut organs. I also have a genetic condition that weakens the gut, so it makes sense that my gut would die first.
And it means I can no longer train and race.
I’ll be honest: It took a solid 15 years of therapy to accept that I’m not going to go to the Olympics in this lifetime, and that’s okay.
I became severely malnourished and went to the Mayo Clinic for a diagnosis of gastroparesis in 2010. But they told me I wasn’t skinny enough to need interventions that would help, like a feeding tube. So I left with nothing but an order to take laxatives.
After that, I developed severe anorexia. It was as if the doctor’s dismissal of my weight loss and loss of my dream wasn’t important enough to get the help I needed. So I decided, subconsciously, to show them what sick enough looks like.
Flash forward 16 years, and I’m grappling with the fear of dying from my anorexia. I’m very ill, and, despite years of therapy and a good team of providers, I still struggle daily.
I don’t blame the Mayo Clinic any more than I blame the treatment centers for not taking my gut issues more seriously. I honestly blame the people in my early life who abused me and primed me to have all these chronic conditions the most.
But there’s something that’s saved me in all of this, and that’s art.
In art, I can focus all my intense, Type A personality energy into a creative project, actually make a tangible thing, and make the same thing over and over, getting better and better each time.
Art saved me. It’s like training for the Olympics; if you practice enough, you might make something amazing! When I make art, I’m not thinking about the past, my faults, or how much I miss being able to eat food. Instead, when I craft, I focus intensely on the task, just as I focused on interval sessions in skiing. It’s my new outlet for the trauma still stuck inside me.
Instead of running and skiing to numb myself, I channel that energy into creating the best possible chronic illness doll, one for a child with a feeding tube who needs to have a buddy that looks like them, and learn how to care for their tubes. Or, I spent my days working on figuring out how to sew another medical bag cover for a new medical device. Other times, I crochet my umpteenth hat as a gift for someone.
Regardless of what I make, the outcome from an artistic endeavor is just as thrilling as crossing that finish line. Once it’s complete, that’s it. Next time, I can do even better!
Art provides me with an endless endeavor with infinite opportunity to grow.
Art saved me. With art, I learn, create, and be. I hope others, too, can find the solace in art that I have.
Photo by Rifqi Ali Ridho on Unsplash
Your journey is one of immense resilience. From Olympic-level training to overcoming profound health challenges, you’ve channeled your drive into art—transforming pain into creativity. Art has become your new finish line, offering endless growth and purpose, especially in helping others. Your story is proof that healing comes in many forms, and your determination to create is truly inspiring.
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