"...the pain grew louder—a constant, unrelenting ache that handcuffed me to my bed. Fatigue became a shadow I couldn’t outrun" - Noelle's journey with FND

I have lived in stillness.

Not the kind found on a quiet morning, peaceful and comforting, but the kind that settles

like fog—unwanted, heavy, and slow to lift. I never imagined my story would begin this way.

For most of my life, I was the picture of health. I knew doctors as friendly faces at yearly

checkups, not as puzzle-solvers trying to decipher the language of my body. If I could

whisper to my younger self now, I wouldn’t scare her with what was coming—but I would

tell her to hold on tight.

Because on March 17, 2024, the ground beneath me shifted. Just days before, I had crossed

the finish line of my first half marathon. The week before that, I had stepped off a pageant

stage, crowned, beaming, breathless from the joy of it all. I thought I was standing at the top

of the mountain.

Then came the fatigue—not the kind you sleep off, but the kind that devours your days

whole. I slept 20 hours out of 24, trapped in a body that no longer answered to me. I began

forgetting things—simple things, familiar things. The names of my friends slipped through

my fingers like sand. My email address and passwords were all forgotten. My mind, once

sharp and quick, felt foggy, foreign, distant. I was dizzy, unsteady, tripping and falling,

bumping into everything in my path. And yet, I looked “fine.”

But I wasn’t.

I was slipping into a version of life I didn’t recognize—one where rest didn’t restore, where

walking across the room felt like running a marathon, where my body became a mystery

even to me. This was not a gentle stillness. It was isolating. Frustrating. A quiet unraveling

that no one could see.

But even here, I learned things that strong, healthy me never could.

I learned that slowing down isn’t the same as giving up. That healing is not linear, and

neither is identity. That strength sometimes looks like surrender, and courage sometimes

sounds like “I don’t know, but I’m trying,” and “I need help.”

My body may no longer function like it used to, but my voice has never been louder. My

purpose, never clearer.

But the story didn’t stop there.

In July, the pain grew louder—a constant, unrelenting ache that handcuffed me to my bed.

Fatigue became a shadow I couldn’t outrun. I spent entire days trapped in bed, not out of

comfort, but necessity. I was no longer just tired. I was gone.

And then came the fire.

Not metaphorical—real.

My skin screamed beneath the surface,

so sensitive I couldn’t bear to be touched.

Even the brush of a sheet or the touch from family felt like flame.

I burned without a fever. I burned without cause. I burned in silence.

The world outside kept moving, but mine shrank to four walls and the sound of my own

cries.

When I finally went to the ER, I was sent home—

told there was nothing they could do.

Just when I thought I had hit absolute rock bottom, I was proven wrong.

The very next day,

I lost my speech—completely.

And then, my body followed.

One moment I was speaking,

the next, I was silent. Still.

Paralyzed from the neck down.

I remember the ambulance ride only in fragments—flashing lights, blood from failed IVs,

the fear of uncertainty in my mother’s eyes. But I remember what came after with perfect

clarity: admission, fear, surrender—and the beginning of recovery.

I had to relearn how to speak. To move. To trust my body again.

There were days I didn’t think I’d get back up.

But I did.

There were nights I thought the tape shutting my mouth would never lift.

But it did.

I slowly but surely returned to living life at what I now know as my baseline.

Just when I thought I was healing,

I relapsed.

Everything I had fought for—the words I’d reclaimed, the steps I’d taken, the strength I had

gathered—

It felt like my progress had shattered, like a vase dropped and cracked on the floor, the

pieces scattered and jagged.

I was back at square one.

Back in bed.

Back in the fire.

And this time, it hurt in a different way—not just in my bones or nerves, but in the spirit I

had tried so hard to rebuild.

When school began, I entered my sophomore year in a wheelchair.

Then, slowly, with a cane.

I became fluent in the language of quiet stares and awkward silences.

I got used to the heavy pause after, “What happened to you?”

But no explanation felt big enough to hold the truth of what I’d endured.

How do you explain a year like that?

How do you tell someone that your body broke down without breaking their understanding

of you?

It was heartbreaking.

To be seen as fragile when you feel fierce.

To be treated as different when you’re still you.

But even in the grief of what I’d lost, I found something extraordinary: the strength to keep

showing up.

In the wheelchair.

With the cane.

And eventually—on my own two feet.

Not because I “bounced back.”

But because I rose slowly, in pieces, with purpose.

I began to speak again—

not just with my voice, but with a story that demanded to be told.

I had taken the shattered pieces of the vase and glued them back together—

except this time, I placed a beautiful arrangement of flowers inside.

People asked,

“How was your summer?”

and I smiled, because that’s what you do.

But behind that smile was a summer spent fighting—fighting for answers, for dignity, for

the strength to exist in a world that didn’t know how to see invisible battles.

While others were making memories, I was learning how to move my fingers again.

While friends were traveling or tanning by the pool, I was relearning how to speak.

To stand.

To live inside a body that no longer moved the way it used to.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

You can be burning and still carry light.

You can lose everything and still hold on to hope.

You can fall apart and still be rebuilt beautifully, even if you have to do it more than once.

This is not the story I would have chosen.

But it’s the story I’m choosing to tell—

so that someone else, somewhere, knows they’re not alone in the stillness.

Because even in the quietest seasons, healing is still happening.

And so am I.