In 2011, Kelly Clarkson introduced the smash-hit Stronger to the world. With its sassy chorus and infectious beat, it fast became a legendary anthem for millions around the world in need of much-needed pep talk.

When the song hit Barbadian airwaves, I was in much need of a pick-me-up. At sixteen, I had already faced more uncertainty surrounding my health than most had ever considered. Instead of prepping for college as was customary for most after graduation, I spent my days being shuttled to doctors’ appointments in hopes of discovering what had suddenly impacted my health.

As the years pressed on, the song became lodged in my brain following each appointment, protecting me against the hurt at the negative results following each round of vigorous testing.

While lupus and I became friends over the years, Covid-19 and I were mortal enemies from the start. In the early days of the pandemic, “spoonies” were advised that contracting the unpredictable disease would mean certain death.

In those early days, the paranoia surrounding the disease amused me. With Barbados in a total lockdown, the possibility of the virus ever coming to our shores seemed impossible. Directives protected and challenged us as the island dealt with the new realities which Covid-19 had brought to the world.

I held a misplaced sense of entitlement for a year as I avoided the grip of the pandemic. Eventually when Covid finally visited my island for its extended vacation, the “bubble of safety” I had constructed in my head burst.

Soon, life fell into a routine of mask-wearing, sanitizing and fear.

Fear ruled my days as my time outside my home became less frequent. As an immuno-suppressed person, the gamble for moments of freedom was pointless. Life continued around me but mine seemed to come to a complete standstill as I submitted to the “hermit life” that would ensure that I did not contract the disease

 For almost a year, I lived in the reality of enclosed spaces with only small trips each week to church and back. Trips to the grocery store were left to my parents with healthier immune systems.

In my own naivety, I began to lapse while accepting the new reality. While I continued to isolate at home, I craved the outdoors with each passing day as I watched from my window. Behind the masks, everyone seemed to look happy. Even with the economic hardships Covid-19 had brought, I still could detect smiles behind masks.

  While my family and I took every precaution to protect ourselves, we did eventually contract Covid-19, on the one day I left my home in almost six months almost a year into the pandemic. For almost a week, I remained oblivious to my diagnosis. In my mind, I had done everything right.

I had sanitized.

I had social distanced.

I had worn a mask.

What I hadn’t done was to remind my mother to wipe her debit card at the grocery store.

When my mom started coughing, Covid-19 never seemed to enter my brain. As chronic asthma sufferers our entire lives, it was common to hear someone in the Morris family coughing or sneezing. Still, as the days continued the coughing got worse.

Eventually, we discovered we had been exposed to Covid-19 and cautiously yet optimistically went to the testing center. While there, I joked and laughed with the staff who performed the test. In my mind, there was no way that Covid-19 was in my body. For the most part, other than a pesky lupus rash from sun exposure I felt fine.

A day later, my immune system hit the wall, landing at my feet like an angrily discarded meal in the middle of a food fight.

What followed was two weeks of hell, wrapped in pretty bows and expensive packaging. The disease sent my lupus into a pseudo-remission as it destroyed my body from the inside out as each day brought me closer and closer to what I could only consider as an Earthly Hell.

Still, living in Naivety-land, I considered that I would only be bound to fourteen days of hell. I prayed and prayed for relief, propped up on pillows to keep my air-passages open or sleeping on the floor as my body was racked with fever.

Even when I had recovered enough that Covid-19 was no longer detected in my system, the long-term effects were present. I could no longer eat without feeling immense pain. I had horrible anxiety (and still do) which nearly led to me ending my own life. Fatigue, rashes and jaw pain all followed as a result of a disease that until a few years ago, had never been a factor in my life. For months, it was impossible to sit upright which resulted in me dropping out of BYU-Idaho for two semesters.

For the second time, I mourned my health as I continued to deal with the impact Covid-19 brought to my life. There are still some days even after a year has passed since the initial diagnosis that leaves me bedbound as my body fights the lingering laundry list of after symptoms.

Still, I am fortunate.

I have life. I have my family who fought through Covid-19 and came out on the other side.

I value life more knowing what I have gone through. Having such a horrible disease has taught me so much about boundaries and new self-preservation techniques that allow me grace and time to recover.

Even as I write this blog post which took two days as I fought off vertigo, I am grateful for Heavenly Father’s grace to see his children through the storms of life and for my ability to endure with gusto in my own sassy way.

Because eventually, we all discover that what doesn’t kill us ends up hurting a little. Still, we embrace the scar, plant our heels into the dirt and fight against the forces that seek to destroy us and become our own version of a superhero.

-Momo.