the anniversary

Thirteen years ago, I was diagnosed with a brain disease.

Six years ago, on the very same date, my boyfriend asked me to be his girlfriend.

Two anniversaries. Both held quietly, deeply, differently.

The first is a silent marker of survival. Of months spent searching for answers, of being so severely unwell. It reminds me how long and heavy the road to diagnosis was, how much patience and resilience it demanded before anyone could finally name what was happening.

The second anniversary is lighter. Softer. It marks a beginning rather than an explanation. The start of a relationship that brought ease, laughter, and the feeling of being chosen without condition. A life opening up rather than narrowing in.

I carry both with me.

I want to get to a place where I can fully celebrate living with a brain disease. Where survival doesn’t feel like something I have to downplay or apologise for. But each year, there’s a quiet guilt that sits alongside that desire. A voice that reminds me that many people never got the chance to reach this age. That some never received answers. That others live with symptoms far more visible, far more limiting.

I live with very few visible signs. I get to have a personal life. I get to travel, to love, to exist without my illness announcing itself before I do. And sometimes that privilege feels complicated to celebrate.

But this year, I’m trying to hold gratitude without apology.

I’m writing this from Mexico, celebrating six years with my partner, overwhelmed by how much life I get to live. Not because the illness disappeared, but because it didn’t take everything from me.

Both anniversaries matter. One honours how hard it was to get here. The other honours what became possible once I did.

And maybe the quiet truth is this: celebrating survival doesn’t take away from anyone else’s struggle. It simply acknowledges that I’m still here.

And for that, I’m deeply grateful.