Summer Trophy…

The Summer I Brought Home a Trophy… and a Lifetime of Clues

I know exactly when my story with Babesia, Bartonella, Lyme, and the co-infections began.

It was the summer before 8th grade — the summer I went away to Camp Nicolet in Eagle River, Wisconsin.
Six weeks. My first real stretch away from my parents. My first taste of independence. My first time learning who I was outside the role I played at home.

Camp was magic.

I learned how to water ski… then barefoot water ski, like a tiny feral legend.
I learned how to get a leech off a foot (who knew that skill would come back around in wound care years later).
I jumped horses, made friends, found my voice, and tried to survive a cabin full of girls and a camp full of women.

And every single day I worried about home — because I was the kid who made sure my dad didn’t burn the house down with a lit cigarette while falling asleep drunk every night.

Still… I was there. I was free. I was alive in a way I hadn’t been before.

And at the end of the summer I won a completely ridiculous award:
most insect bites in camp history
and the biggest rings around bites.

They gave me a trophy.

I also brought home Lyme and co-infections — though I didn’t know it then.

I don’t remember an acute “Lyme moment.”
No clear fever. No obvious joint pain. No dramatic early warning sign that would’ve screamed, THIS is the beginning of everything.

Hard to know what counted as “symptoms” when I went home to a water-damaged house and an alcoholic, rage-filled father. When survival meant shrinking so no one saw your fear… and being outgoing so no one saw your shame.

So did Babesia show its face before now?
Probably.

I remember fits of rage at different stages of life.

Was that Lyme?
Was that trauma?
Was it a nervous system stuck in fight-or-flight inside a body I didn’t understand?

Honestly?
Probably all of the above.

When I Look Back, the Breadcrumbs Were Always There

Fatigue started creeping in during high school.
I thought it was the shift from my private little grade school bubble to public high school where I didn’t feel connected.

But it could’ve been infections.

College felt better.
I was in control of my environment for the first time. I loved learning. I was rewarded for effort. I was moving closer to medical school and the dream of becoming a healer.

Even though I still struggled to find true social belonging, I thrived academically. And for the first time, I could picture the future and feel excited instead of bracing.

Then medical school hit… and weirdly, I felt incredible.

The first two years in Iowa were the best I’d ever felt in my body. I lost weight I’d held since puberty. I pushed myself every day and loved it. I had a circle of friends that finally felt like home. I felt loved.

It lasted through my gap year in Cozumel — where I was a bum for a minute and let myself breathe.

And then, as life does, things shook again.

The last two years of med school were heavy.
Shock. Trauma. Stress. Constant relocation through rotations. No consistency. No reference point to know what was “me” and what was illness.

Internship and residency were another level.

Crazy hours.
Delivering babies all night, running patient boards all day.
Codes on zero sleep.
That relentless pressure cooker that all of us who trained in medicine know.

Did my adrenals burn out?
Absolutely.

Did infections flare?
Maybe. Probably.
But when you don’t have a baseline, you don’t know what you’re even measuring.

The Wheels Fell Off… and I Didn’t See It Coming

After residency I moved to Green Bay for my first attending job and did what I always do:

I pushed.

Wound care.
Hyperbarics.
Assisted living.
Regional medical director.
Acupuncture training.
More skills. More responsibilities. Less rest.

I built a life with no down time because down time felt unsafe.

And then the bottom fell out:

I was terminated without notice or cause.
A shock my nervous system didn’t know how to survive.

At the same time I sold my beloved home — the first place I ever felt safe — and moved in with a narcissistic partner into a water-damaged environment.

That combination… that timing… was the “perfect storm.”

That’s when the wheels came off the bus.

This wasn’t normal tired.

This was fatigue that erased me.

I went from riding 100-mile bike rides
to barely walking a mile without needing to stop and rest.
From full days of clinical work
to struggling not to fall asleep behind the wheel.

Even rest didn’t fix it.

I’d spend an entire weekend doing nothing and Monday would still come with no fuel. I followed every instruction. I worked with providers I trusted. I was “coasting,” but I wasn’t living.

I was surviving.

Choosing TLC Was a Leap… With an Empty Tank

Giving my notice and deciding to start TLC was the hardest decision of my life.

I had nothing left in the tank.

But I also knew that if I didn’t jump, my life would stay small forever.

So I packed everything.
Got a storage unit.
Moved back to Illinois.
Commuted to Green Bay to see patients.
Held the vision even on days I could barely hold myself.

And on that road… I met my soulmate.

Worth every wrong turn. Every detour. Every inch of the mountain.

Layer by layer I healed.
Mold was a huge piece.
And I knew I had to clear that before I could face everything else.

I hadn’t checked my Igenex until recently — probably because I wasn’t sure I was ready for that next fight.

But when my mold levels finally normalized and I still couldn’t tolerate a normal workout without flaring… I knew.

There was another layer.

So Here I Am: Still Climbing

Some people have said to me:

“If you were really good at what you do, you’d be healed by now.”

And I get why people say that from the outside.

But here is the truth:

If I wasn’t this good at what I do, I’d be dead.

My warriors know I walk this path too.
But they don’t know the whole backstory.
They don’t know how the trauma and the timing and the toxic exposures stacked until my body finally shouted enough.

Trauma doesn’t just hurt the heart.
It amplifies everything in the body.

And healing from that kind of layering is not a straight line.

It’s a spiral.
A climb.
A returning.

Today Was One of the Dark Days… And I’m Still Here

I woke up today in a funk I haven’t felt in a long time.

Crying.
In pain everywhere.
Feeling sorry for myself for having to go carnivore again next week just to calm down this flare.

Pissed that I have to give up things I love — coffee, vegetables, fruit, rice — just to get my body back into safety.

Even after HBOT.
Even after Gupta.
Even after gratitude practices.

Still crying.

I spent yesterday in the basement organizing boxes all day.

Should that have wiped me out?
No.
Could I have done it last year?
Also no.

Progress is real — but so are setbacks.

Then today I started decorating for Christmas, something that used to light me up…

…but all I could feel was fury.

Fury that I couldn’t do it without rest breaks because my joints and muscles hurt so badly it took my breath away.

Fury that it’s “one more thing.”
One more layer.
One more mystery.

Was it the rocephin infusion on Wednesday because I felt a flare creeping in?
Maybe.
Was it the coffee and organic mashed potatoes?
Maybe.

But here is what I know:

I am going to crack this mystery illness open.
I am going to find the root.
I am going to get back to who I was before the wheels came off.

I don’t know how many layers are left.
I don’t know what extreme measures I’ll have to take.

But I know I will make it.

Because I have made it through every other thing that tried to kill me or shrink me or silence me.

And I am stronger now.

Do I have bad days?
Yes.
Do I cry?
Yes.

But I never give up.

And If You’re a Warrior Still Stuck…

This is why I spend my free time researching, digging, listening harder — not just for me, but for the warrior in my tribe whose needle hasn’t budged no matter what we’ve tried.

I see you.
I know what it’s like to live in the “in-between.”
To do everything right and still feel trapped.
To wonder if you’ll ever be you again.

And I promise you this:

I won’t stop until you are.

One warrior at a time.
One layer at a time.
One climb at a time.

We’re getting to the top. Together. 🗻💛