The Flare That Changed Everything
The 2024–2025 storm that led me to surgery.
Before I dive into this next entry, I want to acknowledge the long gap since my last post. Shortly after the surgery, and once I was past those first most difficult two-three difficult weeks of recovery, I was detailed into a new position at work. Adjusting to the role — and managing the added stress that came with it — took more out of me than I expected. As a result, I had to put this journal on hold for a bit. If you’re just joining the ride, I recommend starting from the beginning. Each post builds the trail that led me here.
But now that things are finally beginning to settle down, I’m able to pick up where I left off and continue sharing this journey with you.
With that, let me take you back to the flare that ultimately led me to surgery.
There comes a point in every long struggle when you realize you can’t keep going the way you have been. For me, that moment arrived during the longest and most devastating flare of my life — the one that made it clear something had to change.
This flare lasted thirteen months, on and off, and stripped away almost everything I relied on to feel like myself. I lost over 50 pounds. My appetite disappeared. Sleep became rare. I was exhausted, weak, and emotionally frayed.
Cycling — my escape — became impossible. My last meaningful ride was on February 22, 2025. I cut it short because I genuinely feared I might collapse in the woods. A mid-March attempt left me depleted for days. The bike, my compass for decades, slipped out of reach.
As my body deteriorated, life around me crumbled in ways I never could have anticipated.
Early in 2024, I learned that my mother had been diagnosed with colon cancer. She was 91. Her decline was rapid and devastating. My siblings and I traveled repeatedly to Lima, Perú to be with her. Watching her fade — and watching my 98-year-old father endure it — tore something open in me.
She passed in April.
Returning home, I immediately came down with influenza. Then a dental procedure led to an infection that opened into my sinus cavity — another physical blow that triggered a violent immune reaction. Around the same time, my regular Infliximab infusions stopped working.
A new drug, Xeljanz, offered hope but failed.
Steroids helped briefly — then failed.
Another drug, Zeposia, did the same.
Nothing worked.
Meanwhile, my father’s health collapsed following my mother’s death. I couldn’t travel to Peru because my condition was deteriorating so quickly that any trip would have been devastating. When I finally did make the trip in December, I arrived one day too late. I wasn’t able to be with him when he passed one year ago to the day on December 12, 2024.
The grief, the travel, the infections, the failed medications, the stress — it all collided with my UC in a way that felt like freefall.
And then there was work.
As a federal employee, the political climate had become openly hostile toward people in my position. Every day felt like another hit of stress, tension, and uncertainty — the exact opposite of what my body needed. I was determined not to quit so close to retirement, but the toll was real.
By January 2025, I hit the edge.
I was in constant pain.
I avoided food.
I rarely slept.
I barely recognized myself.
And yet, something shifted.
I deleted social media.
Stopped consuming news that inflamed my anxiety.
Began meditating daily.
Practiced mindfulness.
Tried — slowly, painfully — to accept that this wasn’t my fault.
The meditation didn’t cure anything, but it helped me breathe. It helped me see the truth I’d been avoiding:
I couldn’t keep living like this.
Surgery wasn’t a failure — it was a chance at a life worth living.
Knowing I wasn’t alone made the acceptance easier. Thousands of people had walked this road before me. Many had found relief, renewal, even joy. I started to believe I could, too.
Ultimately, I realized that major surgery wasn’t the end of my story — it was the beginning of getting my life back.
This flare didn’t just bring me to the edge.
It brought me to clarity.
And that clarity is what carried me into the operating room on May 7, 2025.
This post reflects personal experience. A medical disclaimer is available on the About page.