I’m a fixer. My mom is a fixer, my sisters are fixers. It runs in the genes and starts showing in early childhood.

I was a happy, active kid, fixing the problems of my day — like having 2 friends who both want to be Cinderella in our attic play.

Then, I broke.

My preteen years were tough—I lost energy, stopped growing, was in constant pain, starting breaking bones, couldn’t pay attention in class. I withdrew. No one knew how sick I was so there was virtually no community support, no external recognition of my struggle. I had one doctor tell me I was making up my symptoms to get attention. I had classmates giving me attention by calling me a “pregnant bird.”

By the time I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease at 15, I did look like a pregnant bird and had the graceful movement…