The call you will likely hear resound when illness comes is a battle cry. Fight. Beat. Kill or be killed. I heard this cry when disease came my way and I yelled back; “War.” I fought through. I muscled on. I battled. I steeled against. Put on a brave face

In recent weeks, months and years, we have witnessed far too many hate crimes toward our Black brothers and sisters. It is not unknown to us that many Black bodies have been tested upon without fair pain medications, expected to endure tremendous suffering in the name of science.

It’s 2:47 am when I first wake up to rush to the bathroom. As I look in the mirror, under the buzzing glow of the overhead fluorescent lights, I can’t help but feel trapped within my own body. All at once, I feel so confined to my internal reality, yet deep down, I am desperately scratching at the boundaries of my own body.

IBD is a pretty hard thing to deal with. As an invisible illness, people can’t see everything going on inside my body. My body is waging a war against itself and no one can see it when they first look at me. I’ve gotten quite a few reactions when I tell someone about my ulcerative colitis.

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