Suffocating SOS

The Muffled Christmas

A note before you begin: this is a Christmas from more than five years ago—the sickest one of my life, before anyone knew what was wrong with me. I'm writing it now from the other side, healthy and whole, for anyone whose suffering is invisible to the people around them. If that's you, please read to the end. There is hope in here, and it's for you.

---

The couples on our cul-de-sac had gathered to swap gifts, share food, and play games. I could see them through my window—glowing, laughing, so alive. And I stood on the other side of the street, on the other side of the glass, fighting a weight no one could see.

It wasn't sadness. It was pain—real, physical pain so severe that most days, carrying a laundry basket up the stairs left me breathless. I lived in yoga pants and a messy bun because anything else felt like too much. I had seen expert after expert, and all any of them could offer was, "It's migraines," or "It's stress." But I knew. Something was terribly wrong, and no one could find it.

I looked across at my beautiful friends and thought, Where did my happy go? I had once been the girl voted "most friendly" by my graduating class, the one who lit up a room. Now it hurt just to hold a conversation. I'd ask a question and, minutes later, ask it again, with no memory of the first time. I used to joke that I'd surely live to old age, because I was already getting a preview of it decades early.

The truth is, a part of me had quietly begun to accept that I was dying.

The fight no one could see

In our basement—where I'd once dreamed of building a dance studio—I had instead built a little wellness studio, its walls lined with the hundreds of books I'd read searching for answers. For years I had crisscrossed the country attending seminars, spent thousands on supplements, and worked toward a master herbalist certification, desperate to heal myself and help others do the same.

And still, most days, I felt like a hypocrite. Who was I to teach anyone about wellness when I couldn't get well myself?

Finally, I swallowed my pride, pulled on my yoga pants, running shoes, and a long coat, and went to the party. I remember the look one neighbor gave me—head to toe, then away, as if to say, what were you thinking? I breathed deep and tried not to let it reach my heart, but I was already so disappointed in myself. I felt like a worthless wife, sure that every other man in that room was lucky to have a vibrant, put-together woman beside him.

And then there was the bubble. In that room full of laughter, I felt deaf and mute—everything happening too fast to follow, all the sounds muffled, all the faces blurred, as if I were sealed inside glass while the whole world rushed past. I have never felt so alone in a room full of people I loved.

Around that time, I had a dream I've never forgotten. I was pulling my five children in a handcart through the snow. They were bundled beneath a homemade blanket, giggling and telling stories by flashlight, warm and safe—while I strained against the weight, doing everything in my power to give them joy even as I disappeared. In the dream, I finally collapsed, and the snow fell softly on my face. I understood that feeling completely: pouring out the very last of yourself for your children, having given absolutely everything you had.

The day everything changed

Several months later, an invitation came to teach in Florida, and from there, one to teach in Israel. I took every natural remedy I knew just to survive each day. After Israel, I made a desperate decision: I stopped all of it, hoping that if my symptoms got worse, doctors might finally see what was hiding.

The symptoms got worse. And within weeks, I was fighting for my life.

An earlier trip to Mexico had already revealed part of the answer—a severe hernia wrecking my body's ability to absorb nutrition, which had left me vulnerable to what the doctors suspected was Lyme disease. I'd come home to have surgery here, where insurance would cover it, but I was stuck on waiting lists while my body ran out of time.

The night before I finally left for Mexico, my body began to forget how to breathe—the signal from my brain cutting out just before it reached my lungs. I would hold my breath and pray and wait for the next one to come. The next morning, my sister found me at the top of the stairs, unable to answer her, unable to speak at all. She raced up to me as I cried.

And then I discovered something astonishing: I could still think in Spanish. Trembling, I called another sister who also spoke it, and through my tears explained everything in Spanish so she could translate for the sister standing beside me. I told them: I have to get to Mexico today.

I called the airline, explained that my English might disappear mid-sentence, and asked them to stay on the line until it returned. A kind man booked me a seat on a flight leaving that very afternoon. I grabbed the will I'd printed two weeks earlier and asked my sister to drive me to the bank to notarize it.

At the bank, I could not sign my own name. I sat for at least five minutes, focusing on one letter at a time like a child just learning to write. I managed S… t… e… f… "Good enough," the notary said gently, and she stamped it, prayed over me, and wished me luck.

At the airport, it was obvious I'd never make it alone—I walked like I was drunk, my sister holding me upright. The staff swept me into a wheelchair and delivered me, with such care, all the way to a flight attendant who took both my hands in hers and prayed out loud, right there, that I would reach Mexico safely and be healed.

I carried almost nothing onto that plane—the clothes I was wearing, a thin black raincoat, my ID, and two little bottles of lavender and Melissa oil that I held onto like anchors, breathing them in, one small familiar comfort to cling to when everything else was terrifying. I apologized to the woman beside me for the smell, and she just smiled and said she loved lavender. My vision faded in one eye. My face began to droop. I had no idea yet what was happening to me. But I was surrounded, the whole way, by strangers who treated me like their own.

The answer

In Mexico, the doctors repaired the hernia. Seven days later, I could speak English again. In two weeks, I could sign my name. (Learning to dance again would take years—but that's another story of not giving up.)

The surgeon told me it was the worst case he'd seen in thirty years of doing that exact operation ten times a week. He said he couldn't understand why it hadn't already caused stomach or intestinal cancer, the way that kind of hernia usually does. And I smiled quietly to myself—because I believe all those years of doing everything I knew to care for my body, imperfect as it was, had helped me hold on just long enough to get the answer.

What I want you to hold onto

I am still here. Still breathing. And I am so deeply grateful—for my sister who came running, for the airline staff and that praying flight attendant, for the stranger who loved the smell of lavender, for the friend who first told me about that clinic, for the doctors and nurses who put me back together, and for every person who donated so the surgery and the long months of treatment could happen at all. Not everyone is so fortunate, and I never forget it.

But here is what I most need to say to you, if you are the one sitting in the bubble right now—suffering something no one else can see, judged for how you look when you're actually fighting for your life, half-convinced you're a burden or a failure or slowly dying:

Your suffering is real, even when it's invisible. You are not a hypocrite, and you are not worthless. Keep searching for your answer—it may take years, and it may look nothing like anyone else's, but do not stop looking, and do not stop asking. Stay open to help from every honest, well-meaning soul who offers it. And when you're too weak to pull the handcart another inch, let someone else take the handle for a while.

I truly believed I was dying that muffled Christmas. Instead, it turned out I was only just beginning to find my way back. Your answer may be closer than you can possibly feel right now.

The battle isn't always over in a day. But you are still breathing. And where there is breath, there is hope.

Feliz Navidad. Próspero año y felicidad.

With much love,

Steffi