Fighting Tears - I use to be so good at math!

(Originally written in 2020)

One Problem at a Time: Never, Never Giving Up 

"Can you come help me?"

I called out to my twelve-year-old to come to my rescue. My husband had been trying to explain the concept to me, but I needed my genius little daughter—she has a way of explaining things that my mind can actually grab onto.

This is my third attempt. I tried an online math class two years ago and, even after a full year, couldn't get past the first few lessons. I could work the problems just fine in the moment. But when I came back the next day, it was all gone—as if a cruel instructor had opened up my brain overnight, erased every rule and formula, and scrambled whatever was left so none of it made sense anymore.

This morning, after grinding through problem after problem, my brain literally hurt. My head started to spin, I felt nauseous and dizzy, and the tears came as I tried to push through. I'm in the first week and already behind—five more chapters before tomorrow's test.

When my daughter needed a break, I'd call my husband in, and he'd come sit with me. I'd try to compute something simple in my head—100 minus 24—and reach for how much a quarter is worth. I knew there were four of them in a dollar... how many pennies are in a quarter again? The panic rose in my chest. The memory that used to come so instantly was just gone, like a thief had snatched it and I was chasing them down the street trying to get it back. It was in there somewhere. I just couldn't find where.

Back on the football field

As the tears fell, my mind flashed to a football field five years ago, with my coach.

I was on my knees in my workout clothes, sobbing, because my arms wouldn't obey my brain. I knew how to do a push-up. But the signal wouldn't travel. My arms would spasm at the faintest command to bend. There I was, working with one of the most respected natural bodybuilders in the world, unable to complete a single push-up, feeling like the biggest fake alive. Coach pulled out his phone to record me—humiliating—and kept insisting, "You can do it!" Through the tears I screamed like I was bench-pressing a thousand pounds: "I can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens me!" And in my head I whispered, God, where are You?—as I waited for the signal to come.

Post-sepsis neurological damage from Lyme disease that went undiagnosed for eighteen years.

My doctor told me my immune system was practically non-existent. He described how our cells are meant to be guarded—like castle walls with soldiers posted outside, protecting the inner chambers. I basically had no walls and no moat. The treatments I was using were a kind of makeshift wall, my best attempt to hold the line, while lab work showed my body fighting a whole host of invaders that had slipped past my defenses and gone straight for my brain and organs.

When I left Mexico four years ago—finally able to talk, and walk, and write again—I may have looked normal to everyone else. But the work of rebuilding and healing was only just beginning.

Undiagnosed Lyme steals so much from people. Some lose their sight. Some lose the ability to care for themselves entirely—to feed themselves, move, speak, or walk. Many are misdiagnosed with Parkinson's, dementia, multiple sclerosis, or schizophrenia. I know how fortunate I am to be fighting my way back at all.

Learning to dance again

A year into my work with my coach, I was back in a dance studio—and struggling to do the simplest movements. I couldn't hold more than a few seconds of choreography in my memory. In ballet and modern class I'd copy the dancers around me as fast as I could. During a mid-term solo, I had a dancer half my age quietly pointing me in the right direction, speaking to me kindly but the way you'd coach a toddler onstage for the very first time. I had once danced with a professional company. The tears I cried in that studio.

I'd made the University Dance Company on the strength of my improv solo—they could still see my technique underneath everything—but I was sure my teachers would cut me the moment they watched me try to learn the new pieces. When they didn't, I dug in. Four to six hours a day, day after day. Slowly the connections re-learned themselves. Thirty pounds melted off. And a week before our performance, I could finally feel the small muscles in my right foot again.

There were days I had to check the mirror just to make sure my hands were doing what I intended, and days I drove home completely disoriented, dreading that I might faint or freeze mid-routine with no idea where I was on the stage. By God's grace, I made it through.

I'm so grateful for the care that's helped me rebuild—including the vitamin injections I still get. A few days ago my daughter asked me why I need them, and I explained that they help fill my body with what it needs to protect my brain and organs.

And now... math

Here's what I posted on Facebook a few days ago:

Despite walking in my graduation gown a year ago, I haven't finished math yet—so I'm not "officially" graduated. I tried a BYU Independent Study math class a few years back, but my brain wasn't ready. I tried again last year and couldn't retain the information. (I used to be really good at math!) Fast forward to today: I'm attempting math again. It's the only thing standing between me and graduation. It took years to get back to dancing. It's taken even longer to get back to math. Hopefully, by God's grace, I'll finish this time.

Fun highlight: my math teacher's Ph.D. is in modeling the spread of disease using math—I think that's amazing. Here's to never, never, never, never, never giving up!

For everyone else in the fight

As I work through my own pain, I keep thinking of so many others:

Those who survived terrible abuse and are working to live free of the past. Those recovering from devastating accidents, healing body, brain, and spirit, and learning to celebrate brand-new victories. Those fighting for the lives and wellbeing of their children. Those battling unseen addictions, or their own demons. Those working to hold a family together, or to gently blend one, helping their kids heal from patterns they didn't choose. Those struggling financially, socially, or spiritually. Anyone carrying a physical limitation or challenge.

May we work through the pain. May we take tiny breaths until we can breathe in fully again. May we catch the little glimmers of hope. And may we never give up—remembering that Christ did not leave the garden of Gethsemane until He had overcome everything you and I will ever face.

Fight the tears. Scream if you must. But never, never, never give up.

Here's to finishing MATH 1000, and then on to statistics—so I can finally, officially graduate. It's going to be such a happy day.

xo,

Steffi

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Update (in 2026)— and oh, what an update this is.

I wrote everything above in the middle of the fight, not knowing how it would end. So here's how it ended: this time, I didn't do it alone. My husband sat beside me, patiently, day after day, explaining and re-explaining until it finally stuck. I passed the preliminary class. And then I passed the full six-credit math course.

People had lovingly suggested I file for a disability waiver and have the requirement dropped altogether. I understood why, and I love them for caring—but I didn't want it waived. I need math in my life! I didn't want to go around the mountain; I wanted to climb it.

And I did. About ten years after I first flew to Mexico fighting for my life, I graduated.

But it didn't stop there. After graduating, I went on to earn my paralegal certification—and today I work as a paralegal for a law firm that specializes in estate planning and elder law. The woman who once sat sobbing over 100 minus 24 now spends her days in the precise, detail-loving world of the law. I healed, and then I built something new on the other side of it.

Never, never, never give up. It is so worth it on the other side.