I’m Recovering From Lyme Disease: Here’s What Doctors Won’t Tell You

In the five years after I was diagnosed with Lyme disease, I abandoned my school, my dreams of being a writer, and a lot of my friends. I wallowed in the pain that came with treatments and a lack of answers. I felt like a caged animal; I was housebound and restless. Now I realize that almost everyone facing a chronic illness can relate, and we all need to feel seen and understood. Now I understand loneliness; I understand the strength it takes to face an invisible disease. In October 2024, I fought panic as I lay under my hyperthermia tent. The anesthesiologist wiped streams of sweat from my forehead. The medical staff at Sanoviv , a private clinic in Baja California, were slowly heating my body so I'd reach a temperature of up to 107 degrees Fahrenheit. That way, they'd kill the bacteria behind my six chronic strains of Lyme disease. Patients are supposed to stay awake for as long as possible before they ask for anesthesia; then they have a higher chance of maintaining their fever for hours. I knew the anxiety that was washing over me could cause more harm than the anesthesia, so I asked to go under around 15 minutes into my four-hour session. I was relieved when my two hyperthermia sessions were considered successful, but I wouldn't know if I was Lyme-free for months after the treatments. I was crippled by fear while I waited. I was crippled by fear while I waited. In January 2025, my parents and I cried when we saw my Lyme panel results: I was free and clear. We celebrated and shared anecdotes about the last five years of our lives. Our faith carried us through. I felt relief, but every fever, insomnia episode, and unexplainable symptom that followed brought panic. I had to remind myself of what my doctor said: "It's normal to feel scared after this." She knew I was terrified of the Lyme coming back. Even with that fear haunting me, I was so grateful for everyone who stuck by me and helped me through it, especially my family and doctors. I finally decided to put the idea of relapsing out of my mind, but I still had to carry the emotional trauma of my experience. I think most people would agree that the worst part of living with a chronic illness is the isolation you'll inevitably face. All you dream about is the day you won't have to worry about how you feel anymore. You dream about having energy, being "normal." You sigh at the thought of explaining your situation to another date, or to more relatives. When you heal, you'll have to sift through your dreams to see which ones you haven't outgrown. You'll be forever changed and imprinted by your pain, but maybe that's for the better. I didn't like babysitting until I was 22, two years after being diagnosed with Lyme. I was so nervous to become a nanny when I felt like I could barely leave my house. Then, suddenly, taking care of someone other than myself felt rewarding and deeply healing. I found joy in the things kids would say and do, and the girls I babysat became the reason I got out of bed in the morning. Eventually, I was nannying for several families, and I finally had a purpose. If it weren't for my illness, I probably never would've chosen that career path. The worst part of living with a chronic illness is the isolation you'll inevitably face. I was blessed to have years of nanny experience and a college degree by the time I decided to try substitute teaching in the summer of 2025. I was afraid to do something that required so much learning and spontaneity: nannying made me reliant on muscle memory. And after years of trying to pursue writing and failing for lack of energy, my self-esteem was at an all-time low. I also had to readjust to working with an adult staff again. It felt like a reintegration into society. I never wanted to admit it, but I wasn't a stranger to social anxiety, or anxiety in general. The first few times I taught, I felt like a cloud of stress was hovering over me. I never expected to be in that kind of position, but the kids made it fun right away. Their personalities were unique, and they had such funny stories to share with me at recess. Some of the kids talked over me, and it could be so challenging to keep them on task, but the sweet moments made substitute teaching so fulfilling. If I had to put up with being tricked into holding an outdoor recess in the snow, so be it. All throughout my battle with Lyme, other than nannying and family, I found the most comfort in the people I met at church. When you're always hurting, all you crave is deep understanding and compassion. I was so blessed to have friends who would put up with my mood swings, cry while I cried, and drive an hour to see me when I was having a bad day. If I broke down, they would encourage me, and I'm so grateful. They were understanding and so patient. We'd watch movies together, go for walks, and talk for hours. I slowly learned to understand others' pain because of the depth of my own. It felt like a reintegration into society. I had to relearn countless things after Lyme. Small talk was hard for a while. Going somewhere on my own was always nerve-wracking. Being the only one to talk in a group of people made me so nervous that I'd stutter and forget my train of thought. I was so used to being around my family and a small network of friends that I didn't know what to discuss with everyone else. I felt like I'd been living under a rock for the last five years. It took a while to readjust, but exposure therapy is underrated. Throughout my whole journey, my parents were always in my corner. I know not everyone can say that. They walked me through my darkest days, searched for Lyme-literate doctors, and let me live with them after college. They saw me at my lowest. My recovery was just as much of a relief for them as it was for me. And I still have bad days sometimes. When I need to rest, they support me. I'll always be thankful for how well they've taken care of me and for how our relationship has grown through this. If not for the Lyme, I wouldn't be who I am, but now I have to accept the stain on my soul. I have to feel the pain that still lingers: some sleepless nights and low-energy days. I still have to clean up the damage the disease caused in my body. I have to forgive God for allowing me to be so weak when all I wanted was to be strong. I have to forgive myself for the things I said and did while I was at my lowest. I have to give up the bitterness and resentment I still face when I feel abandoned. Today, I'm so grateful that I can go back to church without instant anger that melts into apathy, and I can smile back on a lot of bittersweet memories. Ultimately, I'm learning to accept that this is my story, and it prepared me for a life of new dreams.