Learning To Listen

Lupus hit me at 40. At the time, I was in the best shape of my life—running my own successful barbershop, working out daily, and adjusting to a new chapter as my son left for the military. With him deploying, I needed something to focus on, something to keep me from worrying myself sick. So, I poured my energy into fitness.

Every morning at 4 AM, I was at the gym, lifting weights and running at least five miles on the treadmill, four to five days a week. I knew if I waited until after work, exhaustion would win, so I showed up early, determined to push my limits.

I was always sore—my joints ached, my muscles screamed—but I chalked it up to hard work. I told myself, I can do hard things. I kept pushing, believing that eventually, the pain would fade once I got stronger.

Then came Father’s Day weekend. My family went on a Jeep ride, and I spent the day in the back seat. By evening, my knee throbbed, but I figured it was just from being cramped up for hours. The next morning, I could barely walk—the swelling was so bad.

A trip to urgent care seemed simple enough. The nurse was about to wrap my knee and send me home with ice when a doctor stopped by. He started asking questions—questions that had nothing to do with my knee. Do you have joint pain? Where? How long?

I laughed and told him, Yeah, my wrists, knees, and ankles ache, but I work out a lot. And I’m getting old.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he said, You’re too young to be hurting like that. Then, he referred me to a rheumatologist.

At that appointment, the rheumatologist took one look at my purple-tinged legs, the red spots on my skin, and the way I winced when he checked my joints. He examined my reflexes, my mouth, my nose. He asked about rashes, pain, and fatigue.

Then he said, I’m 99% sure you have lupus. But we’ll do bloodwork to confirm.

I left that office with a word that would change my life forever: Lupus.

The diagnosis didn’t stop there. Fibromyalgia. Osteoarthritis. My body wasn’t just sore—it was attacking itself.

Finding the right medication was a battle of its own. At one point, I was bedridden for six months because my legs simply refused to work. I had gone from lifting weights and running miles to not being able to walk.

It’s been ten years since that diagnosis. A few times, I’ve felt good enough to try going off my medication—only to realize, after a couple of years, that my body needed it.

I’m still learning to accept what lupus has taken from me. I can’t work behind the barber chair anymore. I can’t do intense workouts. I can’t spend all day in the sun. When my body says rest, I have to listen.

But here’s what I can do.

At 53, I’m learning a new career. I’m finding ways to exercise without running, lifting lighter weights, and giving myself grace when I need to stop.

My embroidery business allows me to work from home, to rest when my body demands it, and—most importantly—to stay creative. It’s a different life than the one I imagined, but it’s still mine.

And I’m learning to listen.