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"Consider the positive influence you aspire to have as someone living with cystic fibrosis. How do you hope to inspire and empower future generations of young adults with chronic illnesses?"

"Are you nervous?" The sounds of the concourse echoed around the stage, drowning out this barely audible question. It was my seventeenth year at Great Strides, the yearly cystic fibrosis fundraiser. Yet rather than waiting in line for a balloon animal, or playing frisbee on the lawn, I stood in front of 1,000 spectators, speaking as the "ambassador." Looking up at the stage, where the band's guitarist stringed his final riff, I hoped my story could prove life with this disease really can be "normal." Was I nervous? My racing thoughts were interrupted by "You're up." For most of my youth, I didn't know what cystic fibrosis was. Adults would discuss it, sandwiching "cystic fibrosis" and "rare genetic disease" between terms I didn't understand, but "having CF" just seemed like an exercise in following doctor's orders. Countless lung treatments, four sinus surgeries, and forty pills a day were the only "normal" I knew; but as I aged, the differences began to become evident. At school, I was told I had "the thing" from Five Feet Apart, and was often asked, "Is it contagious?" As I ate fat-filled foods throughout the day (thanks to my body's malabsorption) my classmates were jealous that I was allowed to snack. "You're so lucky," I often heard, but I chose to save my energy instead of explaining that I was not, in fact, lucky. In 2017, my teachers planned a watch party for the total solar eclipse, as Kansas City sat squarely in its path. Classmates were shocked I was absent for the festivities, and I hesitated to explain that I spent the day in the hospital. Moments like these taught me that my "normal" would always be different. When walking along the trail of the Great Strides fundraiser, I passed posters adorned with photos and names of CF patients. I saw signs with names prefixed "In Honor of," surrounded by smiling families posing with their CF fighter. The other signs, devoid of happy photoshoots, instead read "In Memoriam." On these signs were images of young children, sometimes not even a year old when cystic fibrosis took their lives. They were impossible to ignore, and I couldn't escape the distressing thought that I may never grow old. Looking out to the crowd, I was reassured knowing life with CF today is far different. When I was born, the life expectancy was just 26 years. Today, it is 50 - and climbing. I wanted to give back to those who made this possible; the research coordinator who urged me to participate in clinical trials, or the CF Foundation headquarters in DC who helped me advocate to Congress for those whose lack of healthcare devastated them. So, no, I wasn't nervous. I knew that out in the audience were young adults just like me, whose friends don't define them by CF. We've overcome persistent obstacles, and endured a journey that really isn't "normal." But maybe that's a good thing. I grabbed the microphone and began to speak.