“Memories are like rainbows, each color representing a moment, a feeling, a lesson.”

That’s what I remind myself when I look back on my journey with inflammatory bowel disease (IBD). To me, it’s never been just a medical condition; it’s a storm that keeps returning, teaching me to search for colors even when the sky feels endlessly dark.

One morning, I might wake up full of hope, laughing with my family, attending class, almost believing I’m just like everyone else. By afternoon, I can be curled in bed, too weak to stand, too nauseous to eat, too ashamed to explain why my body has betrayed me again.

To the outside world, I look fine. They see my smile, my laughter, my efforts to keep up. What they don’t see are the nights I lie awake from pain, the whispered prayers into my pillow, the fear of never knowing when the next flare will strike. That’s the reality of an invisible illness: always explaining, often hiding, yet always enduring.

Each day with IBD is a collision of pain and beauty. There are moments that break me, when people comment on my thin frame, when I cancel plans and feel like I’ve disappointed friends again, when I stare at hospital ceilings wondering if I’ll ever be free. But there are also moments that shine: a nurse who squeezes my hand as she gives me an IV, the joy of eating without pain after weeks of nausea, the quiet strength that rises in me after getting to go home after yet another hospitalization. 

I call these “color memories.” They aren’t always bright, but they are vivid. Some are red with anger, some blue with sadness, some golden with grace. Together, they paint the palette of my life.

IBD has reshaped me in ways deeper than scars on my body. It has softened my spirit, teaching me compassion for others in pain. It has sharpened my gratitude: for food, for laughter, for days without suffering. And it has made me braver than I ever imagined.

Still, there are days when the weight of it all feels unbearable. I wonder how many more flares my body can handle, how many more explanations I’ll have to give, how many more hospital rooms I’ll have to memorize. Yet even in those moments, I hold on to the smallest glimmers: a warm cup of tea that soothes my stomach, a message from a friend who hasn’t forgotten me, the light of faith that whispers I am not walking this road alone.

IBD does not control my story, even if it shapes it. I may carry scars, fatigue, and fear, but I also carry resilience. I carry hope. I carry a rainbow of memories that remind me that even after the darkest storm, color always returns.