Everyone has challenges. Savannah’s spine is twisted so much that her diaphragm on one side can’t punch her lung to get gunk out … on top of that her body is too weak to cough with enough force anyway.

She had to stay home from school today because she coughs incessantly when she gets just a little gunk in her lungs. The attached picture is of her using her cough assist machine to suck gunk out.

We spent a week at Duke University a few months ago as a part of the Undiagnosed Diseases Network. For five days, 10-12 hours per day, we met with doctors, reviewed data from the almost 10 other major hospitals Savannah has visited since she was born, and of course they conducted X-rays, drew blood, told her to cough harder, harder, harder into a tube over, and over, and over again. And they are still stumped. It’s genetic, but we know nothing more than that.

But it’s not a sad story. It’s a challenge.

And everyone has them. Life can be hard. Overwhelming. The unknown can be scary. Watching someone suffer or being the one suffering can break your heart, weigh you down, and feel like it is too much to handle. But it’s not about the challenges; everyone has challenges. It’s about how we live through them.

Savannah lives really well through her challenges and in doing so she inspires me to do the same. She’s not just tough; she is faithful (full of faith). I am sharing this so that you can know that we all have challenges in our lives. Savannah inspires me and I want to help her amplify the voice of her life so she can inspire you too.

Don’t allow the challenges to win. Live well through them; not only will you be happy you did but you’ll inspire others to do the same!

It’s probably no surprise when I say that gymnastics is one of the toughest sports, but what studies don’t take into consideration is the mental factor involved with it.

Gymnastics isn’t a very popular sport, it can get pretty expensive and it will most likely take over your entire life.

Almost no high schools in the country offer the sport and the chances to make an NCAA team are fairly slim. So why do we put ourselves through it? We’re all crazy, that’s why. I did gymnastics for 15 years – I started when I was just five years old. I was doing ballet, tap and jazz before, but I saw one of my good friends doing gymnastics and it looked so cool. I just had to do it.

So my mom enrolled me in classes and before my first week was over, I was moved up to the competitive team. Next thing I knew, I was in the gym four hours a day, six days a week and it unknowingly took over my life. There were a couple times in my gymnastics career that I either wanted to quit or actually did quit, but I always missed it after a few weeks and went right back. Like I said, we’re crazy. I was practically raised by my Russian coaches and knew nothing but tough love and endless yelling. “Eat, sleep, breathe gymnastics” was what we used to say to make fun of ourselves but it was accurate.

I couldn’t count the amount of unattended school activities because of practice, the long weekends spent in hotels for competitions and the quarter-sized rips on my hands. However, with all those hardships came the rewards and the gratitude of winning a competition or perfecting a new skill. It was the highs and adrenaline that kept me going – I loved it.

It’s very clear that sports are physically exhausting and injuries happen all the time – I’ve been aware of this since I was maybe seven.

When I walked-on for the Penn State Women’s Gymnastics team, injuries became a whole different story. With this team, I noticed that everyone was afraid of injuries. You’re probably thinking ‘that’s fair, it’s normal to be scared of them,’ but this was a different kind of scared. I was terrified the coaches would yell at me if I told them something was hurting. Maybe that’s just me constantly looking for approval and trying for perfection, but no athlete should be scared of their coaches. Whenever I got hurt, I tried to push through the rest of the practice, then would go to our trainer so I wouldn’t have to deal with the coaches. Working with your coaches and trainers when you are feeling pain is an important factor in becoming and staying a healthy athlete. This fear stemmed from different reasons and gut-feeling something just wasn’t right with them.

Along with that, I had gotten pretty sick during preseason and missed a few days of practice. Instead of letting me focus on getting healthy and making up my school work, the coaches made me make up the two morning workouts I missed that week.

So on top of our two morning practices on Wednesdays and Fridays and our normal afternoon practices, I had to add two more double workouts on Monday and Tuesday. Unless you’re an NCAA athlete, you’re probably unaware of the amount of hours allotted for physical activity each week. The rulebook says that athletes may not exceed more than 20 hours of practice in-season, and only eight hours out-of-season. It also says that we must be given 2 off days out-of-season. I never did that math, but I have a feeling I was over those hours that week.

Not only was the physical wear and tear exhausting, the mental abuse that I saw and experienced was horrifying. The coaches had a tight grip on every thing we did, including things outside the gym. If we tweeted something too late (11 pm being too late) we would hear about it at practice the next day, we couldn’t post “going out” Instagrams even if they weren’t of us drinking and the coaches scheduled team activities every free chance they had. They somehow knew everything about our “extracurricular activities” and made damn sure we knew that they knew.

Comments about our weight, diets and body parts were made all the time and they never failed to make me want to hide under a rock.

Even after a comment made about my boobs by a male coach, I would awkwardly laugh the comments off and continue with my practice. The beginning of my sophomore year was when it was the worst. I was extremely depressed, lost touch with my best friends from home and my poor boyfriend had no idea how to handle me. I was so fragile, yet so stone-cold and emotionless. He always tried the best he could to cheer me up but there was no hope. It eventually got to a point where he couldn’t handle seeing me that screwed up. I vividly remember the text he sent me: “Lyss you need to see the sports psychologist before I lose it. I can’t handle this anymore.”

I read it so many times and each time I was horrified of the person I had become. I couldn’t be angry with him because I knew he was right. How could these people make me hate something that I love so much? The next morning I made an appointment with the sports psychologist.

I’m still so grateful for that text because it ultimately saved my life.

The recruiting class of 2016 brought in eight new girls. We were one of the biggest classes Penn State has seen. All eight of us left the team before our senior year and that doesn’t include the many girls before of after us that quit under these coaches. The team has not a single senior right now. There’s something seriously wrong with this picture. It may sound corny, but gymnastics shaped me into the person I am today and I don’t regret a single second of the hard work I put into it. From a very young age it taught me discipline, organization, time management, determination and willpower to succeed. Let me be dramatic for just a second: I hope it was the most disciplined 15 years I’ll ever have to endure in life again, especially the last two.

But I’m so proud of where it’s gotten me and how far I’ve come. Gymnastics has shown me the world and has given me more amazing friends than I could’ve wished for. Being on the Penn State Gymnastics team made me extremely depressed, almost ruined relationships with people I was closest to and left me many pounds heavier from stress eating. While I was trying to make a decision to quit or stay, I looked back at my goals and dreams as a kid and it was always ‘college gymnastics’.

Letting that dream go and seeing the reality of that goal slip away was disappointing and left me with so much anger.

It was incredibly difficult for me to say goodbye to the thing that was my whole life for so many years. I was scared of losing friends, worried I wouldn’t handle my school work the right way and afraid my parents would be disappointed in me. It took a lot of thinking and two pages full of pros and cons, but I made the decision to move on. My morals, values and mental health were a million times more important to me than seeing my name on the wall in the locker room. I realized that I was in complete control of my situation, no one else.

My time on this team will always hold memories that I’m not fond of but I was able to find the strength and courage to walk away from something that was no longer growing me. That decision will always be my proudest moment. It’s shown me that life is too damn short to live each day anything less than utterly happy. After this experience, I made a vow to myself to never settle for anything that doesn’t make me excited to wake up every morning. It’s safe to say it was a pretty good lesson learned.

PSA: I’ve gotten lots of feedback on this article; mostly good but some not so good and I was totally expecting that. Never once did I talk badly about the team in general and never once did I put down the gymnasts. This is strictly about the coaches and the horrible things they put many people through…some of which had to seek psychological help.

I was sick of sitting in the dark with all of this on my chest and I’m sick of these coaches getting away with this stuff. It’s time I, and all the other girls, step forward and make a change.

(Written by Anonymous)

Author’s Note: My recount of experiencing a panic attack is not a general model that all sufferers of panic disorder experience. Panic attacks can occur at any time and the triggers and signs of a panic attack are unique to each person experiencing one. However, many people have trouble describing what it’s like to experience a panic attack after it’s over. People who have never experienced a panic attack often wonder what’s “really happening” in someone’s head during a panic episode. I wrote this to answer that question: to show what’s happening in my head during a live panic attack.

10:00am

In bed. I need to get out of bed. I’ve been in bed all morning and I have so much I need to do. I need to put in my transfer application; I need to rewrite my resume; I need to check my email. But I’m so warm and comfortable and safe in bed. I don’t want to leave this comfortable, safe haven. I can wait a little longer…

11:30am

In bed. I really need to get out of bed. I’m starving and I need to pee. Fine, I’ll get up. I just don’t feel good: my stomach hurts, my back hurts, my head hurts, it all hurts. But I don’t want to stop feeling safe and comfortable. But… ok I’m getting up, I’ve really got to pee now.

11:35am

Bathroom. Alright, come on girl. Just wash your hands, brush your hair. Ugh, my teeth are disgusting. And I’m breaking out again. I swear, I don’t get why people say I’m pretty; all of these zits are disgusting. I don’t think it would make much of a difference if the zits weren’t there. Why would anyone think I’m pretty? Zit-faced, overweight, out of shape, small boobs; I don’t even want to show my face in public. People will know as soon as they look at me; they’ll know I’m screwed up, they’ll never help me. Why would anyone help someone like me? No one would bother helping me; they’ll just watch as I get yelled at again.

11:45am

Kitchen. Cereal: check. Milk: check. Coffee: check. I should check my email…I haven’t checked it in three weeks. How many emails do I have? Don’t think about that. I bet the statuses of those job applications are in, I should probably check to see if…Why would they give me a job? I screwed up college, I don’t even have an official degree yet, I look disgusting. They’ll just be rejections anyway, like all the others. And there’s probably a ton of other emails I have to answer. I don’t want to see that number on my inbox; I can’t look at it. If I see that number I’ll know just how much a failure I am. Why do I even need to see that number? I already know I’m a failure.

12:20pm

Dining room with laptop. Ok, I can do this. I need to put in my transfer application. Put in contact information, done. Income and taxes, done and done. College credits completed…crap. I don’t want to know.

I have to pull up my school’s student portal and look at my grades to find out how many credits I’ve finished. All those B’s and C’s and two F’s, and so many class withdrawals. I can’t see those grades again; they’re just proof that I’m a failure and I can’t even take a freaking class and do well. And withdrawing from everything last semester…that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t had him as a professor. He was so scary; he was just like her…No, stop! Don’t think about her, don’t do it. She’s in the past, just click save and go take a shower. Yeah, a shower will help.

1:00pm

In the shower. Breathe in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. In, two, three… It feels really small in here. Maybe if I open the curtain a little bit that’ll help, but then I could get hurt. If I open the curtain the water will get all over the floor.

Mom will be mad and she’ll yell; I can’t risk that. I can’t get yelled at, not again. I’ll get hit if I get yelled at. Everyone already knows I’m a loser and a failure and ugly; don’t yell at me because of that! I can’t breathe, I can’t, she’s going to hit me again, he’s going to yell. Sit down girl, just sit down, head between your knees like you learned in first aid training.

I’m not safe, they’re going to hurt me, they’re going to yell – *A gray-haired severe looking woman wields a hardcover textbook as I struggle to find the words. What was the question again? What do I like to do? “Me gusta… me gusta bailar, no, baila, no. Me, me gusta.. bailo?” Her face contorts, she walks to my desk, raising the textbook. “Repita!” I can’t remember how to start, what did I even say? “Me… yo no sé.” I see the book coming – SMACK. My head spins, I can’t stop the tears. “Repita!” I just cry harder, I can’t speak. “Repita!” More tears, everyone’s watching, I can’t move my mouth, I can’t even move my tongue, why doesn’t someone do something? SMACK. I can’t see, I can’t breathe, please God – SMACK.* Stop thinking about that! Just breathe in, breathe out. You’re just sitting in the shower breathing, it’s all ok, you’re ok. I breathe in; how long am I supposed to count for?

Do I count for breathing in or breathing out? Or both? Oh God, please help me, don’t let her hurt me! I need to get out, I need to get somewhere safe. If I stay here she’ll find me, she’ll make me cry in front of everyone, she’ll make me stay after everyone leaves like before, no one will be watching, no one can keep me safe. I need to get somewhere safe…

1:15pm

In bed. Breathe in, and out. Breathe in, and out. I’m safe here. It’s warm, no one can hurt me if I’m in bed. My chest hurts; am I having a heart attack? No, no I can’t be, that’s ridiculous. Just calm down. I don’t know how to be calm. All I can do is panic; they’re just going to hurt me again. Where are those pills for panic episodes? It says take one…but I feel like my world is ending and I won’t feel like this if I’m asleep. I’ll just take two. I wonder how many it would take for me to never feel like this again…

5:30pm

In bed. It’s so much darker than it was before. What time is it? 5:30pm. I just want to stay here forever…I haven’t done anything I was supposed to do. Nothing. Mom is going to be so mad; I’m just a useless lump at home that costs money and I’m too scared to even open my laptop and try to find a job. I don’t want her to yell; I hate that. I don’t want to screw up, I don’t want to be a failure. But if I stay in bed, I’ll be safe. I can’t get hurt if I’m in bed, under warm blankets.

6:15pm

Living room. I hate that I have to get out of bed to get food. I don’t want to eat; I can’t even finish this orange. My stomach hurts so much, I feel like I’m going to be sick. It sucks that I’m starving at the same time. Wait, that’s the garage door. Mom’s home. Crap, I haven’t done anything. She’s going to ask, she’s going to get mad, she’s going to yell. She’s coming up the stairs.”Hi sweetheart. How was your day?’ I can’t breathe, my vision blurs. I can’t do it, I can’t answer, she’s going to think I’m such a failure. “Sweetie, are you ok?” It’s coming, she’s going to yell because I fail to do anything right.

I can’t even check my email because all it shows is a number saying I’m a good-for-nothing failure. No one can help me, no one understands. I can’t even taking a damn shower without bursting into tears and streaking back to bed.

She’s using her sharp voice now: “Sweetie, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” I can’t do it. She’s going to yell, when she finds out I didn’t do anything; she’s going to call me out just like he did. In front of everyone watching, making sure I know just how little I’m worth; just let me have the illusion that I’m worth something for God’s sake! I know I’m a pathetic failure but let me pretend I’m someone worthwhile! Don’t yell at me, don’t – *He’s asking me a question about the homework.

I have no clue, I spent last night studying for last class’ test. “I didn’t do the reading.” He looks at me, unsurprised. “Well then, you aren’t prepared for class. Shouldn’t you leave so you don’t keep your classmates behind with your negligence?” I just sit and stare; I don’t know what to say. Am I even supposed to say anything? He looks at me and says, “I think any student who fails to complete the required homework shouldn’t be allowed to take a class where others’ work hard to learn; do you agree with that?”

I keep staring. Do I agree with that?

Of course not! Everyone said before he walked into class that none of us had done the reading; why is he singling me out? “You haven’t shown any inclination to put any effort into this class at all. I think that someone like you who only cares about finding a husband in college should drop my class. I only teach students who have something worthwhile to offer to the world, and you clearly need to learn a few lessons from them.”

My jaw drops, the tears well up. “Professor, I just- “What? I don’t need to hear your pathetic excuses! If you had done the work you might have had the chance to earn a B in my class; not many girls are willing to take a class this challenging and I think we can all see why from your poor example.” I start crying as I look around at my classmates; they’re all looking back at me silently. No one’s going to stand up to him, no one’s going to report him, not even the one other girl in the class. “I’m – I’m sorry…” “You’re disrupting this class. If you’re going to be this emotional you should drop this class and see a therapist. Although based on the effort you obviously put into the necessary work, you should drop this class anyway.”

I have to escape the yelling, I can’t sit here and be a target for all of this.

No one will help me, no one will believe me, just like with her… no one will ever help me. I can’t breathe, I’m literally choking as my tears fall in my mouth. He gets up and opens the door. I can’t go near him without knowing…there it is, he left his textbook on the table. He’s not holding it. If I run he won’t have time to hurt me. I get my backpack and run. I can’t ever see him again.

He’s right. I’m just a failure and it doesn’t matter how hard I try; I’ll never stop being a failure.* I start crying and shaking; I’m not safe. I can’t feel my legs, I can’t get somewhere safe. Mom is going to yell, she’s coming closer. God please help me, please dear God help me, I can’t have her yell at me, I can’t handle this, please God! She knows I didn’t get anything done today, she knows I’m a failure, she’s coming closer just to yell at me even louder, God protect me please! Mom comes over and sits next to me.

I’m shaking, I’m crying, I want to be strong but I just can’t, I can’t handle her disappointment. I’m in trouble, I need to be in bed, I’m not safe, I’m never safe where they can find me. She envelops me in a warm hug. “It’s ok sweetheart, it’s going to be ok.” I shake even more. “I love you.” I crack. Those words mean I’m not alone. They mean that those people can never hurt me again.

They mean that I’m finally safe.