Julexa B. - Diagnosed at age 14

I will never forget what it felt like to lose my reflection.

During my most severe lupus flare, I gained over 50 pounds of fluid. My face was swollen beyond recognition. My skin stretched tighter than it had in any of my three pregnancies. The water crept toward my heart and lungs, and I lived with the quiet fear that one wrong move might be my last.

But while my body surrendered to illness, my spirit searched for something to hold on to. I reached for color.

Hot pink lipstick. Oversized sunglasses. A camouflage jacket I used to love. These weren’t superficial choices. They were my resistance. My reminder that beneath the swelling, the fatigue, the grief—I was still here.

As a mother, I couldn’t pause. I was still responsible for nurturing my children, for showing them light even when I was drowning in darkness. I didn’t have help, but I had God. And I had style. I wasn’t dressing to impress—I was dressing to survive. Every outfit became a prayer, every shade of pink or lavender a lifeline.

Eventually, I began documenting this process. A photo of me holding a lollipop at FAO Schwarz. A thrifted coat that made me feel whole. With each image, I was stitching together my identity—not as a victim, but as a woman reclaiming her radiance.

Lupus tried to take my health, my face, my energy. But it gave me a deeper truth: light isn’t something we chase—it’s something we carry.

This journey taught me that beauty can be sacred. That self-expression can be survival. That even in your weakest state, you are still worthy of being seen.

I share this not for pity, but for the women silently enduring what I once did. The ones still trying to recognize themselves. This is for you.

You are not invisible. You are not your illness. You are a masterpiece in motion. And sometimes, all it takes is one brave stroke of color to remind yourself—you’re still here.