From the summer of 2005 -- and for the next 13 years -- I battled a disease with no name. It hung from my shoulders and tugged at my limbs. Its heaviness wrapped around me, weighing me down with unfathomable force.

"Your testing looks good. You need to exercise," doctors would say.

"I'm struggling to walk," I'd plead. "To stand. At times, I can barely sit upright, let alone exercise." But my words were unheard or misunderstood. I was weak, but I couldn't relay just how devoid of energy I truly was. And so, this disease that lived voraciously within me remained anonymous.

I told my story in every word combination possible, hoping I'd finally capture the attention of a doctor who cared. But each time, I was left in the darkness, so alone. My words were incapable of saving me. I learned that when symptoms are invisible, words may not be enough. When a neurologist finally ordered a lumbar puncture in 2017, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS). But the diagnosis came only after 13 years of begging health care providers to listen.

Once I had an answer, navigating my health care options became easier. But it was still challenging to convert my symptoms into words in a way others could understand, and that was the hardest part of adjusting to life with a chronic disease. Even with others surrounding me -- my mother, father, husband and now my children -- I feel alone when no one can comprehend how I feel physically.

"I just can't stand today. My legs are shaky. My strength is gone," I'd tell my husband.

"I'm sorry you're dealing with this," he'd reply. But he couldn't really grasp the intensity of being so weak my body was depleted. The weight I carried was invisible. And that wasn't his fault. My words simply fell short.

Then, in 2018, I saw a Facebook post from the National MS Society that shared a collection of photos from a photographer with MS. The photographer, Andrezza Haddaway, had paired 10 photos with words describing the symptoms she'd experienced: tingling, dizziness, fatigue, mood changes, optic neuritis, numbness, MS hug (a squeezing sensation around the chest or torso), blurry vision, brain fog and weakness. I clicked through the photos, rapt. When I came to the final photo, I saw my body with MS for the time. As if I was looking into a mirror that translated how I felt to an image, this photo depicting weakness was pristinely how I'd envisioned my lack of strength -- angry, stubborn and mighty. It was everything I'd tried to express to doctors for 13 years. This photo made me feel seen for the first time since this disease erupted in my nervous system all those years ago.