Bella Arrese: More Than a Diagnosis

Growing up as the middle of three sisters, just two years apart, we followed strikingly similar paths — lacrosse, volunteering, and life as a coach’s daughter. We were often grouped together as “the Arrese sisters,” a collective identity that shaped much of our childhood and high school experience.

When I enrolled at Wesleyan University in the fall of 2019, it was, in hindsight, a chance to step away from that grouping and become just me. Intimidating on paper but less so in the moment, I was eager and filled with adrenaline. There wasn’t time to pause and reflect between graduating from my smooth-sailing high school experience and diving into college. I could still hold onto the “lacrosse player” part of my identity, so I wasn’t worried. Lacrosse would be my “something greater than myself” to keep me grounded.

Unexpectedly, just as college started, that sense of security and belonging was stripped away. After months of seeing multiple doctors in search of answers, I was diagnosed with vestibular migraines. On the surface, it may seem manageable, but in reality, it was debilitating. It interfered with every aspect of my life — class, sports, and social interactions. I couldn’t tolerate noise or bright lights, was plagued by dizzy spells, and lived in an unshakable brain fog. It felt like I was constantly balancing on a tightrope, navigating campus as if I were treading through water or being hit by a wave of unexpected drunkenness. I couldn’t focus or fully engage in anything.

I am an unrelenting hard worker, and my studiousness masked what I was enduring daily. My condition was invisible to others. No one saw that I had to rewrite facts multiple times just to commit them to memory, that I needed total isolation to focus, or that I fought through entire lectures, tuning out the world, terrified I’d collapse. This left me retreating inward, and socially, I think people saw me as uptight and uninterested.

Of course, not everyone was oblivious. My family knew — they shepherded me from doctor to doctor, often feeling more helpless than I did. My roommate knew — she saw me curled up on the dorm floor in complete darkness when my migraines turned to vertigo. My boyfriend at the time knew — he would take me to Rhode Island on weekends so I’d have an excuse not to socialize. And my closest childhood friends knew — they held onto the version of me I was trying so hard to remember. But at college, where friendships formed quickly and deeply, I dreaded being known as the “sick one.”

I had to quit lacrosse, and then COVID hit. Time felt like it was slipping away. But by junior year, as the world opened back up, I was ready to start over. I threw myself into the full, unfiltered college experience — building connections, adjusting to life without sports, and immersing myself in my academics. Then, in the blink of an eye, I was an Arrese sister again — my little sister joined me at Wesleyan, bringing back a piece of my old identity. Perfect timing.

Carrying this momentum into senior year, I convinced myself I had found my place. I joined the Photography Club, led the Women in Business Club, and pursued job interviews. But the frustrating truth was that my migraines hadn’t disappeared. I feared that committing to anything more might disrupt the delicate balance I had created — my precise sleep schedule, workout routine, and trips to three different grocery stores to find food my body could tolerate.

Determined to manage my condition, I educated myself on vestibular migraines — the science, the triggers, and the treatments. I followed a strict diet and committed myself to lifestyle changes, even turning to prescription medication when I desperately needed relief. But the fear of dependency was worse than the lack of freedom, so I quit the medication and, painfully, my daily cup of caffeine, hoping it would help ease my symptoms.

By September 2023, I was a few months into my first job as a Sales Development Representative at Ramp, a fintech startup fueled by rigor, lightning growth, and some of the most inspiring, hardworking, and warm people I’d ever met. The stress was healthy — enough to make me wake up excited to grind, but also enough to make me impulsively set my alarm for 5 AM runs. I ran 10 miles Monday, 15 on Tuesday, 10 on Wednesday, and by Thursday, there were no miles to be had — just a positive test for mononucleosis.

The fall was a blur of shallow diagnoses: “mono” … “still mono” … “stress.” Deep down, I knew something more was wrong. By my annual physical in March, I was enduring sleepless nights of shooting pain, nerve shocks through my arms and legs, blurred vision, crippling exhaustion, and swelling all over my body. Every night, I’d strip off my work clothes in front of the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back at me. No matter how many times I showered, I still felt dirty inside.

A few nights after imploring my new doctor to run comprehensive tests, my phone lit up. My doctor was short and to the point — I had tested positive for Ehrlichiosis, a tick-borne disease. The name was foreign at first, but instantly validating. I called my family, filled with sheer excitement and a newfound confidence that I was going to get better and started the prescribed antibiotics the next morning. But walking into work the next morning, I took a heavy tumble.

A Jarisch-Herxheimer reaction to the antibiotics sent me to the ER, and then to my grandmother’s house for a month of medical leave. Soon after, I was also diagnosed with Lyme disease. My career — where I’d fought so hard to build a foundation — was put on hold, and my fresh start with a new group of people was suddenly overshadowed by illness once again.

After six grueling weeks on antibiotics, I returned to work in May, ready for my “summer comeback.” Emboldened by the influx of NYC humidity and vitamin D, and May the 4th (Star Wars Day), I felt strong again. I was back to what I loved most: long runs, matcha meetups, rooftop sunsets, and spontaneous city strolls.

But it was too good to be true.

By summer’s end, the numbing adrenaline died out and it was time to leave behind the distracting, sensory-overloaded city streets and the cycle of false hope within the four walls of my Chelsea apartment. Forty-two doctor appointments in 52 weeks and I was just as sick as I’d ever been. And so, I left New York.

It’s now March 2025, nearly six years later, and I’m writing this from my family’s new home in San Diego, feeling incredibly fortunate as my loving parents have welcomed me back into their nest. I am back to feeling like my favorite version of myself — an Arrese — a daughter and a sister, supported and safe. I’ve since been diagnosed with Mast Cell Activation Syndrome, Mold Toxicity, borderline Anaplasmosis, and Rickettsiosis (more tick-borne illnesses), and I’ve redirected my treatment to a naturopathic approach.

I write this nearing the end of my recovery, with a subtle tear in my eye. It’s a tear of hope, fortune, and strength. A tear of eagerness to help others feel heard and understood. And a promise to myself — to let go. Let go of resentment, of “what ifs,” of the holes in my story that will never be explained. As an overthinker and problem-solver by nature, this shift has been difficult, but liberating.

In letting go, I’ve reclaimed mental space. My curiosity has resurfaced, and with it, the overwhelming feeling of not knowing where to begin. So, I’m starting here — by sharing my story. And by embracing a lifelong pleasure: running. Running has been my therapy, my motivation, and now the spark for my next challenge—the TCS NYC Marathon. I am training with gratitude and peace, running up to 35 miles a week, and proud to be supporting the JCK Foundation, advocating for mental wellness and resilience.

Earlier this year, a friend recommended The Happiness Hypothesis by Jonathan Haidt. He suggests that happiness is built on three pillars: love, a meaningful career, and something greater than yourself. My toughest battle became my “something greater than myself”.

Though the label “sick one” occasionally creeps back in, I remind myself of a lesson my dad always taught me: smile and spin it positively. What once felt like a setback has ignited new passions — determination to find root causes, patience in healing, and a deep love for health and wellness. It has also clarified what fulfills me and who I value.

I am an Arrese sister. A Lyme warrior. A mindful runner. A proud friend, daughter, coworker, and granddaughter. And above all, I am rising up.

Finally, I’d like to share 10 of the greatest lessons I’ve learned:

1. Turn the fear of the unknown into the excitement for what’s to come.

2. Yoda is right — “patience is a virtue” — and if you make the most of the time in between, the waiting won’t be a waste.

3. Life isn’t meant to be easy — find joy and optimism in the little things that, in the end, aren’t so little.

4. Everyone is dealing with something — don’t judge a book by its cover.

5. There is immense power in vulnerability and sharing your story — you are never alone.

6. Boredom sparks creativity — find what allows you to disconnect from the noise and sit in stillness.

7. Express gratitude.

8. Keep your circle tight, and let that love run freely.

9. It’s not just your time that’s precious, it’s your energy — quality over quantity, work smarter not harder, create more than you consume, and consume meaningfully.

10. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger — your toughest battle may just become your “something greater than yourself”.

    
    

If you’d like to support my fundraising effort for the JCK Foundation, please donate here.