Lindsey Witson
In November 2024, during my senior year of college at Baylor University, I was diagnosed with Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS). I was a healthy and active 21-year-old and captain of the Baylor Songleaders Dance Team.
It started on the evening of October 29, 2024. While watching TV with friends, my leg suddenly swelled from hip to foot. At first, I brushed it off, continuing my busy routine. But by November 1, I was hit with intense back pain. I thought it was just sore from dancing. During a football game that weekend, sharp, shooting pains radiated down my legs and arms, and I collapsed.
An ER visit resulted in a misdiagnosis of bulging discs. For the next two weeks, I was bedridden, unable to walk, sit up, or attend class due to overwhelming pain, nausea, and dizziness. When I returned home for Thanksgiving, my parents immediately noticed my leg weakness and slow movements. I went to a different ER where the doctor admitted me to the hospital. After extensive testing, I was diagnosed with GBS on November 26, 2024. I spent five days in the hospital receiving immunoglobulin (IVIG) treatment. On day four, I developed aseptic meningitis as a reaction to the treatment. Despite the setback, I was discharged in time to be recognized at my senior football game.
Just two days later, I began experiencing heart palpitations and chest tightness. I returned to the hospital and was diagnosed with postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), a form of dysautonomia.
This diagnosis turned my life upside down. I missed dancing at my last football game, a sorority formal, and Thanksgiving with my family. I also missed six weeks of school. But the most difficult part wasn’t the missed events—it was the uncertainty. I didn’t know if I would ever dance again or if I’d be able to return to school.
Now, three months after my first symptoms, I am still recovering. I continue to experience extreme fatigue, nerve pain, and leg weakness, but I’m determined to push forward. I’m in physical therapy, back in classes, and I plan to dance at some basketball games this semester. This experience has been life-changing. It has taught me patience, as healing isn’t linear, and my body needs time to recover. I’ve developed emotional strength, learning to navigate fear and uncertainty. I’ve had to adapt to a new reality, accepting that my senior year plans changed, but I didn’t lose everything. I’ve come to appreciate life’s simple moments—being able to walk, sit up, and move without pain. I now understand the fragility of health and the gift of recovery.
One of the most powerful lessons I’ve learned is compassion. GBS has given me a firsthand understanding of what it means to struggle with an invisible illness. It has reshaped my perspective on my future, highlighting what truly matters. While I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, I can see that it has made me stronger, more resilient, and profoundly grateful.
