Tori Lopez

Living with chronic illness has shaped nearly every part of my life. For years, my days revolved around hospitals, surgeries, and long stretches of being bedridden. While my peers were learning to drive or going to football games, I was learning to manage my treatments, medications, and the uncertainty of whether I’d make it through another flare. It was isolating at times, but it also gave me a perspective most teenagers don’t have: that health is fragile, and advocacy is essential.

The disease challenged me academically and socially, but it also pushed me to grow into a resilient problem-solver. I learned to study in hospital rooms, to connect with others through empathy, and to fight for myself when I wasn’t being heard. Though my illnesses brought pain and setbacks, it also fueled my passion for advocacy and policy work. It transformed my hardest experiences into a mission to make a difference in the world!

I advocate because I know what it feels like to be invisible.

When I was diagnosed with gastroparesis, I quickly learned that the hardest part wasn’t just the pain or the hospital stays, it was not being believed. I was told I was exaggerating. I was told I was “too young to be this sick.” I was dismissed when I spoke up about what I was feeling. That silence nearly destroyed me.

Advocacy became my way of reclaiming a voice that others tried to quiet. At first, it was simply for myself—learning to ask hard questions, push for answers, and refuse to accept neglect. But the more time I spent in waiting rooms and hospital wards, the more I realized how many others felt the same way. I met kids who were too scared to speak up. Parents who felt helpless. Patients who thought their suffering didn’t matter.

That’s why I advocate. Not just for me, but for the community I’ve found along the way. Advocacy is the bridge between silence and change. For me, it means using my voice so that no one else has to feel as unseen as I once did. It means fighting for dignity, compassion, and justice, even when it’s uncomfortable.

I advocate because stories spark change. And if my story, as heavy as it is, can help even one person feel less alone or push one leader to rethink how they see disability and chronic illness, then every ounce of pain has meaning.