Living with Factor VII Deficiency — Lessons from a Rare Condition

The Diagnosis That Defined My Beginning

I was born with blood that carried a secret. Doctors called it Factor VII Deficiency, a rare disorder that meant even the smallest injury could threaten my life. My parents were told I might not make it, that survival was a fragile thread stretched across an unknown future. I was the baby who might not see tomorrow — yet somehow, tomorrow kept coming.

I grew up with the awareness that life was not promised. Every fall, every bruise, every ache in my chest was a reminder: my blood did not clot like others. I carried my condition not as a label, but as a shadow. It taught me early that survival was not casual — it was a choice, a discipline, and, at times, a miracle.

The Body’s Silent Battles

Living with Factor VII Deficiency is like hearing your body whisper warnings no one else can hear. The dull ache inside my joints after bleeding. The way I could sense my energy drain, as if my life force was seeping through unseen cracks. There were days I woke up and felt the weight of weakness pressing on me, reminding me that I was never far from the edge.

Hospitals became second homes. Needles, blood tests, transfusions — they were not interruptions but rhythms of my life. I watched the world outside run fast, while I measured each step carefully, quietly aware that my body’s balance was fragile.

But even in this fragility, I found a strange kind of power. My vulnerability became my teacher. It slowed me down, forced me to listen, and gave me an intimacy with my body that many people never discover until it’s too late.

The Angel of Survival

There was a moment when I truly believed I might not survive. My blood loss was heavy, my body weak, my spirit wavering. And then — I saw something. Or maybe I felt it more than saw it. An angel, standing near me, radiant and calm, whispering not with words but with presence: “Keep going. You are not finished yet.”

That encounter — whether divine vision, or spirit rising within me — changed everything. It was not just about surviving anymore. It was about living with purpose. If my life was spared, it was not meant to be wasted.

Fashion and Dance as Healing

As a child and teenager, while others played freely, I found my expression in movement and art. Dance became my rebellion against weakness. Each step, each rhythm, was my way of saying: I am still here.

Fashion was the armor I chose. The way fabric moved across my body, the way colors and textures transformed me, gave me confidence when my body betrayed me. Baggy clothes that gave freedom, bold colors that spoke louder than my quiet pain — these were not just style choices, they were survival tools.

Dance and fashion became languages that helped me express what words could not. They stitched dignity into my wounds, strength into my vulnerability, beauty into my pain.

MLP: From Pain to Purpose

This condition could have broken me. Instead, it birthed MLP — Master Love Perpetually. The brand, the mission, the movement. MLP is not just fashion or music or art. It is survival transformed into creation. It is pain turned into love, weakness turned into resilience, and vulnerability turned into strength.

Factor VII Deficiency taught me that every breath is a victory. Every step is a chance to create. Every day is a chance to give love to the world, even when you carry wounds unseen.

Lessons Learned from a Rare Condition

This rare blood disorder gave me lessons most people never learn in a lifetime:

• Life is fragile. Do not waste it.

• Vulnerability is sacred. It connects you to others in ways pride never will.

• Purpose matters. Pain without purpose is suffering; pain with purpose is transformation.

• Love is the cure. Not medicine, not treatment alone — but love. Love from family, friends, from strangers who donated blood, from the divine presence that told me to keep living.

  
  

A Call to Action: Live Like Your Life Is a Miracle

If my story teaches anything, it is this: life is not guaranteed. But within that uncertainty lies extraordinary beauty. You don’t need a rare condition to remind you of this truth. Every single one of us is living on borrowed time.

So love with urgency. Create with passion. Be present with compassion. And never, ever underestimate the quiet strength within you — the strength to rise, to heal, to keep moving forward even when your body or spirit feels weak.

My condition gave me scars, but it also gave me a mission. MLP is my way of giving back, of reminding you that your survival, too, has meaning.

So I ask you: What will you do with your borrowed breath today?