The Week I Got My Diagnosis and Won Double Gold

May 2023. Mayo Clinic. Perianal Crohn's disease.

One week later, I won double gold at the New York City Open: Men's Doubles Pro and Mixed Doubles Pro.

This isn't an inspiration story. It's a case study in what happens when you stop managing perception and start managing reality.

The Year Before Changed Everything

2022 broke me in ways I still don't fully understand.

I flew from Hawaii to New York for the NYC Open and an exhibition at the New York Stock Exchange. The night before the exhibition, I stayed alone in a Wall Street hotel room. I was on all fours in the bathroom at 6am, squeezing abscesses by myself, trying to drain 8-12 ounces of fluid before anyone saw me.

Three months earlier, I'd found out my wife of ten years was having an affair with my podcast co-host and close friend.

Now I was alone, in agony, squeezing fluid out of my body just so I could stand upright and smile for the cameras.

At the tournament, I tore my meniscus mid-match. I was supposed to play MLP the following week for Gary Vaynerchuk's team, something I'd been excited about for months. Instead, I had to get emergency colorectal surgery in Austin because the infection in my body was so severe they wouldn't operate on my knee.

Two weeks later, knee surgery. Then back to Hawaii.

I was in one of the most beautiful places on earth, and I was the lowest version of myself.

The worst part wasn't the pain. It was the uncertainty.

I called the surgeon's office asking when the drainage would stop. When the seton drains could come out. They told me six months, maybe a year. Maybe longer. Nobody mentioned Crohn's. Nobody gave me a path forward.

There was no hope in that period. I genuinely didn't know if it would ever end.

The Relief of Finally Having a Name

When I got to Mayo Clinic in 2023 and heard the word Crohn's, it felt like someone turned the lights on.

It gave shape to the chaos.

It made me feel sane again. It gave me something to treat, something to move toward, something other than "maybe this is my life now."

Talking to people who'd been through it (my former teammate with ulcerative colitis, my buddy Jason who has Crohn's) helped more than they probably know. They were the first people who made me feel understood. Like I wasn't imagining the severity. Like I wasn't weak.

The diagnosis didn't fix anything. But it gave me direction.

It gave me the belief that medication might help, that biologics might calm the disease, that I wouldn't be living in that level of pain forever.

What Actually Happened Between Diagnosis and Competition

I didn't have a mental framework. I didn't strategize. I didn't use visualization techniques or mantras.

I'd been living with the intense day to day pain for so long at that point that it was survival mode.

I didn't practice anymore leading into events. I'd show up, hope to get some court time, and compete as best I could.

2023 was a strong year. It helped me reach the number one ranking on the APP tour with my partner Andrei Daescu for men's doubles. I had great success in mixed as well with Susannah Barr, Megan Fudge and Vivian Glozman.

But there was no playbook. No clean mental process. Just endurance.

The contrast is what matters: 2022, I was squeezing abscesses alone in a hotel room. 2023, double gold one week after diagnosis.

The difference wasn't strategy. It was finally having an answer.

The Real Lesson About Performing Through Crisis

Elite athletes are taught to compartmentalize. To separate performance from everything else. To lock away the noise and focus on execution.

That works when the crisis is external. It doesn't work when the crisis is your body.

Research shows that about 35% of elite athletes struggle with mental health concerns: burnout, depression, anxiety. Add a chronic illness diagnosis on top of that, and the vulnerability multiplies.

Crohn's disease feeds on stress and tension. It's part of the daily routine for a professional athlete. But athletes with Crohn's (Olympic swimmer Kathleen Baker, NBA player Larry Nance Jr., Canadian high jumper Alyxandria Treasure) have proven you can still compete at the highest level.

Larry Nance Jr. said it best: "You need to make your illness work around you. Don't let Crohn's define you."

That's not motivational talk. That's the actual strategy.

What I Actually Controlled

I couldn't control the diagnosis. I couldn't control the pain. I couldn't control the uncertainty of how long treatment would take or whether it would work.

What I could control:

• Showing up to the tournament • Managing my energy between matches • Staying present during points instead of thinking about what my body was doing • Believing in my ability and court instincts even when I hadn't been able to practice consistently

That's it. That was the framework.

Not pushing harder. Not being tougher. Just being radically honest about what I could actually manage and letting go of everything else.

The Part Nobody Talks About

Winning didn't fix anything.

I still had Crohn's. I still had pain. I still had seton drains and infections and uncertainty about what came next.

But it showed me something important: you can perform at an elite level while your life is falling apart. You just stop pretending it isn't happening.

The loneliest part of chronic illness is that nobody around you really gets it. You look fine. You're still working. You're still competing. But inside, you're barely holding yourself together.

The moment I stopped hiding that reality was the moment I got my power back.

Hiding wasn't wrong. It was exhausting. And I was tired of letting fear run the whole show.

Where This Leaves Me Now

Two and a half years later, after choosing a colostomy, after still dealing with seton drains and drainage every day, I can say this: it's been a short journey compared to some people, but it has felt like a decade.

The more I learn, the more obvious it is that there are massive gaps in treatment, communication, and patient quality of life.

That's what I care about now. Fixing the part nobody's paying attention to. Fixing the thing I lived through. Giving people the clarity and support I never got.

The playbook for performing through crisis isn't about being tougher. It's about being honest.

Honest about what you can control. Honest about what you can't. Honest about the fact that sometimes survival is the strategy.

That's what got me through that week. That's what still gets me through.