Donna Chang, Special to The Denisonian


The first rays of June’s summer sun in 2024 pierced through the windows of third-year college student Grace Lukens’s room in Brown Hall, a senior apartment buzzing with the presence of summer research scholars. 

Gracie, as most people call her, was wakened by the sunlight and curled deeper into her sheets, her body turning sideways to face the wall covered in memories—photos of her friends, her boyfriend Leif, and a poster of Wallows, a band she’d grown to love after a listening party she and Leif had shared. Not an early bird, Gracie was defeated by the temptation to snooze in her comfortable sheets, surrounded by the scent of fresh linen. She deeply inhaled the cold thin air generated by the conditioner that functions 24/7. As she lay in bed, her eyes traced the blank ceiling, the steady clatter of the machine switching on and off every 10 minutes acting as background music.

After 20 minutes of lying in bed, Gracie finally sat up and landed on her feet. The moment she stood, a wave of nausea struck her. A tight, sharp pain circled beneath her belly button. As she took a step, the nausea intensified, as if she just hopped off a roller coaster. Fighting the dizziness, Gracie pushed open her bedroom door and rushed to the kitchen for the ginger ale—which she knew wasn’t the best morning drink, but it helped soothe her nausea— in the fridge. She hurried to the bathroom, sat by the toilet, and leaned against the wooden cabinet beneath the sink. The headache behind her eyes grew stronger, the familiar sensation of keeping them open for too long after crying. Pain does not have a color, but Gracie recalled it as a “red pain” behind her eyes.

With one hand pressed against the scratchy floor, Gracie held her ginger ale in the other, beads of condensation sliding down her fingers from the icy can. Leaning against the cabinet provided her with a moment of stability. Once she felt better, Gracie opened the can of ginger ale, held it to her mouth, tilted her head, and took a long sip. The sharp, carbonated sensation combined with the sugary taste eased the pain in her stomach. Gracie sat for 10 minutes until she finally felt well enough to get up and start her day.

Before Gracie began experiencing symptoms of her health condition in January 2024, she dedicated her time and energy to fencing for Denison’s varsity team, dancing as a dance major, and pursuing her research as a passionate English literature student. Each afternoon in the school gymnasium—the rubbery squeak of shoes against the floor, the sharp clash of blades meeting, the piercing beep of the scorekeeping machine when a point was scored, and the cheers of fencers after a well-placed touch all filled the air. Geared up in her fencing jacket, chest and arm protectors, pants, and fencing shoes, Gracie’s fluid movements and decisive strikes with her sword embodied the essence of her name—Grace.  

Fencing was new to her in college, but she embraced it with a curious mindset—attending 16 hours of weekly practices and taking every practice seriously. Unlike fencing, she had been dancing since age 3, progressing from ballet to contemporary. In college, she found a new joy in choreography and creating her own dances.

“I enjoy being able to move my body—it feels really good to dance,” Gracie said, her face lighting up. “It’s freeing, you know? I’ve built up these skills over the years, and it’s gotten to a point where it feels natural to me,” she said. 

Besides dance and fencing, Gracie is equally dedicated to academics, focusing on women’s literature and the female experience. She has worked on two summer research projects and is collaborating with Dr. Fred Porcheddu to organize a class on European women’s literature for next fall, inspired by her research.

“I want to be a professor someday so I can just keep learning literature and the world around me,” said Gracie. “Learning is a key part of not only who I am, but how I approach the world.” 

As Gracie navigates her health issues, she has had to redefine her relationship with her commitments. Both dance and fencing demand physical engagement, making it hard to focus when her body is in pain. Likewise, it’s difficult to concentrate on academics when she’s struggling physically.

Gracie’s biggest worry is the fear and frustration of not giving her best effort. While she pushes herself, she estimates she’s only operating at 60% of her former ability. A key part of redefining her commitments is self-acknowledgement.

“I remind myself that I’m physically going through this thing, and it’s real, and it’s an issue.”

Gracie also communicates openly with her friends, professors, and teammates about what is going on in her life. She worries that it may seem as if she is just sitting there not practicing or showing up in dance class, but she makes sure people understand what’s happening behind the scenes, aiming to avoid feeling like she’s letting anyone down.

“It’s almost harder than having a broken leg because you have the cast on. Everybody knows you have a broken leg, and they will offer, ‘Let me help you down the stairs’, ‘Let me get your bag,’” she said. “There’s no physical sign that these things are going on, even though it is ruling my physical self,” said Gracie. 

Despite her ongoing battle with pain, Gracie remains optimistic and seeks joy in her passions. On Oct. 9, 2024, she performed her first choreographed piece she named “Peace” at the Fall Dance Festival, a step toward living in the present moment to do what she enjoys and setting aside the pain. 

“I’m doing my life in a very different way than I would like with all the health stuff. But I still am in control of my mind and my creativity,” said Gracie. “I’m still able to produce things that I’m happy about. And that is very rewarding. I’ve been able to start finding ways to move past it and move around it.” Gracie said, smiling. 

Backstage at the Michael D. Eisner Center for the Performing Arts, the small room was cloaked in darkness, heavy with the scent of sweat from anxious dancers. The silence was loud, so quiet you could almost hear the quick heartbeat of the nervous performers. Gracie sat with her partner, William Nguyen, feeling the familiar waves of nausea in her stomach. Cold sweat trickled down her cheeks as she popped a cherry-flavored anti-nausea tablet into her mouth. 

“I am nervous,” said Gracie, looking at Nguyen.

“You wanted to do this. You shouldn’t be worried. This piece is so good,” Nguyen reassured her. 

Upon hearing their cue, Gracie and Nguyen stepped onto the stage, shadowed into soft blue and purple lighting that harmonized with their outfits. The audience’s gaze was on her, but Gracie enjoyed the pressure and was ready to perform. The house jazz song—also named— “Peace” by Berlioz filled the space, she embraced the fluidity of the choreography, inspired by the motion of water. Her arms swung elegantly, crafting angular forms that linked her hand to her hip.

“Once I got out there my body knew what to do. I was able to appreciate the moment and let my body do what it was good at,” said Gracie. “I turned my brain off and just started dancing, the nausea went away.” 

The song included the lyrics 

“When we do encounter the difficult things in life, rather than running, we can get to a place in ourselves where it is really peaceful.”

“[During the performance], it made me feel strong hearing those lyrics and knowing that I am in a difficult place in my life, but through dancing and just believing in myself, I’m able to get to a place where I can find that inner peace,” said Gracie. “And that’s literally what I’m doing on stage, just showing people this process of finding my peace.”