A Journey of Struggle, Hope and how it will be used to help others.

It all started with something that seemed simple—a fainting spell. But when it happened for the third time in as many months, I knew something wasn’t right. I’d passed out and hit my head on the coffee table, but my doctors assured me it was just my allergies acting up. Despite this, a feeling of unease lingered deep inside me. I didn’t want to believe something serious was wrong, so I trusted the doctors and pushed on with life.

That fall, in 2021, I began my junior year of high school. I was excited for football season and didn’t want to let my teammates, coaches, or school down. Even though I was constantly exhausted, I pushed through practice, workouts, and games. But my health continued to decline, and my fears began to grow. I struggled to keep food down, and the fatigue seemed to intensify. One game sticks out in my memory—the moment I got blindsided and ended up unconscious in the other team’s huddle. I woke up, not knowing where I was, and was hit with the realization that something was terribly wrong. Yet, I kept pushing through, thinking I could handle it.

A month later, during my school’s local Red Cross blood drive, my health issues came to a head. Despite my outward appearance of health, I was told that my iron was too low to donate blood. The technician urged me to get checked out, and I brushed it off. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. The tests came back, and it wasn’t my iron that was the problem—it was my platelets, hemoglobin, and white blood cells. They were dangerously low, as though my bone marrow wasn’t working properly.

By December 2021, I received a diagnosis that would change everything: aplastic anemia. My bone marrow had failed, and it wasn’t producing blood products the way it should. I learned that most people with this condition required a bone marrow transplant, with a survival rate of only 60%.

I’ll never forget sitting in my Food Science class when a friend asked about my chances of survival. “60%, but don’t worry, I’ll make it easy,” I joked, trying to brush off the gravity of the situation. My friend’s response hit me harder than I expected: “Wow, Josh, you really can’t take anything seriously, can you?” That comment woke me up. For the first time, I realized I had to take my diagnosis seriously if I had any chance of survival.

For the next two months, I waited anxiously for a match. I received support from my community, with people bringing me snacks and showing love. I was also getting blood transfusions to make up for the blood my body wasn’t producing. Then, in February 2022, a glimmer of hope arrived. My brother and sister were both 100% matches—an incredibly rare occurrence. My brother would be my donor, and the transplant date was set for March 30th.

However, before the transplant, my health continued to spiral. I faced several scares, one of which occurred when I visited my hometown doctor for something unrelated. A blood test revealed that my situation was urgent—I needed to be rushed to my specialist two hours away. I was told I wouldn’t have made it to my scheduled infusion if we hadn’t caught it in time.

A week before the transplant, I had another scare. While trying to rest, I suddenly vomited blood and had to be rushed back to the specialist. Despite these setbacks, I remained determined. I even managed to bench 300 lbs the day before I was admitted for chemo. But what I hadn’t prepared for was the emotional and spiritual battle ahead. The physical pain would be intense, but the mental and emotional toll would be even greater.

In preparation for the transplant, I underwent chemotherapy to destroy my failing bone marrow and make room for the new marrow. During this time, I met two nurses, Olivia and Jess, who supported me throughout the process. When the day of the transplant arrived, I was ready. The donated marrow was injected into my veins, but complications arose as my blood pressure spiked, leading to a severe headache. I was taken for an MRI, but fortunately, nothing was wrong.

The weeks that followed were filled with uncertainty. I had no bone marrow at all for over a month, and the transplant had to “take” or I would have to start over. The waiting was agonizing. My health deteriorated further as I dealt with a staph infection, blood clots, and a fungal lung infection. I also had trouble eating due to painful sores in my mouth and throat. Yet, I kept pushing myself, continuing my daily workouts despite the pain.

It was during this time that I truly felt the support of my family, my community, and my faith. My parents never left my side, and my community rallied behind me with support and love. God’s strength carried me through the darkest moments.

In May 2022, I received the best news I could have hoped for: my transplant had begun to take hold. My bone marrow was regenerating, and the chances of a full recovery were very high. I was overjoyed, but I had to stay longer for further treatment. The hospital arranged for my family to stay at the Ronald McDonald House, which was a kindness I’ll never forget.

I eventually went home, feeling euphoric as I passed the familiar sights of my hometown. But soon, I realized that recovery wasn’t just physical—it was mental and emotional as well. I struggled with anxiety, anger, and sadness, and it all built up until I couldn’t ignore it anymore. One day, I broke down in tears to my parents, letting go of months of bottled-up emotions. This was a turning point. I began to heal mentally and spiritually, realizing that God had been with me through it all. He gave me the strength I needed to keep pushing forward. It also allowed me to begin to accept what happened. 

By August 2022, I had come off the anti-rejection medications that most transplant recipients take for two to five years. My recovery had been so rapid that I was off them in just six months. I even played in about four games of my senior football season. As the year progressed, I continued improving—competing in Track and Field in the spring and ultimately deciding to attend UW-Platteville in the fall. Throughout my senior year, I worked relentlessly to regain the strength I had lost and to make up for the semester of school I had missed. That determination carried into the summer; I kept pushing forward, convinced that momentum alone would keep me on the right path.

However, when I arrived at UW-Platteville, restlessness set in. Some friends from the track team encouraged me to walk on, so I did—and I made the team. At first, it felt like I was thriving, my schedule packed with training, classes, and other commitments. But beneath the surface, something was unraveling. My health slowly began to decline, though I didn’t recognize it at first. By December, fatigue weighed on me daily, and anxiety—likely a remnant of past trauma—tightened its grip. I had reached another mental breaking point. Every little thing overwhelmed me, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stay awake in class. To make matters worse, my grandfather had just passed away. But instead of addressing my struggles, I did what I had always done: I ignored them. Each time the stress mounted, I took on more—trying out for the track team, lifting with the team, then lifting again on my own. If I wasn’t sleeping during the day, I was pushing myself harder, trying to outrun something I couldn’t even define.

By January, things had worsened. I was sleeping 17 hours a day, waking only for classes, practices, and meals. I assumed this was just how college was supposed to feel—exhausting, relentless. I told myself my mind had healed, that I was simply pushing through like I always had. But by February 2024, I could no longer ignore the truth. One weekend, I finally admitted to my parents that something was seriously wrong. Desperate for answers, we scheduled an appointment with a functional health doctor. It was then that I made the difficult decision to quit the track team and withdraw from Platteville to focus on my health, though at that point, I still had no idea what was happening to me.

The initial tests confirmed what I had feared—I was deteriorating. The root cause was a severe gluten allergy, which had been quietly damaging my stomach, preventing my body from absorbing essential nutrients. Further testing revealed that my body had been trapped in a constant state of “fight or flight” for years, throwing my stress hormones into complete disarray. My doctor believed this chronic stress response explained my heightened anxiety and relentless exhaustion—my body could no longer manage the strain after years of running on adrenaline. He also suspected that my autoimmune disease, aplastic anemia, had played a role. When the body struggles to absorb nutrients, bone marrow is among the first systems to suffer. According to him, had I not changed my diet, my bone marrow could have failed again.

With a new diet plan in place, I began to see improvements in late 2024. My physical health improved, and my stress levels decreased. Through it all, my faith in Jesus Christ grew stronger. I saw how everything I had gone through was part of a greater plan, and I was filled with gratitude for the second chance at life I had been given.

As I continue to recover, I hold onto the lessons I’ve learned through this journey: life is fragile, the support of others is invaluable, and faith is the anchor that keeps me grounded.

Which is also why the goal of this company will be to help other people that have been put into similar situations as my own. and put a % of the proceeds towards this goal.

-Joshua S. Kleinsasser

- Edited Sarah Wallace