Lisa Gatone

To all who read this - friends, strangers, and kind souls passing through. I come to you with something I have carried for forty-two years. A dream so old it grew up with me, survived every chapter of my life, and refused to die even when everything felt like it was falling apart. Since I was sixteen, I have wanted dreadlocks. Not as a trend. Not as a phase. But as a piece of myself - a version of me I always hoped I would grow into. For years I have grown my hair out, strand by strand, through sickness, exhaustion, and days when I could barely life my head. Patiently waiting to become what I dreamed of at sixteen. This is my bucket-list moment. My "before I shuffle off of this mortal coil" wish. My one of two remaining piece of a future I once imagined. The second is a my lifelong dream to live in England. And I am finally ready. My hair is ready. My heart is ready. My body...is tired. And my finances are simply not able. Living with ESRD: The Part I Wish I Could Skip I live with End Stage Renal Disease - a condition that sounds clinical until you live inside it. ESRD means: My kidneys have completely stopped working and human resources is not accepting applications. I spend three days a week on dialysis, hooked to a machine that keeps me alive. I am exhausted in a way that sleep cannot fix. I am nauseous, dizzy, and unwell in many ways more often than when I am okay. I cannot work, because my is too sick and too unpredictable. Every dollar I have goes toward staying alive. ESRD is not just a diagnosis. It is a thief. It steals time. It steals energy. It steals the version of yourself you once knew. Some days, it feels like it steals me. But it has not stolen this dream. Why Dreadlocks Matter So Much To someone else, dreadlocks might be "just hair". But to me, they are: A way to feel beautiful again in a body that has been through so much. A style I can maintain even on the days when I can barely stand. A symbol of strength, identity, and survival. A promise I made to my sixteen-year-old-self - that she would not be forgotten. A reminder that I am still allowed to want things, even now. When you live with a chronic illness, joy becomes something you have to fight for. And this is my joy! This is the one thing I can still choose for myself. The one thing that feels like me. The Part That Makes Me Cry To Even Write I don't want charity. I don't want pity. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. I have spent years trying to be strong, trying to be independent, trying to carry everything on my own shoulders even when they were shaking. But the truth is...I cannot afford this dream on my own. Professional dreadlock installation for my hair length and 130 locs is very expensive - far beyond what someone living on disability and dialysis can manage. So, I am doing something that is very hard for me: I am asking for help. Not because I expect it. Not because I feel entitled to it. But because this dream has lived in me for 42 years, and I don't want to leave this world without giving my dread journey a chance. If you donate, you are not "saving" me. You are helping me reclaim a piece of myself that illness has tried to take. If you can't donate, sharing my story helps. If you can't share, your kindness in reading this is already a gift. Thank you for listening to my story. Thank you for seeing me - not just he illness, but the person still fighting beneath it. I hope, with all my heart, that this journey ends with me sitting in a salon chair, wrapped in a cape, watching my dream finally come to life thanks to "To Dye For Salon". With love, dignity, and soon-to-be-iconic dreads, L.