When I was two, my parents noticed that I was always thirsty and listless. The doctors said my kidneys had probably been scarred when I was born, so throughout my childhood I was taken for annual blood tests. It wasn't until I hit puberty, however, that my kidneys started to fail.

At 13, I was sent to see a specialist at Guy's Hospital in London. To my complete shock, I was told I would eventually need a kidney transplant. I was very upset - only then did I realise how serious my illness was. Yet the kidney failure actually happened quite gradually - at first I was just given pills and taken for monthly checkups. But by the time I was 15, I barely had any energy and was too ill to go to school. I was put on dialysis: attached to a bag of fluid four times a day, for 30 minutes at a time.

I was studying for my GCSEs but school became very difficult. My energy levels were low and I would get painful infections, which meant going to London for treatment. I was falling so far behind with my studies that eventually I had to be taught at home. I lost touch with my classmates and it was a very lonely time. Luckily, there were other teenagers in the hospital who were going through similar experiences.

At 16, as soon as my GCSEs were finished, I was put on the on the transplant waiting list. A little under three months later I got the call telling me a match had been found. I was so excited as I was rushed to hospital; it felt like I was finally going to be cured and could get on with my life.

The doctors did explain the operation might not be successful, but no one dwelt on that, least of all me. A week later, I was in the most severe pain I'd ever experienced. My body had rejected the kidney. It was agony. The doctors told me that the kidney had "exploded" inside me, and they couldn't find a piece large enough to analyse what had gone wrong. I was devastated.

My illness was hard on my family, too. My mother and father had to split their time between the hospital in London and my brother at home in Oxford. My poor brother must have felt I got all the attention, yet I was jealous he'd had the normal life that I missed.

After the operation, I transferred to another school for my A-levels. They were really understanding and allowed me to take my exams over three years rather than two. I even managed an overnight stay in Stratford-upon-Avon for an English trip. You get used to dialysis quite quickly; I reckon I passed my A-levels because it gave me so much time to reread my set texts.

The summer before I went to college, I was given another chance of a transplant. I was more wary and frightened this time, but everything went well. The kidney started working, and by September I was able to start my first term at Oxford Brookes University.

For three months I had an amazing time. Although my parents' home was close to the college I was allowed to move into halls, which meant I could be independent for the first time. I made friends with my flatmates and classmates, and just enjoyed being "ordinary". Perhaps because of my illness
I have always been a quiet person, but I felt I was finally beginning to come out of myself. I spent my time campaigning against tuition fees and studying.

Then, over Christmas, something changed. I felt constantly tired, and kept bursting into tears without knowing why. Once back at college I withdrew into myself again. I would sit in my room, eat my meals alone, and even wash up in there.

I realise now that I was suffering from depression. Although I had always looked forward to feeling better, and had made plans for when I was well, I only really knew how to be ill. It was what I was used to. If you are suddenly struck down by illness it changes your life, but the reverse is also true. In a way I was grieving for the old life that I understood. My condition was part of the way I saw myself. No one talks about it, but being ill from childhood isolates you from people your own age and shapes your identity.

In many ways, my condition had made me mature early. Not only had I experienced more pain than others of my age, I had also been in closer contact with death - for example, the little children who I read to in the paediatric unit but who later died. Yet in other ways I was behind my peers. I hadn't gone out much or dated, and because I got tired too easily, I had never been completely independent.

But because of the transplant I also felt guilty about feeling down. I would think, I'm not supposed to be sad because I have this wonderful gift. Everyone assumes you will be over the moon, but a transplant can be completely bewildering. One of the most punishing things was feeling ungrateful - the knowledge that someone had died and that's why I had my chance to be well.

The operation also meant I had lost control over my illness. Before, I'd been on dialysis four times a day, watching what I ate and drank, taking pills, checking my blood pressure and weight. I was active in keeping myself well, whereas now I just had some new pills to take. There was nothing else I could do - it was just down to the kidney.

I struggled on through my first year of college, but found it hard to concentrate and ended up having to repeat the year. Then, in my second year, my kidney started failing again. It happened slowly over six months, and left me mentally and physically exhausted. I couldn't believe it was happening again. I went back on dialysis and quit my course. Again, this made me feel guilty because other people I knew managed to continue working. Then I got an infection and had to go on haemodialysis, which involved going to hospital and having needles in my arms three times a week for 3½ hours at a time.

The turning point came in 2006 when I started going to Douglas House, a hospice that specialises in caring for young adults. It allowed me to take breaks from living at home. Many of the staff carers were my age, and it is such a fun, positive place: I could live more independently and began to regain my confidence. For the first time I felt able to confront the fact that I might die from my illness. Previously, my way of coping was to be blase about it all; I never let myself think that things wouldn't work out.

I'd been back on the transplant list for a number of years when, on 10 June 2007, I got a call while out shopping. Another match had been found. I almost felt reluctant to go through with it, and it was a very emotional time. But two years later, everything is working fine. Now, although I still suffer bouts of depression, I am starting to feel much more positive about my life.

What helps is realising that depression is just another illness, and that I need to learn how to be well. I'm not going to rush anything, and I am still being supported by Douglas House. Which means I can adjust to my new life at my own pace. I have begun working in a charity shop, and finally feel I can begin to make plans for the future.

• Ingrid Warren appears on The Children of Helen House - Revisited, on 2 April at 9pm on BBC2.

• Do you have a story to tell about your life? Email it to my.story@theguardian.com. If possible, include a phone number