I don’t remember the exact second it happened, but I can still picture the moment I realized something was completely out of place in my own body.
It wasn’t dramatic. No flashing lights. No sudden movie-style collapse. Just an ordinary morning that decided to rewrite the script of my life without asking for permission. One moment I was living the routine I knew, and the next, I was face-to-face with an uninvited presence. An intruder that didn’t knock, didn’t introduce itself, and yet somehow moved right in — taking over my mind, shifting my thoughts around like it owned the place.
In those first weeks, I didn’t dare give it its real name. I called it “The Thing,” as if keeping it vague might make it less real. The thought of saying the actual term out loud felt too big, too final. Like the moment the words left my mouth, I’d be stamping it into my identity forever.
But as the months went by, this new chapter of my life started to carve its own language. It showed up in conversations the way weather does — casually, without ceremony. I’d hear myself saying things like:
“Oh, yeah, my balance is off this morning. Must be that thing acting up.”
“Can’t remember the word for that… my brain’s on its own schedule.”
“Nope, can’t take the stairs that fast anymore. That’s just how it works now.”
The truth is, I don’t make these comments because they’re funny. I make them because humor is my armor. It’s the life jacket I reach for when I feel myself starting to sink. If I can laugh about it, even for a moment, I can keep my head above water.
This isn’t the kind of change you prepare for. One morning, you’re moving through life at your own pace, and the next, you’re forced into an entirely different rhythm — one that demands patience you didn’t know you had. And while I wouldn’t have chosen this path, I’ve learned that sometimes survival starts with a single smile, even if it’s through gritted teeth.
Morning with Stroke
Mornings have taken on a whole new rhythm for me — a slower, more deliberate kind of start that I never used to imagine for myself. Back then, I was the type to spring out of bed the second my eyes opened, fueled by sheer habit and the lure of that first cup of coffee. It was almost comical, the way I’d practically hop into the day like a cartoon character chasing the smell of breakfast.
Now, it’s different. My wake-up routine feels more like easing into a cold lake one step at a time. I open my eyes, and instead of immediately standing, I pause. My body and my mind seem to have their own early-morning meeting, like two business partners trying to agree on the day’s plan. There are mornings where they’re in sync, ready to cooperate, and others where they’re clearly at odds — my mind urging me to move while my body insists we’re not quite ready.
I’ve learned to respect that process. I’ll sit quietly at the edge of the bed, letting my breathing settle and giving my balance time to check in. If it’s one of those heavier mornings, I can sense it before my feet even touch the floor — that strange resistance, as though the air has turned thick and I’m about to walk through invisible water. Every movement feels a little slower, a little more intentional.
But here’s what I’ve come to treasure — the small, hard-earned victories that I used to take for granted. The morning I slid on both socks without tipping over felt like winning a trophy. The time I brewed my coffee, carried it across the kitchen, and set it down without a single spill felt like an Olympic-level achievement. The old me wouldn’t have thought twice about these moments. The me I am now wants to put up streamers, invite the neighbors, and celebrate like I’ve just hit a major milestone — because, in a way, I have.
The Social Side of Stroke Talk
It’s always interesting watching people react when I mention what I’ve been through. There’s this brief pause—just a heartbeat long—where you can almost hear the gears turning in their mind. Their eyes narrow slightly, their eyebrows lift, and there’s that unmistakable half-second of uncertainty, like they’ve just heard something they’re not quite sure how to respond to. Some tilt their head, almost the way you would if a friend casually confessed to wrestling alligators in their spare time.
Then comes the verbal tiptoe:
“Oh… wow. You look… good?”
They say it like they’re testing the sentence before committing to it, the upward lilt at the end betraying a mix of surprise and hesitation. I nod politely, but in my head I’m thinking, Is that meant to reassure me, or you?
From there, the conversation usually branches in one of three directions.
Some people lean forward, hungry for the full story—when it started, how it unfolded, what my life is like now. They want the details, every twist and turn. Others… well, they go quiet. They shift in their seat, glance at the table, and let the silence stretch like a rope pulled too tight. Then there’s the third category—the storytellers. These are the ones who immediately dig into their mental archives and pull out a tale about their aunt’s neighbor’s cousin who went through something “just like mine” and is now crushing marathons, scaling mountains, or breaking some other record.
I’m never quite sure how to take that. Is it meant to inspire me? Is it a subtle competition? Or is it just their way of trying to connect?
What I do know is that no two journeys through something life-changing are identical. Mine is a collection of highs and lows, each with its own weight. There are moments when I feel like I could conquer anything—when my body and mind work in sync, and I surprise myself with how far I can go. And then there are moments where something as ordinary as getting the laundry washed and folded feels like planting my flag at the top of the tallest peak on Earth.
Brain Fog, My Old Frenemy
Good Days vs. Bad Days
Here’s something I never fully understood before I went through this whole ordeal — getting better doesn’t happen in a neat, predictable path. It’s more like watching a tipsy squirrel trying to cross a telephone wire: wobbly, unpredictable, and sometimes a little ridiculous. Some mornings, I wake up feeling like the lead in an inspiring comeback film, ready to take on the world. Other mornings, it’s as if the movie got pulled from theaters halfway through production.
The rough patches used to flatten me, leaving me frustrated and defeated. Over time, I realized they’re simply part of the rhythm — not a failure, just a chapter. To keep myself going, I started keeping a “good things” list on my phone for the moments I need a lift. It’s filled with little victories, like:
Walking to the mailbox without using my cane.
Remembering my neighbor’s name without peeking at Facebook.
Making it through the grocery store without having to sit and catch my breath.
They may seem small, but for me, they’re hard-earned wins — and I’ll take every single one.
Family Stroke Talk
If you ever want to know how solid your relationships really are, go through a life event that shakes your entire world. It’s a bit like picking up a snow globe and giving it a good, hard shake — everything inside goes swirling in a storm. The people who truly love you will rush toward the center, trying to hold you steady. The rest… well, they remain on the outer edges, still and unmoved, like decorative pieces collecting dust on a shelf.
When my world tilted, my family had to meet the new version of me. The person they once knew could juggle ten things at once, remember every detail, and move without hesitation. Now, I’m slower. I think through every step before I take it. Sometimes I need an extra hand for tasks I used to breeze through without even looking. That part isn’t easy — for me or for them. But here’s what surprised everyone: beneath the changes, I’m tougher than I’ve ever been.
We’ve even built our own language for this chapter of my life. It’s our shorthand, born from shared moments, trial and error, and a lot of patience:
“Need a reset?” means I’ve hit the point where my mind is buzzing, my focus is slipping, and I need to step away before the overwhelm swallows me whole.
“Time to recharge” signals that I’m retreating to my quiet corner, closing my eyes, and letting the world carry on without me for a while.
“That’s a tomorrow job” is our gentle agreement that the task at hand isn’t worth burning out over today — it can wait, and it will still be there later.
What started as practical communication has grown into something deeper. Those phrases are more than just words; they’re reminders that I’m surrounded by people who get it — who don’t need me to explain every struggle in detail, because they’ve been here with me all along.
Public Adventures
I used to be the kind of person who would dart into a store without a second thought — the “grab it and go” type. Back then, errands were quick pit stops, just another box to check off on a busy to-do list. These days, it’s a whole different process. Now, even a short trip requires a bit of strategy. I start by picking the right shoes — ones with a sturdy grip so I feel steady no matter what kind of floor I’m walking on. Then there’s the mental check-in: do I have the focus and energy to handle this? Am I going somewhere with wide enough aisles? Will there be a crowd? I’ve learned the hard way that rushing only increases the risk of an awkward stumble or an unexpected freeze in the middle of the walkway.
It’s not that I’m uneasy around people — far from it. It’s more about the unpredictable nature of my own movements. A packed aisle can make navigation tricky, and if I lose my rhythm, I need a moment to reset. That little pause in the middle of a busy store can feel like standing in a spotlight, but I’ve also realized that most folks are more understanding than I used to believe.
Every successful trip now feels like a quiet victory. It’s not just about buying milk or bread; it’s about proving to myself that I can handle the outing from start to finish. Each time I walk out with everything on my list — and without an incident — I feel a little stronger, a little braver. Strangers have stepped in to lend a hand more than once, whether it’s reaching for an item on the top shelf, carrying a heavy bag, or just offering a friendly nod as we pass. Those small gestures stick with me. It’s a reminder that people notice more than we think, and kindness has a way of showing up exactly when you need it.
Learning the New Pace
Before life took its unexpected turn, I operated as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button and snapped it off. Everything was about getting from one moment to the next as quickly as possible. Mornings were a blur — alarm blaring, feet hitting the floor, coffee poured without even tasting it, and then right into the thick of a jam-packed day. I didn’t slow down long enough to notice how the air felt on my skin or whether the sunrise painted the sky in pink or gold. It was all about momentum, like living on an endless conveyor belt that only moved one speed: fast.
Now, it’s as if that conveyor belt has been replaced by a quiet, winding path. The tempo of my life has shifted completely. It’s not about racing to the next checkpoint anymore; it’s about allowing each moment to take its full shape before moving on. I wake up gently, letting my body settle before my feet touch the floor. I’m not counting minutes, and I’m no longer chasing the clock.
The change has opened my eyes to things I once ignored. In the kitchen, I pause to watch the sunlight spill across the counter, casting bright streaks that shift slowly as the morning goes on. I notice the texture of the couch when I sit down — the weave of the fabric, the way it gives just enough under my weight, the faint scent of fabric softener lingering from the last wash. In the stillness of a quiet room, my own breathing becomes a metronome, steady and grounding, reminding me that I’m here, right now.
This new pace isn’t just about slowing down; it’s about deepening my awareness. Life no longer feels like a checklist of tasks to complete but a series of moments to inhabit fully. I’ve learned that presence can be its own kind of strength — not only in the easy times, but especially when things feel heavy. Even on the tougher mornings, there’s something powerful about noticing a sliver of beauty in the middle of it all.
Laughing Through It
If I didn’t have the ability to laugh, I think I’d unravel completely.
I still remember one moment at the dinner table when I meant to ask, “Can you pass the pepper?” but what actually came out was, “Can you pat the puppy?” Everyone froze for half a second, and then we all burst out laughing. Another time, I went to step onto the porch, misjudged the height entirely, and ended up inventing a clumsy little dance move that I could never repeat even if I tried.
I choose laughter because tears drain me too quickly. I laugh because now and then, the humor is genuine and unexpected. Most of all, I laugh because it feels like my personal way of fighting back—of holding on to the pieces of myself that an uninvited event tried to steal.
Looking Ahead
I can’t predict exactly what the road ahead will bring, but I’m certain about one thing — I’m still standing. I’m still putting one foot in front of the other, still figuring things out, and still finding new ways to live within this version of my reality. The conversations, the adjustments, the small victories — they’re all part of it.
I don’t dress it up to make it sound easier than it is. There are stretches that feel heavy and moments that are downright rough. Yet, mixed in with those challenges, there’s genuine happiness, meaningful bonds with others, and a strange but comforting sense of calm that comes from having been right up to the edge — and somehow finding the strength to make my way back again.
