The Day Time Forgot...

Yesterday was my 3-year anniversary of being a stroke survivor. In the deep recesses of the night, I sat, thinking about everything I've experienced and am still going through. This came to me during the process, and I thought I would share it.

Stroke doesn’t always happen with a bang. Sometimes it happens with a whisper. It steals moments from you before you even realize they’re moments worth stealing. One day, you pick up a coffee mug without thinking. The next day, your hand doesn’t remember how. Words dance on your lips, but when you open your mouth, they’ve flown away, replaced by trembling silence. Days become something abstract, counted not by sunlight and moonrise, but by therapy sessions, baby steps, and milestones you smile about to yourself because no one else notices. Friends and family applaud your strength. What they don’t see are the tear-filled mornings you spend grieving the you that was yesterday. Stroke attacks more than your brain. It cripples your confidence. It instills a dread of climbing stairs, a fear of getting behind the wheel, and a reluctance to even attempt conversation, all for fear of stumbling or appearing foolish. Stroke asks you who you are without all the parts of you that used to fit together so neatly. What happens if you forget a word? What happens if your brain can’t remember? Recovery is messy. It's not like a perfectly laid path that just keeps getting better automatically. Recovery is applauding yourself for buttoning your shirt. It’s smiling because you remembered how to say “potato”. It’s giving yourself credit for inching by, painful inch by painful inch. Some days, the grief is overwhelming. It claws its way in and hauls out everything you’ve lost. All of the plans you’ve put on hold. All of the what ifs. However, the ache is just a single powerful strain amidst many. Hope sings louder. Hope is the person who keeps taking those baby steps even when every bone in your body is screaming at you to stay on the couch. Hope smiles through every tremor you ignore to sign your name. Hope reminds you of your progress each time you speak a sentence smoothly. Hope whispers in your ear that healing doesn’t mean going back to who you were. It means figuring out who you can be. No one can see the scars stroke leaves behind but you. Yet those scars are a stark reminder of your progress, especially when you repeatedly embrace small acts of bravery. The world only knows what you’ve lost. A survivor learns to focus on what they’ve gained.