Some people say life can change in a second. For me, that second came while I was getting ready for work—on a regular Monday morning, October 21, 2013. Just two weeks after my 34th birthday.

I’ve actually written a separate blog post that walks through exactly what happened that day, but to sum it up: I had a stroke caused by an AVM. I ended up needing a craniotomy and spent several hours in a coma. Not exactly the kind of milestone you ever expect to have.

The days that followed were a blur of hospital lights, slow movements, and a body that no longer felt like mine. I was terrified, confused, and overwhelmed. But here’s the thing—I’m still here. And even though the road hasn’t been smooth or glamorous, it led me to this version of me now: a work-from-home mom with two jobs, teaching ESL and writing content full-time, one-handed and fully caffeinated.

This blog post isn’t about being a superhero. It’s about the messy, often unspoken part of healing—the one where progress moves at a snail’s pace and victories look like being able to wear a bra on my own or sit upright without help. I’m writing this for anyone who’s had to start over from scratch, whether after a stroke or any kind of storm.

Because sometimes, moving forward just means getting through the next 24 hours. One day at a time.

The Day Everything Changed

It was supposed to be just another Monday. The plan? Bring my daughter to school, get dressed, and head to work like always. But my head was pounding. Not your average “I need coffee” kind of headache—it was sharp, intense, and unrelenting. Still, like most moms do, I brushed it off. I had things to do.

I dropped Kali off at school, pretending I was fine. I smiled through the pain, not knowing that moment would be the last “normal” one for a very long time.

Back at home, things spiraled quickly. I was in our bedroom, trying to get ready. Then out of nowhere—bam—a sharp, stabbing pain hit the side of my head, like a knife straight to the skull. It stopped me cold. My vision started to darken, and I felt the world around me slipping. My left side went heavy. My mouth couldn’t form the words I wanted to say. I was still there, mentally, but my body? It was already shutting down.

Everything changed that day. And not just physically. It was as if my life had been divided into two parts: before the stroke, and after.

That was the day everything shifted. The day I lost control—but also, unknowingly, the day I began fighting to get it back.

Facing the Aftermath

Waking up after the stroke wasn’t like flipping a switch. I was alive, yes—but everything felt foreign.

The hospital became my second home for a while. I went through months of therapy—physical therapy to retrain my muscles, and occupational therapy to relearn the basics I’d once done without thinking. Sitting, brushing my teeth, lifting a cup… each one felt like climbing a mountain. Some days I made it to the top. Other days, I didn’t even leave base camp.

When I finally went home, the work didn’t stop. I had regular foot reflexology sessions and massages to help with circulation and stiffness. My body ached in ways I didn’t expect, and the left side—my hemiplegic side—remained stubbornly quiet, and very heavy.It was like a dead weight. I can now understand why a dead body is very heavy.

But the hardest part wasn’t just physical. It was the weight that settled in my chest—the sadness, the frustration, the deep sense of loss. I fell into a dark place. Depression crept in slowly, then all at once. I cried over things that never used to bother me. I felt useless, like a burden. I watched life move on outside my window, while mine seemed stuck.

That stretch of time? Easily one of the lowest points in my life.

There were people around me, yes—but inside, I felt alone. No one could fully understand what it was like to be trapped in your own body. And even though everyone meant well, it was hard not to feel like I was just a shadow of who I used to be.

But even in that quiet, heavy season, something inside me refused to give up. I didn’t know it at the time, but those slow days—those blurry, painful ones—were planting the seeds for what came next.

Starting Over – One Day at a Time

Starting over wasn’t one big leap. It was more like inching forward, sometimes crawling—other times, just staying still and trying to breathe through the hard moments. I couldn’t rush it, no matter how much I wanted to.

In 2014, I did something small that made a big difference—I revived this blog. At the time, it felt like my only safe space. Writing became an outlet, a way to release all the bottled-up emotions I didn’t know what to do with. It kept me grounded. Gave my days some kind of rhythm.

I also tried coloring and drawing, hoping they’d calm my restless mind. But honestly? They weren’t for me. I’d get frustrated halfway through a page. What did bring me comfort was reading. I picked up books again—some new titles, mostly old favorites. There was something comforting about returning to familiar stories when my own life felt so uncertain.

Then in 2017, something sparked. I decided to start an online food business—gourmet tuyo, chili garlic sauce, baked goodies. I poured my energy into it, and to my surprise, it really took off. People loved the bottled delicacies, especially families with loved ones abroad and OFWs craving a taste of home. My tiny business found its little corner of the internet.

But as with most things, it came with a cost. The work was physically demanding. The hours were long, and my body—still recovering—was constantly tired. Ate Del, my reliable assistant, left for the Middle East in 2021 to pursue better opportunities, and I understood. Still, it hit hard. Without her, it was too much for me to handle. And when the pandemic came, the world paused, and so did my business.

But I couldn’t just sit still. That’s not me. I needed to keep moving, to stay useful. So I looked online, inspired by my cousin-in-law, Nicky. She was the one who opened the door for me—offered my first chance to work from home. That simple act changed everything.

Now? I’m juggling two remote jobs—teaching ESL and writing content. Some days, I get so caught up in work that I forget I’m a hemiplegic… until my body reminds me with its little aches and stubborn limitations. Still, I’m grateful. Not just for the work, but for the fact that I can work. From home. At my own pace.

This stage of my life didn’t come all at once. It was built—slowly, quietly—on small choices, trial and error, and lots of detours. That’s what starting over really looks like sometimes. Not flashy. Not perfect. Just waking up each day and choosing to try again.

Rebuilding Identity and Confidence

Losing parts of yourself—your strength, your routines, even your handwriting—shakes you. After the stroke, I didn’t just have to heal physically. I had to figure out who I was now.

There were days I didn’t recognize myself. I used to be so independent. Suddenly, I needed help with the simplest things. It crushed my confidence. I doubted my worth. I felt like a shell.

But little by little, I started to piece myself back together. Writing helped. Working again helped. Even just hearing “thank you” from a student or a client gave me back pieces of the old me—and introduced me to the new one.

I’m not who I was before, but that’s okay. I’ve learned that identity isn’t about what you can’t do anymore. It’s what you keep showing up for—despite it all.

The Mental Shift: Choosing Healing Every Day

Healing isn’t a one-time thing. It’s a choice—a quiet decision I make every day, especially when things get hard or routines fall apart.

Some mornings feel manageable. Others hit me with aches, fatigue, or emotional weight I didn’t ask for. On those days, healing looks less like progress and more like patience. It’s not always visible, but it’s happening in the way I keep going.

Stress? It still finds me. No matter how much I try to avoid it, it shows up through deadlines, personal stuff, or unexpected life messes. But I’ve found ways to cope. Massages help ease the tension. Sometimes I just need to get out of the house—roll around the mall, people-watch, or grab something good to eat. And when the heaviness really sets in, I reach out to friends. A short chat or a laugh over Messenger can work wonders.

Healing, for me, isn’t about getting everything back. It’s about choosing to live well, despite everything. It’s choosing peace when my body feels restless. Choosing joy when life gets noisy. Choosing to keep showing up—even if it’s just one deep breath at a time.

Finding Purpose After the Storm

There came a point when I stopped asking, “When will I go back to the old me?” and started asking, “What can I do with the life I have now?” That shift made room for something new—purpose.

For a while, just getting through the day felt like enough. And honestly, sometimes it still is. But over time, I started to feel the itch to be useful again. To contribute. To create. Not just for income, but for meaning.

That’s what led me to work from home, juggling content writing and ESL tutoring. These jobs didn’t just give me flexibility—they gave me a reason to wake up, to plan, to keep learning. Some days are busier than I expect. Other days, I crash and need to rest. But most days, I feel capable. I feel needed.

And more importantly, I feel me.

The stroke didn’t erase who I am. It simply rerouted the path. I may not be doing life the way I pictured it in my thirties, but I’m still here—working, laughing, helping, writing… and that’s something I don’t take for granted.

What I Wish Others Knew

People often say, “You’re so strong,” and while I appreciate it, the truth is—I didn’t really have a choice. When life throws something this big at you, strength isn’t a superpower. It’s just what you do to survive.

What I wish more people understood is that healing doesn’t follow a straight line. It’s full of detours, backslides, and moments that don’t make it to social media. Some days I feel like I’ve got it all together. Other days, brushing my teeth with one hand feels like a task and a half.

I also wish they knew that just because I’m smiling, working, and posting online doesn’t mean I’m not dealing with hidden struggles. Fatigue, self-doubt, the emotional toll—they don’t disappear just because I’ve “adjusted.”

And most of all, I hope people remember that I’m still me. I’m not defined by what happened—I’m shaped by how I’ve chosen to move forward. I still laugh, dream, plan, and show up for the people I care about. Life looks different now, but it’s still full of meaning.

Final Thoughts

Not every story has a grand comeback. Sometimes, it’s just about learning how to live differently—with grace, grit, and a bit of humor along the way.

If you’ve been through something life-changing—whether visible or not—what’s helping you move forward today?

Maybe that’s where healing truly begins.