It’s a Miracle to Be Alive

I was 18 when my body first confused me.

At first, they called them seizures.

Later, I realized some of what was happening were strokes.

There’s something disorienting about not fully understanding what’s happening inside your own body. One moment you’re young. The next, you’re sitting in rooms with medical words being thrown around like they make sense.

Tremors.

Seizures.

Stroke.

I remember thinking at one point that maybe it was just tremors. Maybe I was overreacting. But then I saw my face.

The left side was visibly drooping.

That’s not imagination. That’s not anxiety. That’s not dramatic.

That’s real.

It’s a strange thing to be 18 and realize your body can betray you. Or at least feel like it can. I didn’t have language for it then. I just had fear and confusion and the quiet question:

“Is this happening again?”

Sometimes I still don’t know.

There are moments when the left side gets tingly. Numb. Heavy. It lasts a few minutes and then passes. And there’s no confirmation. No flashing sign that says, “Yes, that was something.” Just me sitting there wondering if my body is reliving something I survived before.

That kind of uncertainty changes you.

It makes you hyper-aware.

It makes you grateful.

It makes you scared.

Sometimes all at once.

Living with that history means living with the knowledge that something serious has already happened. And it could happen again. Or maybe it won’t. That’s the part no one prepares you for…the in-between.

But here’s what I know:

It’s a miracle to be alive.

Not in a cliché way. In a literal way.

There were moments my brain was under attack, and I am still here. Still thinking. Still building. Still loving. Still planning physical therapy appointments and counseling sessions and dreaming about muscle strength and creative projects.

My left side may have been weakened.

My face may have drooped.

My body may have trembled.

But I am still here.

And there’s something powerful about choosing to build strength after surviving something that could have taken everything.

Physical therapy isn’t just about muscle.

Counseling isn’t just about emotions.

It’s about honoring the fact that I lived.

It’s about refusing to pretend it didn’t happen.

It’s about strengthening what was shaken.

It’s about not wasting the second chance I was given.

Sometimes healing looks dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like showing up three times a week to relearn strength in your own body.

I don’t always know what the tingling means.

I don’t always get answers.

But I do know this:

Every ordinary day is something I once could have lost.

And that makes today sacred.