Kat’s Musings

Tag: health

  • Putting the pieces back together again

    Putting the pieces back together again

    I used to think my body was broken. And the worst part? My voice. Literally. I used to enjoy flirting with the world, making funny puns etc. I’d open my mouth to speak, and nothing came out—or worse, it came out wrong. Stuttering, cracking, like my throat had forgotten how to work. 

    Doctors shrugged. It was just a part of the brain injury , they said. Anxiety. Pills didn’t touch it and eventually I went completely natural and would never touch the stuff. Speech Therapy made me feel worse—like I was faking it. 

    Then I found functional neurology. It wasn’t magic. It was science—boring, nerdy, brain-map science. My first appointment was with a guy who looked more like a surfer than a doctor. I was so enamored. Very Italian with very right wing views. He asked me to follow his finger with my eyes while he tapped my knee. He watched how my pupils reacted to light. Every test was a clue. Turns out, my vestibular system—the little inner-ear gyroscope—was off. My cerebellum, the part that smooths out speech and balance, was under-firing. And my prefrontal cortex? It was like a dim bulb flickering in a storm. 

    The brain doesn’t forget. It just waits. We started small. Eye-tracking drills. Balance boards. Breathing patterns that synced my heart rate to my nervous system. No supplements, no woo-woo—just rewiring. 

    Ten minutes a day, like brushing my teeth. I continued the exercises at home, but I could not wait to get back. I enjoyed the fact that the doctor would flirt with me—something that I thought would never happen again. Little did I know, it was a tactic. Something to encourage me to recover. He said that I was making progress and that clearly my brain was trying. But traveling to the east coast of Canada was not exactly easy so we would see another functional neurologist in Chicago and in Orlando. But what helped me most during these trips was the gyrostem (a machine that would spin you around while you focused on a particular spot). Eventually I would see a functional neurologist in Oregon— another doctor who I was completely enamored by. Dark coffee, rock music and a wine aficionado. He would encourage me to flirt, joke and even sing as I tried to impress him and crawl back into my charming personality. 

    And my voice came back in pieces—like a radio tuning in. First, just clearer vowels. Then full sentences. Then jokes. I laughed—actually laughed—at his dumb puns, and it felt like the world cracked open. The real miracle wasn’t the recovery. It was the proof: I wasn’t broken. I was miswired. And wiring can be fixed. 

    Functional neurology isn’t about curing everything. It’s about listening—to your eyes, your gait, your reflexes—like they’re telling you a story you’ve ignored. Mine said, Hey, I’m still here. Just help me get the signal through. 

    I still sound funny. People still do not understand me sometimes. But at least that is from half of my tongue being numb and too weak. It is not because I am no longer unable to form a thought and have my own lips betray me. 

    If you’re stuck—foggy, tired, silent—don’t wait for the next pill. Find someone who’ll test your brain like it matters. Because it does. And when it starts working again? You’ll talk. You’ll move. You’ll live. And maybe, like me, you’ll finally find the voice you thought you’d lost forever. 

    Turns out, it was just waiting for

    the right frequency.  No more backing down. Now I say it like it is. 

    So in 2018, I used my new found identity in my new Twitter account (now X). In 2019, a follower kept commenting on how I did not sound like any other girl/ woman. I did not think anything about it. I knew that I was a bit misogynistic and that I enjoy manosphere accounts more than popular culture or whatever girly girls do. I personally believe that men are the most incredible creatures on earth. And that it is the woman’s duty to obey and please. Maybe my opinions are controversial, but something that I figured out while I was healing was that I do not have a fall into a category, I could be unapologetically myself. That is the beauty of the brain— it keeps molding and shaping (neuroplasticity), so we can decide to make our lives beautiful— no matter the past. 

    Ultimately , I was drawn in to this mysterious man on Twitter. The guy’s profile picture was just a picture of Larry Bird, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and eventually found out that we had a lot in common. I was no longer afraid or hesitant to be myself. I had been through enough in life to know that sitting on the sidelines did nothing for me. I found my inner voice and was motivated to let it out   Now we are in love. It really is a beautiful love story. Girl meets boy on social media. And eventually we become each other’s lives. All because I found my voice in Functional Neurology

  • Insecurities/ Love Is In The Air.

    The insecurity began when I was just ten years old. I used to hate looking in the mirror. Not because I was ugly—just because I was not her . My cousin was three years older, but honestly? She looked like she had stepped out of a magazine before she even hit puberty. Blonde hair and a waist so tiny I could circle it with one hand, and yeah… those boobs. They showed up way too early, like nature decided to fast-forward her body while I was still wearing training bras and praying for a growth spurt. She’d walk into a room and every head turned. I’d follow behind, invisible. And I would constantly hear about it. 

    Every morning I’d wake up to her stretching like a cat, hair perfect even before breakfast, while I’d tug my pajama shirt down over my flat chest and wish I could disappear. 

    Eventually I would hear “you’re not enough” from family, friends and the universe as a whole. As if I was supposed to be grateful for second place. 

    I would cry in the shower until the water went cold. But eventually, something shifted. Not because I suddenly loved my body— but because he does. I finally found someone who taught me how to be good enough.  I realized: my cousin wasn’t perfect. She was loud, clumsy, terrible at math, and secretly terrified of being just a pretty face. We were both insecure. Hers was just louder. 

    Years after she left ,the scars remained: I had a battle with an eating disorder and I even began competing against my own mother. It was not until I fell into the depths of hell and was pulled out by the greatest man alive, that I grasped the fact that I could be good enough too.

    Now I find myself struggling to drown out the “you are not good enough” feeling again as I prepare for last solo flight to Boston this week.

    I have always loved flying first class. Not because of the champagne or the extra legroom—though yeah, those help—but because it is the one place where no one needs anything from me. No texts, no calls, no small talk. Just me, an aisle seat, and five hours of quiet. I can finally exhale. 

    This trip will be different. Like it is final. Like I am closing a chapter mid-flight. For years,  I have  been doing this dance: Boston one weekend, home the next. He’d send the ticket, I’d pack, we’d laugh and spend time together and pretend the miles didn’t matter. First class made it bearable—luxury as a bandage. 

    But bandages don’t heal distance. They just keep the wound from bleeding on the carpet. 

    This is my last solo trip. Next time I land in Boston, I’ll be stepping off with him—or not at all. I love the flight. I love the quiet. But I don’t love the back-and-forth. I’m done commuting. As I introduced myself as the obedient good girl, he had never pictured me saying no. And honestly? That felt better than the seat upgrade. It might have made me cry in the shower again. But I am not giving up on us and I am not going to hit rock bottom again. I’m just giving up on pretending this works. Love shouldn’t feel like a layover. 

    This is goodbye to the solo aisle, the complimentary mimosa, the little blanket they fold into a square. And hello to whatever comes next. Maybe it will be messy, but I know that I cannot be ruined like before. At least it won’t be 30,000 feet apart. I think I’ll miss the quiet. But I won’t miss the goodbye.

    The goodbye is the worst. We spend time together at the airport— having drinks, getting food and maybe he even buys me some memorabilia. But then at the gate, I rehearse it in my head—keep it cool, keep it short trying not to get too clingy. But then my throat does that stupid thing where it knots up and suddenly I am choking on “see you later” like it’s a confession— something that I am ashamed of . Worst part? He always knows. He hears the crack in my voice, the way my eyes flick away from his. And we both pretend it’s fine, because saying “I don’t want you to go” feels too real, too needy. 

    But honestly? I just say it. I have hidden for far too long. Maybe I should have just told my cousin to stop calling me “Miss Piggy” and actually stood up for myself instead of letting my insecurities morph into a brain tumor that would eventually steal half my body. 

    I guess the real glow-up isn’t boobs or blonde hair. It’s deciding you don’t need to be anyone else to be enough.  He shows me that I am good enough so I will let it hurt. Goodbye tastes like metal anyway—might as well make it honest.

    Well I am done hurting. Maybe this is the way

  • My little journey

    My little journey

    I still remember the date—June thirtieth, twenty-ten—like it’s etched into my skull. That morning, everything felt heavy. I’d been carrying this quiet tumor since sixth grade; doctors shrugged it off back then, said it was dormant, harmless. 

    But I wasn’t dormant. I was crumbling—mentally frayed, body aching from the stress and exhaustion of my broken heart —and then it happened. One second I’m pacing, doing my PR work for a R&B artist in Seattle, Washington, next I’m gone. Coma. Lights out. 

    When I woke up two weeks later, the left half of me was missing. Not gone, just… silent. Arm limp, leg dragging like dead weight. I couldn’t grip a spoon, I couldn’t even hold my phone let alone text, and I couldn’t step without someone holding me up. The tumor had burst, they said. Pressure built, brain swelled, and my left side paid the price. The first weeks were a blur—hospitals, tubes, nurses who spoke too loud. I remember staring at my hand, willing it to move. Nothing. Just a stranger’s fingers attached to me. 

    Rage came next. Why me? Why now? I’d already been broken—why finish the job? 

    But rage burns out. What stayed was stubbornness. Physical therapy felt like torture at first—electrodes zapping my arm, therapists yelling squeeze! Even the simple task of sitting up in bed or in the wheelchair was torture. I hated mirrors. I hated pity. I hated the way people talked slower, like I’d lost my brain along with my limbs. Months turned into years. I learned to walk again, but only with help—slow, lopsided, cane in right hand like a crutch. I taught myself to write, even though my handwriting looks like a kid’s. I can complete tasks like buttoning my shirts and tying my shoes awkwardly. And I can cook—awkwardly, one-handed—because I refuse to live off someone else’s help forever. 

    The real recovery wasn’t muscle. It was headspace. I stopped asking why and started asking what now? I went through a number of therapists and some of them turned out to be lifesavers. I read all of the books and I watched all of the videos on neuroplasticity—stuff I never cared about before—and realized my brain was still rewiring, still fighting. 

    Today, I’m not cured. My left arm waves around without purpose while clenched in a fist. While my left leg drags on bad days. 

    But ultimately I have found an incredible love who accepts me as me and continues to inspire me through this journey. This is why I am writing this—I’m not the girl who got thrown into a coma; I’m the one who clawed out. If you’re reading this and you’re in the dark—whether it’s a brain injury, depression, whatever—listen: the body forgets, but the mind remembers how to want. And wanting is enough. Keep moving. Even if it’s just one stupid, stubborn inch at a time.

  • This Is Me…

    This is a little project that I am working on while I wait for my Prince Charming. You can follow my journey as I recover from disability and wax poetic about my passions in this life. I do not want children but I strongly desire to be a perfect little housewife. This is where I speak my dreams into reality…

    I have always loved the quiet thrill of a well-run home—like it’s my own little kingdom. There is something magic in turning chaos into calm. Folding laundry while the kettle whistles, watching sunlight hit the counter just right, knowing dinner’s simmering and no one’s yelling about deadlines. I’m not here to sell you on domestic bliss. I just… like it. The rhythm of it. The way a clean sink feels like a tiny victory. The slow burn of bread rising while I write this little blog . This is me. A future housewife who’d rather scrub grout than climb ladders.

    I will also write about being natural and all-in-all health. I spent years chasing perfect bodies, pills, and quick fixes until I realized healing isn’t about looking good; it’s about feeling whole. Now it’s less kale smoothies and more slow walks barefoot on grass (once I get to walk again!), breathing like I actually mean it, and saying no to anything that makes my gut twist. It’s messy, it’s unglamorous, but damn if it doesn’t feel like coming home to myself. 


    And the man of my dreams? I have finally found him, but even though he is over 40, he’s still growing into someone who loves me mid-recovery, mid-mess, mid-laundry pile. He knows that I want a man who can sit with me while I journal about old wounds, who can hand me my espresso without asking why I am crying (I can be overly emotional). Not a prince. Just… steady. Kind. Real. So I’m writing it all down—recovery, health, love—before the apron goes on. Before I start folding his socks like they’re sacred. Because if I’m gonna build this life, I want the foundation to be mine. Not borrowed. Not borrowed from anyone.