Kat’s Musings

Tag: mental-health

  • Saved by Boston Sports.

    Saved by Boston Sports.

    Back around 2015, one of my girlfriends had me watch every Seahawks game on television (it was local) so that I could get into the game of football. I got into it, because I needed a distraction, but I wanted to find a team that was a little bit more classy, and still had some personality (I wanted to be able to drink champagne and eat caviar while watching!). I was watching the game—then bam, the Patriots popped up. 

    They popped up because I eventually went to see a Functional Neurologist in Windsor, Canada. Hockey players would often see him after suffering from a concussion and I really enjoyed seeing him and being with him (I might have had a teeny crush…. It happens with patients and their doctors sometimes). But this neurologist also made football feel… scientific. Like, watching a touchdown wasn’t just pretty—it was physics in real time. I got hooked. 

    Tom Brady was suspended at first, but I absolutely loved watching the backup quarterback throw zingers to Gronkowski and the good looking receivers on the team (what can I say?  I am just a girl who enjoys the good eye candy). I felt saved… a distraction to forget about my current situation. Finally. 

    By the time Brady came back, I was hooked. I had been a drowning. Not in water—just everything else—nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering if tomorrow was worth it. Then Sunday rolled around, and I flipped on the TV. Pats versus whoever—didn’t matter. Brady dropped back, Gronk hauled in a bomb, and for three hours I forgot how broken I felt. It wasn’t just the wins. It was the rhythm: the crowd roaring like they knew me, the way Bill Belichick stared down the refs like they owed him money, the stupid little fist-pumps I’d do alone on my wheelchair (eventually I would watch the games while I leaned over the counter, but that is neither here nor there). That team—those jerseys—gave me something to root for when I couldn’t root for myself. 

    So I watched every snap, even the losses. Learned the playbook like it was therapy. When Brady left, I had just met my boyfriend and he was shocked that I cried—real tears—but then Drake Maye eventually stepped in, I realized: the Patriots weren’t just players. They were proof you can rebuild. 

    Now that I met someone who likes football almost as much as I do, I still yell at the screen when they blow a coverage. But now it’s joy, not desperation (I also taught him to watch the game without being too negative and always being positive that everything is happening for a reason). So thanks, NFL. Thanks, New England. You didn’t know it, but you carried me through the dark. If you ever need a fan who’d run through a wall for you—well, I’m already here.

    Now I’m just yelling at referees over bad calls, tracking stats on my phone, even wearing my boyfriend’s old merchandise like it’s armor. Turns out sports aren’t just noise—they’re stories, strategy, heartbreak, and weirdly, therapy. All because some guy in Windsor loved Tom Brady more than sleep.

    Today I am all-in on the whole Boston sports family. Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, Sox… no favorites, just pure hometown loyalty. It may not be my personal hometown, but I owed my savior (the New England Patriots) the loyalty. And because of this fandom…. I was able to find my new savior— my man, my one true love. 

  • 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.