Kat’s Musings

Tag: mental-health

  • My Journey: From Veganism to Weight Loss Success

    My Journey: From Veganism to Weight Loss Success

    A friend of mine recently reminded me about the five year stint I took from eating meat. It was from twenty-twelve until twenty-seventeen. I was vegan during this period. Eating meat again reopened my eyes. This reminds me of the many “fad” diets that I have tried. 

    After initially getting sick, I had testing to find out which foods I had an intolerance to. 

    At first, we saw a woo woo type doctor. He had me place my hands on a stone. I could do only my right one obviously. He told me that the stone showed I need to stay away from anything that comes from beef. My mother bought into everything that that “doctor” was shilling. However, my father and I had a hard time believing that prognosis. So I had my blood tested by an actual naturopath. 

    My blood tests showed that I had an intolerance to dairy and chicken eggs. I was extremely overweight at the time. So, I figured that I might as well cut out all meat and fish, as well. I did not quit because meat was too heavy, or bad for the planet, or—worst of all— too expensive.

     (Now I have a conspiracy theory that the doctors doctored those tests because I was so big and so sick). 

    Being vegan did nothing for me. It definitely was not difficult for me to give up meat; but I absolutely love sushi, ice cream and cheese.  But I knew that I could no longer overindulge in these anymore (that is the issue here— overindulgence)

    I mostly had a diet of carbohydrates during those years. This was obviously before I started my gluten free lifestyle. I could eat anything fried, doughy, and all of the pasta. And I still adhered to the diet. I also ate a diet full of beans and legumes. This ultimately made my body reject absorbing bean protein. Sigh. I do miss my hummus!—This recipe is not conducive to weight loss. 

    Now I simply eat whatever I desire. Because the second that that steak hit my tongue in twenty- seventeen everything clicked back into place. As if my body had been quietly waiting, storing up all this dumb, primal hunger. No guilt. No lecture. Just… meat. Warm, real, alive on the plate.

    Now, compared to when I decided to go vegan, I can demonstrate discipline. This change has been in effect as of twenty-seventeen. I control how much I eat. This was the major difference. How much I am consuming. As I have mentioned, I managed to lose more than one hundred pounds. 

    The body is created in the kitchen, not the gym. When I initially gained more than one hundred pounds— I killed myself in the gym and my parents had me see a personal trainer, but I kept eating more of anything and everything. That is why my weight barely budged. I was extremely unhappy and this—reflected in the mirror—and ultimately reflected in my health. 

    I have learned that weight loss and body image are based on my mental state. I finally found my voice and accepted my opinions instead of following the crowd. As a result, I got happier and met the man of my dreams. I also saw my body transform to mirror my state of mind. 

     I guess what I am saying is—sometimes you quit because you are scared. Or lazy. Or—in my case—it seemed the easiest way to lose the weight I gained. At least, I thought it was. And then one day you bite into something again, and remember: “This is why I liked it.” Not because it is fancy— although I do love that aspect. Not because it is trendy. Just because it is good. And good makes me happy. Happy equals healthy. 

  • Main Character Energy: Embracing Yourself Fully

    Main Character Energy: Embracing Yourself Fully

    I used to think confidence was something you either had—like eye color—or you did not have. Turns out, it’s more like muscle: you build it, you lose it, you flex it, then you flex again.

     The shift started small. I stopped apologizing for existing. No more sorry. No more shrinking when someone walked in. Main character energy. I just… stayed. Took up space. Let my voice land without flinching. That was the main challenge that showed me that I was on the right path. My voice. I started using it. 

    First trick? Fake it till you make it—except I did not have fake it. I borrowed it. Watched people who walked like they owned the sidewalk, copied their posture, their pauses. Turns out, shoulders back is not magic—it’s physics. Shrinking away physically makes you shrink away psychologically. And once you feel taller, your brain starts believing it. 

    Second: I quit collecting opinions. Not every critique needs a reply. Not every stare needs an explanation. I decided my worth was not up for vote. My worth has been at the center of my life and how it has been. 

    That alone cut half my anxiety. The real glow-up? Saying “no”. Not mean “no”, just clear “no”. Nah, I’m good. Not tonight. That is simply not for me. Especially when it comes to someone I regard as a superior. I have to stand up for myself. And I still get nervous. Still second-guess. Now, I talk to that voice in my head like it is a friend. “Hey, we have done this before. Chill.” (Life hack: this is how I know that I will recover!)

    The fear and the lack of confidence does not vanish. I still ask others to confirm that I am doing a good job. I do not just peacock around. But my lack just gets quieter. Confidence is not about never doubting yourself. It is about doubting yourself, shrugging, and moving anyway. Because the most confident person in my life? She is not fearless. She is just done pretending she needs permission. And honestly? That feels better than any spotlight ever could.

  • Coping with the Negativity.

    Coping with the Negativity.

    The first thirty minutes upon waking, program your brain for the rest of your day. I read that somewhere so it must be true. I always start my day with HIM. My boyfriend. Any dutiful woman should. 

    And because it is important that you find positivity in your life, I find it in him. My boyfriend makes the dark days brighter—even when he does not know it. There is this thing he does without trying: he turns my worst moods into something bearable. I mean— I am actually generally a positive person. I am a disabled thirty-six year old girl who still lives with her parents. I am thousands of miles away from the man I love. Given my status in this life, it would be understandable if I was genuinely down. 

    I receive plenty of criticism. People who love me, like my parents, criticize me. Also, the world at large thinks I am not living my life correctly. Everyone seems to have an opinion on how I should live my life. All I can really do is drown out all of this negativity around me. I choose to live for myself and my beautiful future ahead. 

    Right now we have to do it virtually through technology (is it really our fault that we met thousands of miles apart?) Because of the time difference (*eye roll*), he wakes me up at three every morning before he starts his day. We whisper sweet nothings to each other. He sends me videos of him making his espresso (real men drink espresso). He knows that makes me insanely happy and proud. Then I drift off to sleep until he gets to work. It’s about an hour—maybe two if I sleep in. Because that is what a committed person does— supports the person they love. 

     I do not require grand gestures or therapy-speak from him —just his being there for me. And honestly? It is weird how much that matters. I often feel alone— criticized, ignored— like no one cares about what I think or say. He does not argue. He does not fix. But goddammit— he listens. 

    At times, I do not even want to smile. But, because of him, I usually do. And suddenly the room feels less heavy. It is not that he erases the bad stuff. Life still happens—that gnawing anxiety I cannot shake. But he is like… a filter. Everything gets softer around him. 

    How he tells me to scream and cry because he gets it. I need that release. I am so tired of keeping everything in. How he entertains my passions. I go on rants about a topic that I love, and he just lets me talk. And how excited he gets for me when I achieve a personal success. 

    I know that sounds stupid. But to me it is pretty perfect. People talk about love like it is fireworks. They criticize us for not obeying their rules. But our love feels more like a lamp in a storm—quiet, steady, just enough light to see the next step. He does not solve my problems (not yet at least!). He just reminds me they are not the whole story.

    Sometimes, I worry I lean too hard on him, like I am borrowing his calm because mine ran out. He does not realize he is the reason I breathe easier. That I smile every time I wake up (even if it is at three in the morning). So here is the truth: he doesn’t fix my negative life. He just makes it feel smaller. And for now, that is enough.

  • Healing vs. Believing

    Healing vs. Believing

    I have traveled the entire world, read every book and attended countless therapies in order to heal. Through all of this experience, I have learned that if you do not want the help— if you do not believe—you will not heal. 

    Healing does not come when you chase it, it comes when you are quiet enough to listen. My parents took me all the way to Brazil to see a Seeing Eye “doctor” called John of God. John of God—real name João Teixeira de Faria—was a Brazilian faith healer who claimed to channel spirits to perform invisible surgeries without tools or anesthesia. He ran a center in Abadiânia (until the Me Too movement got him in twenty-eighteen because apparently the eighty-year-old man was sexually harassing women during his procedures) drawing thousands of desperate people—cancer patients, chronic pain sufferers, even celebrities—hoping for miracles. My parents wanted this miracle to happen for me us. 

    John of God would go into trances, say he was guided by dead doctors or saints, then operate by pressing fingers into eyes, scraping skin, or just waving hands. Some swore it worked: tumors vanished, backs straightened, pain gone. Others called it placebo at best, fraud at worst.

    I was in the placebo group and I can confirm that I was not mentally ready to take in any miracles or will his strategies to work. I was just along for the ride. Not understanding why this was happening to me but knowing that it would get better. 

    I mean— the place was magnificent.  Abadiânia is a little mountain-top village; there are no giant statues of Jesus Christ. Throughout the night, you can hear the stray cats fighting and roosters crow in order wake you every morning— as if it is an order. We had to wear all white clothing (this is best for letting in the spirit world). We wrote down our prayers/ wishes every day and stood in long lines in order to visit with John of God. We were prescribed herbal remedies and crystal “baths”— in which you lay in a tanning-like bed amongst the crystals for hours. I could not wrap my head around the fact that every single “patient” would be given the same prescription— despite their ailment. How could that help you if it was not designed specifically to your needs?

    Now I understand that it is all about intention. I can consume the same herbs as you but— for me— tumors would shrink/disappear and I would be cured of my paralysis, but others bones would be healed and bleeding would stop— with the same herbs. I guess sacred does not always mean that it is holy, because I would pray. For years, I was searching for a higher power, but I was asking the wrong questions. Healing is not always gentle— sometimes you need to be shoved. Life has shoved and shoved— now I am ready to listen. 

  • Shattered.

    Shattered.

    If we are going to go through the character arc of my not being good enough and the affect that it had on my life thus far , we have to further elaborate on what led me into my post-high-school downward spiral and my current health issues. 

    In high school, I tried extremely hard. After my middle school experience at being an overweight/ flunking embarrassment, I was shown how people only gave me praise and attention if I wore a size zero and excelled in my studies. So I withered away and took notes/ highlighted my books until my fingers bled. I tried to keep a social life, but eventually the obsession with my food and appearance gave way. 

    I even drove myself to school (once I got my license) hours earlier so that I could sit in the computer lab and search for homes where an adolescent can live on her own (I always thought that living on my own was the answer to my prayers!) 

    And then of course there was a boy. He was a firefighter, did not go to my school and actually showed interest in me. I was not used to this. I was deprived of romance and even though I had no interest in him, I craved his touch, his kisses and his text messages as if I had been trekking through the desert for years and he was a fresh spring of water. 

    But I never slept with him. I must have had some kind of moral code, because this would continue in university. We would do everything but as soon as it came to the actual act, I became dismissive. That did not please the twenty-year-old-playboy -firefighter, and suddenly his attention turned elsewhere. He went back to his ex-girlfriend— an easy get— fake tanned, a bit chubby and dumb as rocks. 

    My ego was absolutely shattered. My heart cracked open—like someone took a hammer to a glass jar and just let it shatter. Even though I had spent years not eating or enjoying life in order to be at the top of my class and in order to look like I was perfect—even though I made myself better than anyone else—I was once again still not good enough. My carefully curated Kate Moss-esque figure and resume quickly became crumpled trash in the midst of a “normie” high school girl. So I officially gave up. 

    I literally just stopped caring. I threw my hands up and started eating everything that I was missing out on for years. I stopped studying too. I took my tests after spending the night binging a television series (and binging copious amounts of snacks!). I would skip my classes the day that a major paper was due so that I could get it done the second before it was due.

    I gained more than twice the amount of weight that I weighed in high school. My parents were shocked when they saw me, they had me workout with a personal trainer, as if that was the issue—I simply had to move more not eat less.  However , the judgements only made me eat more. Still not good enough. 

    I reached out to some of the family friends I had grown up with so that I could have some semblance of a social life. And they helped. Invited me out. Made me laugh. But now everything felt fake.

    I was avoiding everyone from high school who knew me as the “anorexic girl “— the one who would only wear high heels and dresses or skirts instead of the jeans and sneakers of everyone around me— because I used to be better than everyone around me (or at least I believed I was). 

    Now I was ashamed. Now high heels would pinch my chunky toes and instead of flaunting my slender legs in skirts, I hid my giant slabs of meat in sweatpants and size thirty-two jeans. I avoided posting pictures of myself. I used to be so beautiful. I used to take immense pleasure in hearing my father tell his friends, “isn’t my daughter so hot?” He stopped saying that…

    Essentially the high school “breakup” did not just end a relationship—it ended me.  Once we had met, once I had tasted the attention I had been yearning for; I had built my whole senior year around him: I had started eating again (but not too much and of course I would never let myself go to sleep without working off every calorie I had eaten that day), late-night texts so that he could get more attention than my studies did, and fantasies about life together. 

    College was supposed to be freedom. Instead it felt like punishment. Instead of being lithe and studious, I was just studying myself—how to numb out, how to fake smiles, how to avoid anyone who might matter. I “slutted” around, but obviously nothing stuck. Every kiss tasted like betrayal. Every “I like you” sounded like a lie, because why would anyone like an over-two-hundred-pound girl?  I drank too much and I slept too much (making up for sleeping only a few hours every night in high school). 

    The worst part? I blamed him. For years. Like if he had never cheated, I would have gone to Yale, had a perfect GPA and had a perfect boyfriend. But It took recovering from my upcoming disability for me to realize: heartbreak does not ruin college. It does not ruin life. You do. You ruin it when you stop showing up. When you decide you are too broken to try. When you treat every new person like a ticking bomb. 

    Do not let one bad love story become the whole plot. Because the truth is, the boy who broke me? He is probably still in his mom’s basement, playing Fortnite. And I am here—yes, I do not like my current situation but I am surviving—writing this, breathing, alive and planning for a future. That is the real win.

    Essentially this entire experience taught me that everything happens for a reason— as corny as it may sound. Because honestly? The real damage was not the “breakup”—it was how I let it define me. I let one boy’s cowardice rewrite my future. I let shame decide my friends and my life.

    It is not something that I should look back on and regret, because what is really the point of that?!  If I was never made to feel like I was not good enough and thus never imploded, I would not have gone through the whole process of finding my voice and who I am, that means that I would not have started with the Twitter account full of snarky comments and controversial statements (seriously— people would constantly accuse me of either being a federal agent or a man pretending to run a girl’s account) and that would not have led me to meet the someone three thousand miles away— the man of my dreams. Maybe he is that perfect boyfriend I had envisioned finding in college. 

    Senior Year High School
    Post University

  • 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

  • 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.