Four years ago today, my nervous system imploded.
My brain folded in on itself,
becoming a stranger trapped inside the walls of my own body.
I don’t remember most of the morning—
only the sharp, primal instinct to say to Logan,
“Get your dad. I think I’m having a stroke.”
And then silence.
I was locked inside, uncertain if I would ever return.
There is no terror like the possibility of being erased while still breathing.
That morning carved a fault line through our little family.
The ripples still move through us.
What I do remember from those sterile hours in the stroke center is a vow I made quietly to myself:
If there is a way back, I will fight for it.
Since then, I have clawed my way to something resembling functional.
I have collected diagnoses like souvenirs no one wants.
But whatever I can control, I do.
Research. Trial. Error. Repeat.
The nervous system is a fragile kingdom; mine was burned, rebuilt, and scarred.
I wish the nerves could mend overnight,
but they do not.
So I move forward.
Searching. Learning. Adjusting.
I am stubborn enough to keep walking,
even on broken pathways.
Because surviving is not the same as living—
and I am determined to do both.
voice in the dark
andrea johnson beck
i was
in the dark
a hollow
echo
of who i had been
stillness
pressed against chaos
silence
against screaming
the sky
was black
the air
was cold
and i
was adrift
i tossed
my anchor
into unseen waters
begging
it to hold
clutching at memories
frightened they’d
slip into the ether
without me
then
your voice
steady
certain
it cut through
the dark
like light
it tethered me
slowed the storm
inside my chest
reminded me
to breathe
hope returned
in fragments
and with it
so did i
not unscathed
battered
bruised
but here
breathing
because it was you
who reached
into the silence
you
who pulled me back
and it was your love
unyielding
unbreakable
that carried me
home
I dont we think we talk enough about those moments. That terror and that journey back enough. 🤍🤍🤍