May 16 (edited) • Personal Stories of Strength
Being
I want to share something deeply personal because if even one person reads this and decides to keep going, it will be worth it.
At 23, my life shattered.
A year and a half earlier, my father passed . The grief consumed me. I lost hope and survived a suicide attempt that caused a catastrophic cerebellar stroke.
I lost almost everything.
I spent years unable to speak. Nearly immobile. In a wheelchair. I struggled with ataxia, paralysis, anorexia, substances, and a mind that no longer believed there was a future worth fighting for.
Imagine being young and feeling like your life ended before it even began.
Imagine feeling trapped in your own body.
Imagine believing that what is broken can never heal.
That was my reality.
And yet, this is the part I need someone out there to hear:
What you feel today is not necessarily what will be true forever.
In 2013, I made a decision that changed everything.
I stopped feeding the voice that said “you can’t.”
I began training my mind and body at the same time.
I repeated movements relentlessly. I practiced physical tasks over and over. I changed how I spoke to myself. I challenged the beliefs that told me I was damaged beyond repair. I worked to heal my perception of myself and of other people. I recovered from substances. I fought anorexia. I started building strength — physically, mentally, emotionally.
And little by little, something extraordinary happened.
I improved.
Then improved again.
And again.
Not overnight.
Not quickly.
Not perfectly.
But steadily.
Today, I’m 45 years old.
I work as a heavy equipment mechanic — a physically and mentally demanding job.
I weigh 124 pounds and deadlift 265 pounds.
After a devastating cerebellar stroke and severe loss of my cerebellum, I am still improving.
Let me say that again for the person who feels hopeless:
I am still improving.
Not because I’m special.
Not because life suddenly became easy.
But because I refused to stop trying when the evidence around me said I should.
I know what hopeless feels like.
I know what grief feels like.
I know what it feels like to hate yourself, to feel broken, to believe there is no future.
That is why I am sharing this.
Because somewhere, someone is lying in a hospital bed, trapped in addiction, battling an eating disorder, grieving someone they lost, living with disability, or fighting thoughts they’re ashamed to speak out loud.
And I need you to know this:
Please do not decide the ending of your story based on the chapter you are in right now.
The mind can heal.
The body can adapt.
Life can change.
Even when it feels impossible.
Please stay.
Please keep fighting.
Your future self may someday be living proof that today’s pain was not the end.
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