A few months ago, I wrote about grieving the person I lost. I talked about the woman who didn’t have to calculate every movement, who didn’t have to explain her exhaustion, who felt further away with every setback.

That grief was real. It still is, most days.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about the other side of that story—the person who never left.

My strokes changed nearly every part of my life. They changed my body, my independence, and the future I had imagined for myself. Since then, there have been more setbacks, more grief, and more disappointments than I ever expected.

One of those setbacks came during COVID. Before the pandemic, I was starting to walk without assistance—real progress, the kind you build a future around. Then therapy stopped, my spasticity got dramatically worse, and I haven’t walked unassisted since.

Last week, with my physical therapist providing light support and my walker, I walked 37 feet.

Not the version of walking I had before. Not the future I’d planned. But mine, earned.

And honestly, the distance wasn’t even the biggest win for me.

For so long, spasticity has dictated how my body moves. It pulls, tightens, and fights against what I’m trying to do. But on that day , I felt like I was working with my spasticity instead of constantly fighting it. I was able to control my movements and not let the spasticity control me.

For me, that means more than 37 feet ever could.

I’ve learned that the most important parts of who we are don’t live in our circumstances. They live much deeper than that.

My strokes took my ability to walk into a room. They didn’t take what happens once I’m in it—the same curiosity, the same instinct to make people laugh, the same compassion I’ve always led with.

Lately, several people have told me they admire my resilience. For years, comments like that made me uncomfortable—like they were describing someone braver than I felt. For the first time, I think I’m starting to believe them.

These days, I roll into a room instead of walking into it, and my words may come a little slower than they used to. But I still connect with people. I still bring the same energy.

The person arriving is still me.

For years, whenever someone called me strong, I would say the same thing: “I didn’t have a choice.” I believed that for a long time.

But something shifted when I realized I did have that choice.

Every. Single. Day.

Strength is grieving what you’ve lost while continuing to believe your life still has purpose. It’s allowing yourself to cry without believing you’ve failed. It’s choosing kindness when life gives you reasons to become bitter.

I think resilience means you break, and somehow your values, your heart, and your spirit remain recognizable on the other side.

Most of all, strength is waking up each day and deciding that no matter what life has taken from you, it doesn’t get to decide who you are.

I don’t share this because I think my story is unique. I share it because I know so many people are carrying losses no one else can see. Maybe your life looks nothing like you imagined. Maybe you’re mourning your health, your future, or a version of yourself you miss.

If that’s you, I hope you know this: you are more than the hardest thing you’ve ever lived through.

The strongest part of you isn’t the part that never hurts. It’s the part that quietly says, day after day, I am still going to be me.

That’s the choice I continue to make.

Tomorrow, that choice will include showing up for a new stroke study—another step forward, another reason to keep believing recovery is still possible.

My journey isn’t over yet.