I had a stroke 2.5 years ago. I was 57. In that moment, everything I knew about myself—my mind, my speech, my body—shifted; I didn’t know it was a stroke. I just knew something was wrong. My whole right side of my body had gone numb. The ringing in my ears was deafening, so loud it felt like I had my head in a bell. I couldn’t walk well, and I remember praying I didn't want to die now I have a young family. Something serious was happening inside me, but I couldn’t name it.

At 3 AM, we called the paramedics. One of them seemed irritated, like I had dragged him out of bed for nothing. He told me it was anxiety. “You’re fine,” he said. They left without doing anything. I turned to go back to bed. My wife stopped me and asked, “Where are you going?” I told her, “They said it’s not a stroke.” But by morning, it was undeniable.

When we got to the hospital, the staff made it clear—I should have come in sooner. But it was too late. The damage had already been done. The prognosis was crushing: I might not live a full life, more strokes were likely, and what I had known as normal was now behind me. Then came the neurologist. He looked at me and told me I was depressed. But I wasn’t—and my wife knew I wasn’t. He didn’t believe either of us. “Ninety-nine percent of stroke survivors are depressed,” he said. “You just don’t know you are.” But by the third visit, something shifted. He saw what my wife had seen from the beginning: I wasn’t going to sit back and become my stroke. I wasn’t going to let it define me.

It struck me then—everything I had coached others through for years had quietly prepared me for this. It may sound strange, but the inner work I had completed long before the stroke became my foundation. I wasn’t just teaching those principles—I had been living them. So when everything around me fell apart, I didn’t. That made all the difference.

The real battle wasn’t what they could see—it was what they couldn’t. I was fighting my own brain every day. Trying to think clearly. Trying to function. I’d sit at my desk for hours, barely completing tasks that used to take minutes. I’d lose words mid-sentence. My thoughts would vanish before I could express them. My brain didn’t feel like mine anymore. The high-pitched ringing in my ears never stopped. Not for a moment. I had to live, work, and sleep through that constant noise. The vertigo was overwhelming—standing still felt like balancing on a moving ship. My footing was never certain. Every step took concentration and effort.

And through it all, I had responsibilities. I still had to show up for work, for my family, for life. There was no space to fall apart. No one coming to save me. But there was one person who never left my side—my wife. She is my rock. I adore her. She carried me through the worst of it. I literally hung on her arm until I could walk again. Her strength and belief in me were my lifeline. Without her, I don’t know how I would’ve made it.

Eventually, something inside me shifted. I stopped asking, “Why me?” and started asking, “What now?” That question led me to something deeper. I let spirituality in—not as an escape, but as a compass. It grounded me. It reminded me that I was still here for a reason. I stopped trying to go back to who I was and started becoming someone new. Someone stronger. Someone clearer. Someone who leads from experience—not theory.

Now, I coach others who are walking this path. Not because I read it in a book, but because I lived it. This isn’t about sympathy—it’s about strength. Teaching you what I know and how I did it.

It’s about building a life that’s meaningful, powerful, and fully your own. A stroke may have changed your story, but it didn’t end it. And it didn’t end me with who I’ve become.

Now I coach others to do the same. I may have had a stroke but I am NOTE MY STROKE! (identity)

Because stroke may have interrupted your life—but it doesn’t get to define it.