Celebrating Your Unique Journey

Day 26

This is a tough post to write. It’s not easy to tell the world you have anger. But I think it’s an important tooic to explore.

After the stroke, anger and frustration became familiar companions. I was angry at myself for not getting better faster. Frustrated that everything I worked so hard for—especially the job I loved and finally paid well—was suddenly gone. I worried that my stroke had ruined our plans for retirement.

It stung when family didn’t understand, or when someone said, “Of course you have problems—you do have brain damage.”

I felt miffed when people finished my sentences, or when someone tried to relate by saying, “Oh, I forget words all the time.” They meant well, but it made me feel unseen.

I used to think being angry was wrong, that I should somehow be more grateful. But over time, I’ve learned that anger is often a sign that something matters deeply—my independence, my identity, my voice.

And even now, years later, I still get frustrated and angry—especially with myself.

Just yesterday, I had to face it again.We’re planning a family trip to Disney—my husband, daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter. I want it to be a joyful trip for everyone. But with my aphasia and the brain injury from my stroke, crowds, lights, and sounds can be overwhelming. I knew I’d need extra support, especially with the long ride lines, so I tried to apply for Disney’s Disability Access Service (DAS).

I did it on my own—and I was denied. I’m not sure I was able to accurately describe how being in the long lines are probably almost an hour with many many people and all the stimulation is sure to make me feel. I can barely go to a busy supermarket on the weekends, watch an entire movie at one sitting, or create one of these blog posts in a single sitting,

As soon he told me I was denied, I felt that old familiar spiral. Why did I think I could handle this by myself? Why didn’t I ask for help? My mind went into that loop of self-blame, the kind that can ruin a day if I let it.

So I had to use every tool I’ve learned—acceptance, breathing, letting go, prayer, a walk outside, even running a few errands just to shift my focus. Slowly, the frustration loosened its grip.

Here’s what continues to help me handle moments like this:

Name the Feeling. Quietly saying, “I’m angry right now,” helps me release some of the pressure instead of turning it inward.

Pause and Breathe. A few slow, steady breaths create a small space between feeling and reaction—a space where compassion can grow.

Gentle Action. Taking a walk, talking with family or listening to music helps me move the emotion through instead of letting it harden inside.

Faith and Reflection. Sitting in prayer, I tell God exactly how I feel—even if it isn’t pretty. “I don’t understand this, but I trust You.” Over time, that brings peace. “let go and let God”.

Reflection: Feeling angry doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. Even when frustration revisits old wounds, we always have a choice: to meet ourselves with patience instead of judgment.

Today reminded me of something I’ve had to learn again and again—healing doesn’t mean we never get upset. It means we find our way back to calm a little sooner each time.

And when the storm of frustration passes, I remind myself: I’m doing my best. Healing takes time. And that’s okay.

💬 Have you ever felt angry with yourself during recovery—or for making what felt like a “mistake”? You’re not alone. The path to healing isn’t perfect, but every time we return to kindness and patience, we grow a little stronger.

#blogboost

Note: Because aphasia can make speaking, reading, and writing more challenging, I use tools like ChatGPT to help me organize my thoughts, check for consistency, and make sure my writing is clear and cohesive. Technology has become an important part of how I share my story and continue my recovery.