Happy Stroke Anniversary to Me!

⭐ Seven Years Later — A Reflection on My Stroke Anniversary

Looking back through these past seven years after my stroke on Mother’s Day, 5/12/2019, I’ve learned a great deal — about the uncommon causes of stroke, about aphasia, apraxia of speech, and dysarthria, and about gratitude, hope and resilience.

Seven years sounds like a long time, but in many ways it still feels close. I can still remember the moment before everything changed. Just before I left work for shoulder surgery, I told a coworker I planned to return in ten days — not the 3–6 weeks the surgeon recommended. She laughed and said, “If you want to make God laugh, make a plan.”

Well… I made God laugh that day.

I didn’t return in ten days.

I didn’t return to full time at all.

Forty hours after surgery, I had a stroke. I came home unable to speak, unable to make a sound, and with no instructions about what to do next. My life — my work, my voice, my identity — shifted in an instant. But as I look back now, I can see that even though my plan fell apart, something larger was unfolding. God had different plans for me, even if I couldn’t see them then.

The Early Years: Shock, Silence, and Survival

The first year was survival mode.

No voice to very limited speech. Practice, practice, practice.

No information to my family to only the information I could obtain myself.

No roadmap for anything after the hospital stay to figuring how to move on.

My family became my lifeline. My husband, my sister, my children — they were my A Team before I even knew I needed one. They helped me communicate when I couldn’t speak, advocated for me when I couldn’t advocate for myself, and held me up when I didn’t know what came next.

My medical A Team grew slowly — a primary care NP who cared deeply, a neurologist who finally listened, a physiatrist who understood stroke recovery, and three extraordinary speech therapists who helped me find my voice again. The first name I said was “Amy.” (My daughter in law) My own name, “Cheryl,” came last. For a while, I joked that my name was “Mary.” (Because I could say that!)

Those early years were full of grief, neurofatigue, pain, depression, and loss — loss of work, loss of identity, loss of the life I thought I was returning to. But they were also full of small victories, new strategies, and the first signs of hope.

Years Two and Three: Rebuilding, Rediscovering, Realigning

In the second year, I began rebuilding myself — not just my speech, but my self‑esteem, my mental health, my spirituality, and my sense of purpose. I joined the BU Aphasia Center, started sending letters to chemo patients through Chemo Angels, started this blog, connected with others, and found JOY again through family and through learning to accept help.

By the third year, I was redefining what it meant to live with aphasia and apraxia. I accepted my voice, my exhaustion, and my limitations. I learned to pace myself. I learned to judge myself less. I learned to choose activities that matched my values. I learned that recovery is not a straight line — it’s a series of crossroads.

Years Four, Five, and Six: Acceptance, Connection, and Quiet Advocacy

These years were about acceptance and direction.

I realized that recovery was no longer the center of everything. I still wanted to improve — and I still do — but I also wanted to live fully. I wanted to connect with others, support people with communication challenges, and share my story in ways that felt authentic.

I learned that advocacy doesn’t have to be loud to be meaningful. Quiet advocacy — one person at a time — is still advocacy. My blog, the groups I organized, my conversations, my presence… these became my way of helping others.

And I rediscovered something important:

I am still me.

Still stubborn.

Still hardworking.

Still someone who loves deeply.

Still someone who wants to help others.

Aphasia changed how I communicate — not who I am.

Year Seven: Calm, Ownership, and Stepping Forward

This year has been different somehow.

I’m calmer.

More grounded.

More peaceful.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something important: I accepted my communication challenges a long time ago — but this year, it feels like more than acceptance. It feels like ownership. Aphasia is still part of my life, but it no longer leads the way. It no longer shapes every decision or every moment. It’s simply one part of who I am, not the center of my identity. I’m not just living well with aphasia anymore. I’m living well as myself.

I’m enjoying life more than I thought I would. I’m letting things go more easily. I’m comfortable with my voice — not because it sounds like my old voice, but because I know I can use it for good.

And this year, I’ve stepped forward in new ways:

• I serve on a committee for an aphasia‑related grant awarded to UMass, helping evaluate a new assessment tool that may improve how clinicians understand and support people with aphasia.

• I’m part of the National Aphasia Association’s Employment After Aphasia working group, contributing my lived experience to help others share their stories.

• And I recently began volunteering as a unit assistant at a local hospital here in Virginia, reconnecting with my lifelong desire to help others.

These roles remind me that even though my communication looks different now, I still have something valuable to offer. I still have purpose. I still have a voice — and I’m using it.

Dreams for What Comes Next

Right from the beginning, even when I couldn’t speak, I dreamed of writing a book about my experience. That dream is still alive. It has changed shape, but it hasn’t gone away.

Today, my dreams look a little different:

• I’m creating my ReBUILD Self‑Esteem course — the things that helped me during the hardest parts of my recovery.

• I’m continuing to write, reflect, and share my story through my blog and podcast.

• And I’m leaving space for whatever comes next — trusting that the right opportunities will appear when I’m ready.

These aren’t the dreams I had before the stroke.

They’re the dreams that grew because of it.

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⭐ What I Know Now

Seven years later, here is what I know:

• Recovery is not linear.

• Neuroplasticity is amazing.

• Communication takes time, patience, and grace.

• Accepting help is courageous.

• Progress can be quiet.

• Hope is steady, not loud.

• Community matters.

• Core Identity survives.

• Self esteem can be rebuilt.

• Purpose evolves.

• And every voice — even a slower one — matters.

  
  

I didn’t choose this path, but I’m grateful for where it has led me. I’m grateful for the people who walked beside me. I’m grateful for the chance to use my voice to raise awareness. And I’m grateful to still be here, living a life that is different — but still full, still meaningful, and still mine.

Seven years later, I’m just Cheryl.

Still learning, still growing, still moving forward.

Note: I use AI to help organize my writing because of aphasia, but the story and the voice are mine.