At 34 years old, I had a stroke. On social media, most of our friends’ life events, whether happy or sad or scary or joyous, exist in a vacuum. We read about them. We comment on them. And then we mostly forget them. 

But of course, social media is not real life, and nothing happens in a vacuum. And when it comes to trauma, nothing gets tied up neatly with a bow. 

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, particularly since I finally mustered the courage to return to the gym, which is where my stroke happened. And I keep coming back to the word aftershock. 

For me, the days and weeks and first few months following my stroke were the aftermath. My health and my condition served as a constant reminder of what had happened to me. There was no escape and no chance to forget even for a moment. 

Now, though, life is mostly back to normal — except for when it’s not. And those are the aftershocks. Sometimes I see them coming and sometimes they blindside me. 

Times like when I was at the hospital where I spent six days following my stroke. I went there to deliver a donation of care pouches that my friends and family had sponsored after my stroke. I filled them with small things that I wished I’d had during my hospital stay, and the hospital wanted to do a news story on it. I was rushing that day, trying to get to the hospital on time after dropping my daughter at school, and I hadn’t spent any time thinking about how the morning might make me feel. I had been back there in the months since my stroke, but I hadn’t been on the stroke unit since I’d been discharged. 

When the elevator doors opened my heart skipped. The smell overwhelmed me. Flashes of my time there came at me. I saw a nurse I remembered. My palms started sweating. My chest felt tight. But I took some deep breaths and kept going. 

That time the aftershock blindsided me. I got through the interviews, but the rest of the day I felt completely drained. I’ve learned the aftershocks exhaust you. 

The gym was an aftershock I saw coming. For months, even the idea of going back made my stomach flip. I told myself I would wait until I knew the tear in my vertebral artery, which is what caused my stroke, had healed. I got that news at a follow-up with my neurologist in July. But I wasn’t ready for the gym. I told myself I’d go back when my kids went back to school. Life got in the way of that and suddenly it was November. I knew I had to walk head on into this aftershock or the anxiety surrounding it would get too big to overcome. 

So I called the gym and asked if I could try a class before I restarted my membership, which had been on hold since March. I booked one and put it on my calendar. The night before I had trouble sleeping. My mind wouldn’t quiet. When I was getting ready the next morning my 7-year-old could tell something was bothering me. I explained I was nervous and that sometimes we have to do things that make us nervous. He hugged me hard and told me I would be great. 

And so, I went. I told the coach (I go to Orangetheory) that I hadn’t been to the gym in 7.5 months and that the last time I was there I’d had a stroke. She asked me if I was scared. I told her I was terrified and bent down to tie my shoe to avoid crying. 

The workout was hard but aside from my pathetic cardiovascular condition, I was ok. My balance during the floor work was an issue, but I knew that would be the case. I did the entire hour-long workout and thought I would feel proud. I felt relieved. 

Afterward I got in my car and cried. I thought I’d done it — faced my biggest fear and come out the other side. Here it was, this one thing at least, wrapped up with a neat little bow. Perfect for a social media post.  (Cont'd at Right)