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. | In August 2021, an ischemic stroke altered my life in ways I never fully expected. The most persistent legacy of that moment is aphasia—a disorder that disrupts the brain’s ability to use and understand language. |
It does not affect intelligence, but it affects almost everything else: how I listen, how I speak, how I read, how I write, and how I process the world around me. Living with aphasia means living with a mind that works just as hard as ever, but must fight through a layer of fog before it can communicate clearly.
My aphasia shows itself in many ways. Some days I can understand spoken conversation almost normally; other days the words reach me clearly, but their meaning lags a few seconds behind, as if my brain must translate English into English. Reading—once effortless—now demands energy and deep focus. Long paragraphs feel like puzzles. Retention is harder. I often reread. I pause often. I work harder than most people realize simply to stay connected to the flow of information around me. The best hearing aids can't fix me. I can hear; I just can't understand.
This constant effort brings fatigue—not the ordinary tiredness of a long day, but a more profound mental exhaustion. When communication becomes labor, everyday tasks require more energy. I am no longer able to participate in groups. I am alone in a crowd. I don't want to burden my illness on others. This fatigue, in turn, opens the door to something harsher: depression.
Depression after stroke is common, especially in people with aphasia. The inability to easily communicate can create a sense of isolation even when surrounded by people. There are days when motivation slips, when projects that once excited me no longer call my name with the same force, and when reading or writing—two activities at the core of my identity—feel heavier than they should. During darker periods, suicidal thoughts have emerged, not as a wish to die but as a reflection of how overwhelming the struggle can feel. These thoughts are part of the illness, not a verdict on my worth or future.
Yet in the middle of all this, I try to remain a fighter. I recognize the symptoms. I name them. I don't always confront them. I write openly about them because speaking is an attempt at recovery. Depression thrives in silence; far too often, I find myself surrendering to that territory. My aphasia may slow my comprehension, but it has not dimmed my determination. Nevertheless, my depression whispers hopeless stories, with far too many lonely dark nights.
I continue to engage with my life—my writing, my travels, my plans, my relationships—even when the motivation is low. I rely on clear routines, supportive people, medical guidance, and my own persistence. Every day, I struggle to stay connected. Every day, I hope to keep moving forward.
Aphasia and depression are part of my story, not the end of it. If anything, they have pushed me to understand myself more deeply and to approach each day to find a sense of purpose. I share this not for sympathy, but for clarity. This is the new life I am living—challenging, exhausting at times, but still mine.