In October 2024, I had surgery on the front of my legs — where the pain was the loudest.
In March 2025, the back of my legs.
In July 2025, my arms.

Recovery was one of the most physically painful experiences of my life. It required patience, resilience, surrender, and pain meds -lots of them.  Healing wasn’t glamorous, in fact, very messy. But it felt right — for me.
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What’s changed isn’t just visual. It’s functional. I can move longer. I can hold shapes in yoga with greater reach. Cardio feels different — more sustainable.

My endurance has shifted. And more quietly, something else has shifted too. I feel less at war with my body. Not because everything is perfect. Not because I’m “fixed.” But because something finally made sense.

To live with pain you can’t quite explain. To quietly wonder if you’re just not trying hard enough. There’s been a lot of exploring and a lot of self-advocacy in this part of my journey. Things took an incredible turn when I connected with a local clinic for lymphatic support. Not only did my body respond beautifully, but in conversations with these gifted therapists, I finally felt seen.
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Carolyn Baek was one of those therapists, and together, we kept learning. Kept asking questions. Kept exploring. And a real relationship formed in the process. I wanted Carolyn to have the opportunity to connect with the countless other women who deserved to be seen, so I connected her to Lori and Jenn, the incredible hosts of Every. Body. Talks.  Little did I know I would also be invited to join the conversation, where I had the space to unpack this complex, layered experience out loud. The episode lands today.

If any part of this feels familiar, I hope you’ll listen. And more than that, I hope you’ll give yourself permission to explore. I wish I had done that sooner.

On Thursday I had to make some decisions. I was still tired and overstimulated.  I couldn’t imagine sitting through an hour of someone touching my face, so I canceled my makeup appointment to give time for my system to reset in advance of the night ahead.  I was also struggling with getting ready. I still need help with some stuff so trying to be self-sufficient was a lot harder already a little run down. I underestimated not having a support person with me. I also struggled with what to wear: I had two dresses to choose from, and in the end, I went with the longer one. I think it was more about fitting in than what I actually wanted to wear. My intention had been to wear a tuxedo jacket, which I did, but I now realize that the shorter dress might have been a better choice. 

​Looking back now my struggles getting ready were not a great sign. As I started to get ready, I became less and less present. I wanted to be, but I had so much anxiety about how the event would impact me physically and mentally that I couldn’t let myself fully enjoy it. In those moments before boarding the shuttle to the venue, I was definitely more of an observer than a participant, even though I could feel everyone else’s excitement.

When we arrived, it quickly became clear that I had never experienced anything like it before. There was an actual red carpet, with paparazzi capturing the celebrities as they entered, which immediately made me realize the magnitude of the event. I wasn’t fully prepared for what I was walking into, but the energy of the event became clear as soon as I was there. Sure, it was exciting in a way, but I struggled to manage it for myself.
Looking at the entire scene was overwhelming—the sensory input from every direction, from the multitude of people to the sounds coming from all corners. It felt like there were too many places to look, and my focus kept being pulled in different directions which was tiring. But if I focused on the small circle of people I knew, I could manage the environment more effectively. There were lovely moments, but I wasn't open to receiving attention from strangers or engaging with the larger crowd. 

The VIP cocktail reception alone was more than a full day of engagement for me. They had arranged for a quiet spot where I could step away for a moment of solitude, and I did take advantage of that briefly. But I also wanted to stay close to my group because they were a source of grounding and support. After all, there was still the concert and fashion show to attend. Another point where a support person would have been able to see my struggle before it overtook me. I still get a look when I'm fading and when I need someone to step in and provide support, but if you don't know me well you won't see it— I mask it well. You might notice my getting just a little quieter, closing my eyes a little longer for a brain break — becoming the quiet observer.

In my quiet inner moment practicing the akasha mudra, I hadn't noticed the energy of the crowd shifted and everyone moved into the auditorium, I found myself having to catch up. The change in atmosphere was notable, and I didn’t enjoy the rush of it. With some help, I found our group’s section in the auditorium. We had two rows: one with chairs and one with higher stools. There was only one spot with a chair left, and the rest of the seating was in the back row. My group decided it would be better for me to sit in the chair, since I’m short and my legs would dangle from the stools, all true. In retrospect, though, being seated in the far corner of the back row, near the wall, might have been a better choice for me —lesson learned.

Sharon Stone, a stroke survivor, was the host of the event, and she did a phenomenal job. I was in awe of her confidence. I could relate to some of her struggles, especially in finding words. Anyone who has had a stroke is working toward a new normal, and we are aware of when it feels like something we never had to deal with before. It's a continuous process of adjusting to the changes and challenges, and seeing someone like Sharon Stone, who’s gone through it and stands with such strength, was incredibly inspiring.

First up was Suki Waterhouse, whose performance was both delicate and powerful. Following that, the fashion show took center stage, showcasing a beautiful range of ages, body types, and women confidently strutting their stuff. It was a celebration of diversity and empowerment, a true highlight of the evening.

Then, Sara Bareilles took the stage, and she was an exceptional performer and storyteller. I feel incredibly lucky to have seen her performance, it felt special. While I’m not sure how long the program lasted, there were moments when I found myself pushing through, just trying to make it to the end. At times, I had to fight the urge to leave, which felt like a missed opportunity—almost as if something beautiful was wasted on me. But in the end, I did my best and that's all I could do.

Afterward, there was an after-party I was physically there for, but I was shutting down —caught between the energy of the night and my own fatigue. It was a part of the experience, and I’ll take away what I can from it —like my chat with the AHA president's lovely wife who gave me the warmest hug. At coat check I connected with Jennie Garth who was there with her daughters - another warm hug. Maybe I just needed more hugs, lol.

In retrospect, I had no idea what to expect from this event. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. And while I enjoyed some moments, it was a challenge to stay present, and it’s taken me a few days to process everything. I’m grateful for the opportunity, but it was a lot to take in.

If you read all of this, thank you.

One of the amazing opportunities we were given as class survivors was attending the Red Dress Collection concert at Jazz at Lincoln Center on January 30. It's taken me a few days to process everything, not because of the physical toll, but more the mental exhaustion. I tried my best to honor my body’s needs those days in NYC, but the environment was full of stimulation. The crowds, the sound, and the implicit pressure to be “on” felt overwhelming at times. I definitely felt an obligation to be present and do my best to engage, but it wasn’t always easy.

The trip into NYC on Wednesday took an unexpected twist when I was invited to participate in a radio show out on Long Island—a great opportunity put together by the local AHA team. The conversation lasted an hour, but the almost two hours of traffic on the way back were definitely draining, and I knew I had a long evening ahead. That evening, we had a welcome reception at Manolo Blahnik on Madison Avenue, which was lovely. It was an intimate event where we were incognito, blending in until we gathered for a group photo. I enjoyed watching the other women strut their stuff in high heels, but for me, it felt a bit like I was on the outside. I wear boots or sneakers to fancier events because that’s what my body can handle. I can’t feel the bottom of my left foot, and I need stability around my ankle—so high heels are not my thing. But that’s okay; it’s my reality, and I’m okay with it.

From there we attended the Impact with Heart event at the Ailey Studios. As soon as we arrived, I could tell it wasn’t the right environment for me—too much sensory overload. The music, which sounded rich and deep was too intense for me. I could feel the energy, but it didn’t feel right for my body. So, another survivor and I decided to leave and head back to the hotel, making a quick stop for pizza on the way. I was thrilled when she agreed to split a white pizza with me—I hadn’t had one in years, and used to love it, but not so much anymore. It was a small moment of calm in the midst of a busy day...  stay tuned for Part 2 of this post.

It’s finally time to share this: I’m honored to be part of the 2025 Go Red for Women Class of Survivors.
As one of 12 women selected, I’ll be sharing my story alongside my new sisters—each of us passionate about raising awareness of heart disease and stroke in women. Our goal is to inspire others to take charge of their health and join the movement. I’m humbled by this opportunity, but I also understand the deep "why" behind it.

I vividly remember my Zoom interview. As I told my story, I tried to make eye contact and be fully present. But when I saw the reactions of the Go Red for Women team, I had to look away. Their honest, raw reactions to what I was sharing reminded me just how serious this all is. I’ve lived through this truth, but seeing how others responded highlighted the reality of the situation: heart disease and stroke are often dismissed in women, and that’s unacceptable. The most frightening part is that this experience isn’t unique—it’s part of a pattern that many women face when advocating for their own health.

I don’t know exactly what this year will bring, but I’m hopeful for the chance to use my voice on a larger scale. More than anything, I want to help at least one person—whether it’s by educating them about the unique stroke symptoms women experience, helping them understand specific risk factors, or empowering them to advocate for themselves when their health is at risk.

Taking on this role will be a reach for me on many levels and I sincerely hope to capture the journey as best I can.