Four Years Alive: Horseback on My Stroke Anniversary

Four years ago, on May 30, 2021, my life changed in an instant. I went into cardiac arrest and suffered a stroke due to a ruptured AVM. One moment I was working, teaching a forensics class to professionals — and days later, I didn’t even know my own name.

I couldn't walk. I couldn't talk. I couldn’t understand what had happened to me. My brain was on fire with confusion and pain. I had to start completely over — and I honestly didn’t know what kind of future, if any, was waiting for me.

But this week — on the 4th anniversary of that moment — I went horseback riding.

Yes, horseback riding.

Not because it was easy. Not because I felt strong or graceful or confident. But because it felt symbolic. Because getting on that horse was my way of saying, “I’m still here.”

The horse’s name was Charm — and I’ll be honest, it took every ounce of determination (and a lot of help) to get on her. My right leg refused to cooperate. The tone in my muscles kicked in full force. That leg didn’t want to lift up and over the saddle. It was like my body was saying, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Yes. I was sure.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t smooth. But I got up there.

Once I was in the saddle, something shifted. The world got quiet. Charm’s slow, steady rhythm calmed something inside me. My body softened. My brain stopped buzzing. I could breathe.

There was a moment — just me, the trail, the breeze in the trees — where I felt so alive. Not just surviving, but really living. And it hit me how far I’ve come.

I used to dream of doing something like this again. Of trusting my body enough to balance on a moving animal. Of feeling strong enough to try.

The dismount, though? That was another story. My right side — the same side that gave me trouble getting on — wasn’t having it when it was time to get down. I ended up twisting my ankle when I hopped off, landing on the right side like a rookie cowboy. It wasn’t pretty. It definitely hurt.

But you know what? I laughed.

Because that moment — awkward, clumsy, painful — was still mine. It was still part of this wild, beautiful story I’m writing every day I wake up.

After the ride, I noticed I had double vision. My eyes were having trouble adjusting, and everything felt a little off. I think it was sensory overload — seeing everything from that new height, trying to take it all in. It reminded me that my brain is still healing, still working, still doing its best. Just like the rest of me.

This Alive-aversary didn’t come with cake or balloons. It came with dirt on my shoes, sweat on my back, and a twisted ankle. And it was awesome.

Because the girl who didn’t know her name four years ago? She just rode a horse named Charm and laughed through the pain.

I’ll take that kind of celebration any day.

To everyone out there who’s still in the thick of recovery — wondering if it gets better — I see you. I was you. Some days I still am you. But you don’t have to do it all perfectly. You just have to keep showing up. Keep trying. Keep trusting that your body, your spirit, and your will to live are enough.

Because they are.

Four years ago, I almost died.

This week, I rode a horse.

Next? Who knows.

But I’m still here. And I’m not done yet.