Traveling With A Stroke

I recently took a trip to Rhode Island to visit one of the most important people in my life—my best friend, Galen. This trip wasn’t just a getaway; it became a journey of reconnection and owning who I am now.

It started with a train ride from Philadelphia to Providence. Honestly? That part was hard. I was overwhelmed from the second I got to the station. The signs, the sounds, the rush—it was sensory overload, and I had no idea where I was supposed to go. I found myself needing to ask for help, and for a moment, I felt that familiar sting of vulnerability. But I did it. I asked. And I found my way. That was a big win for me.

When I arrived in Providence, everything shifted. Galen was there waiting for me, smiling, arms open. She has this grounding energy that calms the storm in me. We hugged like no time had passed. I felt safe. I felt like myself again.

We spent the next few days soaking in everything—laughing, resting, reminiscing. We went to the beach. I felt the sun on my skin and the sand between my toes, and I remembered what peace feels like. We went to a polo match, which was such a fun and random experience (and also, who knew people dressed that fancy for it?). And of course, Galen gave me the most amazing facial—she’s a brilliant esthetician and pours love into her work. I felt pampered, nurtured, and seen.

But the part that’s stuck with me the most happened on the way home.

I flew Southwest Airlines, and as I was boarding, I found out they offer early boarding for passengers with disabilities. That’s me now. I spoke the a flight attendant, and she granted me the early on board placement. Except, when I looked around, I noticed that everyone else was over 75. Every single person.

And then I felt it, that feeling of not belonging. There was one woman in particular who stared at me, hard. Like I was cheating the system or didn’t "look" disabled. I felt the heat of her eyes on me, judging. But I stood tall anyway.

Because the truth is: I am disabled. I survived a brain bleed and a stroke. I had a craniotomy. I had gamma knife, twice. I re-learned how to walk and talk and use the right side of my body. I forget things. I use checklists just to get through the day. And I am still here. I am still healing.

I realized in that moment that I don’t have to apologize for the things I live with daily. I don’t have to explain or justify my presence. I deserve ease. I deserve support. And I’m not going to let someone else’s assumptions make me shrink.

This trip was a turning point. It reminded me that even when life takes detours—big, painful, scary ones—there’s still joy. There’s still friendship. There’s still growth. Galen reminded me of who I am beyond my medical file. The beach reminded me to breathe. And even that awkward stare at the airport reminded me that my strength doesn’t need permission.

So here’s to asking for help when you need it. To taking the trip. To laughing on the beach with your best friend. And to standing tall, even when someone doesn’t understand your journey.

I’m proud of how far I’ve come. And I’m thankful for the people who walk beside me on this winding, beautiful path.