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A Memory I didn't expect


It started with a slideshow.

Sunday night, the kids and I were scrolling through photos from a year ago. They love seeing how much they’ve grown, how small their hands were, the funny faces, the silly moments. But then—there it was. A picture I hadn’t remembered was saved. A photo of my blood. Thick. Coagulated. Sitting in a glass medical pipe. A visual I thought I had tucked away in the “for later” folder of my mind.

Their reaction was swift—disgusted, curious, concerned.

So, I did something I didn’t think I could do a year ago. I talked about it.

Matter-of-factly. Calmly. Simply.

“Mommy was very sick,” I said. “That’s part of what made her better.”

They asked questions. I answered. No panic. No spiraling. Just... honesty. And somewhere in the middle of their curiosity and my clarity, I realized how far I’ve come.

There was a time when I couldn’t even say the words “hemorrhage” or “ICU” without shaking. There was a time when the memory of that day—the fear, the pain, the helplessness—was too close to the surface. But therapy, time, and the quiet power of survival have chipped away at the fear. And now I can talk about it—not with detachment, but with control.



Afterward, I removed the photo from the memory reel. I debated deleting it from my phone, too. But I didn’t. Not yet.

Because here’s the thing: I’m proud of that photo.

It’s horrifying, yes. It’s raw. But it’s also a symbol of what I survived. Of the body that failed and healed. Of the support I had, the strength I didn’t know I possessed, and the people who carried me when I couldn’t stand.

Sometimes, I want to hide it—to erase the reminders of what was. But then I remember that doing so wouldn’t be for me. It would be for the comfort of others.

And I’ve worked too hard to shrink myself for the sake of someone else’s comfort.

This week, I feel lighter. Clearer. Stronger. Maybe it’s because of a bit of good news in my life. Maybe it’s because of that unexpected conversation with my kids. Or maybe it’s just because healing happens like this—quietly, in layers, when you’re not even looking.

I don’t have the answers. I just have this moment.

And I’m proud to be standing in it.

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