I was six years old, when one night while lying in bed chatting to my sister I had a stroke; 2 weeks later I was diagnosed with a paediatric stroke. Those first weeks after my stroke, after the shock, the confusion, hospital days that blurred into forever, test upon test – my whole system just dived straight into survival mode just trying to find my way back to where I was before. In my head everything would feel okay again when I got there.
I held myself together for my family, driven by guilt, shame, and worry. The reality was too big to face, so I pushed it down and kept living as if nothing had changed. I was young, overwhelmed, and didn’t know where to begin. Avoiding it felt easier than trying to understand something that was simply too hard.
I moved through my days on autopilot, like I was watching myself from the outside. I tried to keep pace with everyone else, searching for a version of normal that no longer existed. Life was suddenly busier than ever – and feeling became a luxury I couldn't afford. There were appointments, rehabs, goals and expectations. I was always on, always performing, always ticking boxes.
It wasn’t until I started waking at night, gasping for breath, at about thirteen years old that I noticed it was an issues. I had quick windows of deep concern, unsure of who I was. The mask I’d worn for too long began to slip. I became afraid to leave the house, terrified of questions I couldn't answer or glances that might undo me. Anxiety had taken over. Pretending and pushing no longer worked. I slept for long stretches, withdrew from people I loved, and slowly disconnected. My body was telling me the truth long before I did!
I couldn’t even look in the mirror. When I finally did, it felt like I was seeing myself for the first time – really seeing what life after stroke looked like.
Letting myself feel it all, after years of not fully feeling, was overwhelming. I managed to keep it hidden trying to do damage control and deal with everything myself, hoping that it would resolve itself.
Then one night in my early twenties everything hit breaking point. Standing in Coles, I found myself crying into a loaf of bread, while a concerned stranger asked if I was okay. That moment landed hard. I realised I couldn’t keep doing it alone.
I still remember sitting in the waiting room at my general practitioner’s office, unsure if I would be able to say the words that I had been hiding from everyone and myself for years that I was not doing okay. Looking back, I wish I’d asked for help much earlier and didn’t pretend like everything was fine for so long. Unpacking the stroke was hard, but trying to unravel the years that followed felt overwhelming. I’m grateful I finally reached out – it wasn’t easy, but it was necessary for me to grow, heal and reconnect with myself. I needed distance from where I was, and I needed to stop running. Most of all, I had to rebuild a healthy relationship with myself before anything else.
Seeing a psychologist gave me the tools and language to work through the trauma and guilt. It created the space for me to grieve what I’d lost, and it helped me imagine a future again. For the first time, tomorrow didn’t feel heavy; it felt like something where I could move forward, even look forward to.
That whole process created a huge shift in me. My mind became a kinder place to live. Learning about mental health made everything feel less scary and much easier to handle. I hadn’t even considered the word trauma back then. But naming things and saying them out loud is powerful. It helped me heal, acknowledge what had happened, and figure out how to live with it. It made me feel less alone, less guilty and far less alienated.
It also gave me permission to talk about what I was going through. I quickly learned I wasn’t the only one feeling this way. I discovered that the things I was thinking and feeling were normal for anyone who had experienced what I had. The guilt this took away was phenomenal.
Support groups helped me realise that many others felt the same, and that understanding lifted a huge weight of guilt. As I opened up, forming new friendships became easier, and I no longer felt the need to hold people at a distance. I was able to share my stroke experience openly, something I rarely did before. My voice and experienced mattered, and I could see that now.
Seeking help has given me the confidence to share my stroke experience with others. Before that, it was something that I never really spoke about. It also gave me the self-assurance to speak honestly about what I’d been through.
Mental health isn’t a one-size-fits-all, or a onetime task; it needs ongoing care, just like physical health. Treatment and medication look different for everyone, which is why speaking with a doctor is so important. “Sooner rather than later” has become my guiding approach.
