The Many Masks of Grief

This week marks one year since the 3 strokes that landed me in the hospital at the age of 30 — confused, jolted, and unable to function the way I could the week before.

It’s funny how time slows when you’re unable to process it. A year passes and you wake up one morning and realize that time slowing was just an illusion, a trick of your shattered mind.

“Even my identity ceased to be a sacred thing to me.”