5-Year Alive-Aversay

Five years ago today, on May 30, 2021, my life changed forever.

I was 22 years old and preparing to attend the Sandra Day O’Connor College of Law that fall. I had my future mapped out so clearly in my head. I wanted to go into criminal law or human rights law, and I was already working with blood pattern analysts. I loved the work. I loved learning. I loved feeling like my future was right there in front of me.

At the time, life felt busy in the best way possible. I had just gotten back from a work trip to Los Angeles for blood pattern analysis, and I was constantly moving. Constantly planning. Constantly thinking about what was next. I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to juggle everything.

I remember FaceTiming my mom from LA telling her I just didn’t feel good. Not dramatically bad. Just off. I thought it was stress. Anxiety. Exhaustion. Maybe burnout from doing too much and pushing myself too hard. I remember brushing it off because that’s what young people do. We assume serious things happen to other people. Older people. Not us.

Little did I know, an AVM in my thalamus was brewing toward rupture alongside three brain aneurysms.

My body knew something was wrong long before my mind could understand it. And then, on May 30th, 2021, everything changed.

There is a very clear dividing line in my life now: before my stroke and after my stroke.

The girl before my stroke thought life was guaranteed. She thought plans were permanent. She thought hard work alone could shape the future exactly the way she imagined it. The version of me after the stroke had to learn how to survive first.

I ended up spending almost two months at Barrow Neurological Institute. I spent nearly a month in the Neuro-ICU where I underwent a craniotomy (brain surgery), which removed about 75% of my AVM. During that time, I was on a ventilator. There were moments my family didn’t know what the future would look like for me.

And honestly, neither did I.

After the Neuro-ICU, I moved into inpatient rehab for almost another month. Rehab was one of the hardest things I have ever gone through physically, mentally, and emotionally. There is something incredibly humbling about having to relearn things your body once did automatically. Things you never even thought about before.

I remember feeling frustrated. Exhausted. Angry sometimes. Grieving constantly. The therapists pushed me hard because they believed in what was possible for me, even when I couldn’t fully see it yet myself.

And my family never stopped telling me: “You can do it.” My Mom especially carried me through some of the darkest moments of my life. I truly do not know how people survive experiences like this without support, because there were days I needed other people to believe for me when I couldn’t believe for myself.

I also underwent Gamma Knife treatment in August of 2021, and then again in December of 2024. Healing has not been a straight line. Recovery did not magically end after rehab. Living with an AVM means there is often still waiting, uncertainty, monitoring, appointments, fear, and hope all existing together at the same time.

That is something I think many people do not understand about brain injuries and stroke recovery.

You do not just “get over it.” You learn how to live alongside it. You learn how to rebuild yourself while carrying grief for the version of you who existed before everything changed.

For a long time, I thought healing meant becoming the old version of myself again. I thought success meant returning to exactly who I was before May 30th, 2021.

But over these last five years, I’ve realized healing is not about going backward. It is about learning how to move forward as someone entirely new. And honestly, that realization changed everything for me. Because while this experience took so much from me, it also gave me something unexpected: purpose.

That is really where Living With An AVM came from.

The name means so much more to me than just a social media handle. It became my way of turning something painful into something meaningful. After my stroke, I realized how many people feel completely lost after a brain injury, AVM diagnosis, or stroke, especially young survivors. So many people leave the hospital terrified, grieving, confused, isolated, and wondering: “Now what?”

And there are not enough spaces where people truly feel understood.

I want Living With An AVM to become a safe place where survivors feel loved, supported, understood, and hopeful. A place where people can openly talk about grief, recovery, fear, resilience, healing, identity loss, and rebuilding without feeling judged or alone.

Because surviving is only the beginning.

What comes after is the part people do not talk about enough. I want to become an inspirational speaker and share my story at hospitals, universities, therapy programs, conferences, and survivor events. I want people sitting in hospital rooms or rehab gyms to hear someone say: “I know this is hard. But your life is not over.”

I want doctors, therapists, caregivers, and families to understand the emotional side of recovery too. The invisible grief. The mental exhaustion. The identity shift. The courage it takes just to keep showing up every day.

And I also dream of creating healing retreats in Sedona for young stroke and AVM survivors. There is something deeply healing about Sedona. The red rocks. The stillness. The energy there. Every time I am there, I feel grounded in a way that is hard to explain.

I want to create retreats where young survivors can come together and finally feel understood without needing to explain every part of their story. A place where healing is not rushed or clinical. A place where people can reconnect with themselves again.

I imagine meditation in the red rocks. Group conversations where people finally feel seen. Horseback riding. Painting. EMDR therapy. Hiking. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. Speech therapy. Music. Community dinners. Laughter. Crying. Healing.

A place where survivors realize they are not broken. A place where people rediscover hope. Because healing is not just physical, it is emotional. Mental. Spiritual. Human.

So today, on my 5-year alive-aversary, I am sitting with a lot of emotions.

Grief for the life I thought I would have.

Gratitude for the life I still get to live.

Pride for how far I’ve come.

And hope for what still lies ahead.

Five years ago, I didn’t know if I would survive. Today, I am here.

Still healing. Still growing. Still becoming. Still dreaming. Still grateful.

And that is something worth celebrating.

Happy Alive-Aversary to ME!