Some scars can’t be seen; they exist just below the surface, quietly shaping every day. I’m a stroke survivor. Today marks 4 years since my VAD and subsequent ischemic stroke, and I still haven’t been able to move on.

In this poem, I explore the hidden toll of surviving a stroke, the unhealed and ungrieved loss of a former self, and the quiet accusations that continue to linger even years later. What does it truly mean to survive when nothing and everything seems to have changed?

Survivor’s Guilt Trip

Sometimes I feel guilty
saying I’m a stroke survivor.

I don’t need a cane to walk.
My face doesn’t droop.
I don’t slur my words.
Both arms work.
Both legs work.

I didn’t need to learn how to live
again.

It was invisible.

A tear so small, microscopic,
lying in wait—
murderous intent.
Anatomic apathy.

Behind-the-scenes destruction,
the unseen sterility of
vertebral artery dissection.

But—

I didn’t need to rewire my brain,
unbury neural pathways,
recover lost activities
I had taken for granted.

I didn’t need to re-learn how to

Walk
      Speak
              Swallow
                         Toilet
                               Eat
                         Drive
                 Write
     Shower
Think

And still—

I hate that this happened to me.

I reject these new burdens:
being grateful,
being thankful,
being inspirational.

Four years later,
I battle acceptance.

I don’t recognize this person,
stroke-(re)crafted anew.

There is a version of me
that didn’t survive—
and I haven’t buried him.

I didn’t grieve him.
I just kept going,
wearing his body,
answering to his name.

To look at me, you’d never know
I had two strokes.

I look fine.
He’s fine.

Sometimes I feel guilty
saying I’m a stroke survivor.

Like I don’t have the right
to the label.
Like I didn’t earn it.

A thrift store uniform.
Garage sale medals.
eBay ribbons.

Stolen valor.

I look fine.
It could have been worse.

Right?