I never expected to have a heart attack at the age of 48, but I did.
It’s been almost two years, and I thought I’d be past this. But healing has its own pace, and I’m learning to wait.
At first, I thought it was heartburn, to be honest. I was at the doctor’s for another issue, and since I mentioned chest pain, they did an EKG and said I needed to drop everything—they were calling me an ambulance. My first thought was, “I’m with my kids, I can’t go yet.” Luckily, my husband took an Uber, dropped off the kids at home, and brought me to the ER.
If I’m being completely truthful, I’d been having symptoms for a week, but I didn’t know what they were. My heart was trying to tell me it was sick while I was teaching my special education classes, during our staff meeting, and even at my daughter’s parent-teacher meeting. I was too stubborn to listen. I was one of the lucky ones, though—43% of women don’t have symptoms when experiencing a heart attack. Not entirely lucky, though; it was my Type 2 diabetes that made me feel the pain when my blood sugar was too high.
It was a long night at the ER, test after test. The seriousness became clear the next day during my angiogram. When I woke up, my husband looked at me, white as a ghost. My left anterior descending artery—otherwise known as the “widow maker”—was 99% blocked. That moment changed me.
I realized my heart attack wasn’t just the result of my habits or lifestyle. It came from something quieter: I was juggling too much—my job, family responsibilities, caring for my mom, and the constant pressure to do it all, fix it all, carry it all. Like many moms, I had become the emotional glue for everyone around me—everyone except myself.
After I came home from the hospital, my family responded in their own ways: some with concern and urgency, others with quiet uncertainty. We were all adjusting to a new reality none of us had expected.
Physically, I was healing. Emotionally, I was falling apart. Dizzy spells from the medication left me unsteady—not just on my feet but inside. Tears came at random moments. I felt too much, too fragile, too “broken” to be the person I once was.
Then came another heartbreak.
In the months following my heart attack, our special education program lost one of our students. Their death devastated me. I hadn’t even processed my own trauma yet, and suddenly I was carrying theirs too.
I spiraled. I was raw, searching for connection — but found myself in a space where my presence wasn’t met with the warmth I hoped for. I began to wonder if I could belong anywhere. I was on an endless search for the meaning of life, as corny as it sounds.
But light has a way of finding its way back.
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Recently, a 10-minute play I wrote was part of the 2025 Summer Play Festival hosted by the Irvine Theater Company. The theme was what happens when digital interactions replace shared experiences—right up my alley. My voice joined others in a conversation of sorts: stories unfolding, colliding, harmonizing in unexpected ways. I felt the pulse of the full house, the quiet before laughter, the stillness before applause.
In that moment, I reminded myself why I create: not to prove anything, not to win anything, but to connect. When the lights came up, I realized I had found my people—and I intend to stay in that light.
I will keep writing my own stories to heal, stepping boldly into the light again and again.
I know it won’t be an easy journey. Every time I feel closer to healing, I fall apart again. The funny thing is, healing doesn’t mean I won’t feel pain anymore. Healing means I am making space for my grief, honoring my pain, processing it, and releasing it. Instead of spiraling downward, I have the tools to spiral upward.
My heart attack—and everything that followed—brought me back to my center. I had to give myself space to heal and the grace to feel what I feel, when I feel it, without shame.
I’ve learned that while I can be caring and empathetic, I don’t have to carry the full weight of others’ pain. I am learning to hold space for them without holding on to burdens that aren’t mine.
I’m choosing light. I’m choosing forward. I’m choosing me.
