The Day I Chose to Live Again

Some decisions don’t look powerful from the outside. They don’t come with applause, dramatic music, or a big announcement. Sometimes they happen quietly, in the middle of exhaustion, when you are tired of crying and even more tired of pretending you’re fine. The day I chose to live again was one of those quiet decisions.

For a long time, my life felt like a waiting room.

I was waiting for good news. Waiting for a positive test. Waiting for a heartbeat. Waiting for the pain to stop. After being diagnosed with infertility in 2015, my world became centered around treatments and timelines. My calendar was filled with appointments instead of plans. Every month carried hope, and almost every month ended in disappointment.

IVF became my routine. Needles, medications, bloodwork, ultrasounds — it all blurred together. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt like a project. A mission. Something to fix.

When I finally got pregnant in 2019, it felt surreal. I remember staring at the test, barely breathing. When I was told I was having a girl, I allowed myself to imagine a future I had almost stopped believing in. I pictured tiny clothes, bedtime stories, and the sound of her voice calling me “mom.”

But nine weeks later, that dream ended in a silent ultrasound room. No heartbeat. No explanation that could ease the ache. Just a loss so deep it felt physical.

Grief changed me.

It wasn’t only sadness. It was heaviness. It was waking up every day with a weight on my chest. It was smiling in public and breaking down in private. It was feeling like my body had betrayed me. Again.

And still, I kept trying. More treatments. More medications. More emotional rollercoasters. I told myself quitting wasn’t an option. I told myself strong women don’t give up.

At the same time, I was carrying another loss — my mother. Losing her in 2017 left a hole in my life that nothing could fill. She was the person I wanted to call after every appointment. The person who would have held my hand through every heartbreak. Navigating infertility without her felt unbearably lonely.

Over time, the combination of losses slowly dimmed my light. I stopped recognizing the woman in the mirror. I was irritable, withdrawn, constantly exhausted. My health began declining. Stress and grief lived in my body. I felt inflamed, mentally foggy, disconnected.

There were moments when the pain felt endless. Moments when I questioned how much more I could carry. I wasn’t planning anything drastic, but I remember thinking how peaceful it might feel to not feel anything at all. That scared me. Because I knew that wasn’t truly what I wanted. I didn’t want to disappear — I just wanted the pain to ease.

The turning point didn’t come during a motivational speech or a breakthrough therapy session. It came in an emergency room.

After years of hormone medications, I had a severe allergic reaction. Sitting there under harsh hospital lights, I felt something crack open inside me. I looked around and thought, “How did I get here?” Seven years of chasing one dream had left me physically sick and emotionally drained.

For the first time, I allowed myself to consider a different future.

What if my life wasn’t meant to look the way I planned? What if I could still build something meaningful — even without the title of “mother”?

Those questions were painful. But they were also freeing.

On November 27, 2022, I made a quiet promise to myself: I would stop living in survival mode. I would stop punishing my body. I would start fighting for me.

I didn’t have a master plan. I just took the first small step. I met with a dietitian who helped me understand how stress and grief had impacted my body. I began working on my mindset. Not toxic positivity — real, uncomfortable honesty. I admitted I was hurting. I admitted I was tired.

I committed to a 28-day detox program under medical supervision. The first week was hard. I wanted comfort food. I wanted to quit. But I stayed consistent. When I lost 15 pounds of inflammation and started feeling clearer, it wasn’t just physical relief — it was emotional validation that change was possible.

In January 2023, I joined a gym. Walking in felt intimidating. I compared myself to everyone. I felt behind. But I hired a personal trainer because I knew I needed accountability. Once a week turned into discipline. Discipline slowly turned into confidence.

There were days I didn’t want to show up. Days when grief whispered, “What’s the point?” But I showed up anyway. Not because I was motivated — but because I was committed.

Then I found Aquabike classes. Something about moving in the water felt healing. It was low impact, but powerful. The music, the instructor, the community — it felt like belonging. I started going three to four times a week. I followed my nutrition plan. Ninety days later, I had dropped two clothing sizes.

But the biggest change wasn’t visible.

My sleep improved. My anxiety lessened. My mind felt stronger. I laughed more. I felt proud of myself for the first time in years.

Eventually, I stopped needing weekly sessions with my dietitian and trainer. I had built habits. I had built strength. I had built resilience. The gym became more than a place to work out — it became a place where I rebuilt my identity.

Months later, I did something that once felt impossible: I became certified to teach Aquabike.

The woman who once felt broken beyond repair was now leading others. Encouraging them. Smiling genuinely.

On the day I chose to live again, I weighed 195 pounds. Three years later, I weighed 125. But this journey was never just about weight. It was about reclaiming my heart. My health. My hope.

I still carry my losses. I always will. But they no longer define me. They shaped me. They strengthened me.

The day I chose to live again wasn’t about erasing my past. It was about accepting it — and deciding it would not control my future.

And every single day since, I keep choosing life.