One year ago, my life fell apart—and it saved me

Here’s what changed—and what I’d tell the person I was back then

12/6/24

One year ago, I received the call and email that changed the trajectory of my life.

One message brought news I had been praying for: the medication that would save my life after months of sickness and uncertainty. The other was from Guinness World Records, officially approving me to chase a world record—a dream I had nearly given up on.

In that instant, everything I thought I knew about my future crumbled—and in its place, something new began.

One year ago, I was given a second chance—not just at living, but at truly living.

Today, I’m sitting in a van with two of the most important people in my life—people who, just five months ago, were complete strangers. We’re in a foreign country, the air warm and sweet, like possibility. I’m eating a mango with coconut yogurt. I’m smiling—really smiling—without thinking, without trying. Life feels good. Life feels simple. Life feels exactly as it’s meant to.

A year ago, I was in bed, unable to eat, unable to walk, trapped in a body that felt like a prison. Every day felt like a question mark—uncertain, endless, hollow. I remember wondering if I’d ever feel again—joy, hope, belonging. I wondered if I’d ever be free.

I can’t stop thinking about how much can change in a year. How in the darkest seasons, even when you can’t see the way forward, life has a way of pulling you through—slowly, stubbornly, beautifully.

Today, life is not perfect. It’s still messy, still complicated, still full of unknowns. But it’s mine. And that feels like the biggest gift of all.

Five days ago, I completed my second race in my Road to Six journey toward chasing a world record. I stood on the shores of Busselton, Australia, watching the sunrise bleed into the ocean. The air hummed with nervous energy, the kind that makes you feel both small and infinite all at once.

12 hours later, I crossed the finish line—exhausted, exhilarated, overwhelmed. Not because I had completed the race, but because of what it meant. Just eleven months ago, I couldn’t walk. My body was frail, my spirit fractured. Yet there I was, arms raised, heart wide open, living the dream I once thought I’d never have the chance to chase.

I used to think “winning” meant being the best, setting records, crossing finish lines. It’s about showing up—fully, fearlessly, and unapologetically—with every broken and mended piece of who you are. It’s about deciding, every single day, that you are worthy of the life you’re fighting for. It’s about choosing to begin again—even if you’re starting from zero.

If I could go back and talk to the version of me from a year ago—the one who was scared, sick, and barely holding on—I’d tell her this:

Keep going. The life you’re dreaming of still exists—better than you can imagine. You’ll sit in a van one day with people who love you, eating mangos and laughing so hard your stomach hurts. You’ll be okay. You’ll be better than okay.

You’ll be free.

Life can change in an instant—or over the course of a year. It’s rarely what we expect, but sometimes, if we’re lucky, it’s exactly what we need.