by Bob Priest

There are some mornings you never forget, not because of what happened, but because of what finally became clear.

For me, it was a quiet morning in my living room. No drama. No big event. No audience. Just the kind of stillness that forces you to hear your own thoughts a little too clearly.

The sun was barely up, casting that early blue-gray light through the blinds. I remember sitting there in my chair, staring at nothing, feeling like I was floating in a fog I couldn’t shake. It wasn’t exhaustion. It wasn’t sadness. It was… heaviness. Like I was in my own life but not fully part of it.

After my stroke, everything felt different, my body, my mind, my confidence, even the air around me. And then the heart attack came along and hit the reset button on whatever sense of stability I thought I had left. I wasn’t just tired. I was empty.

Like someone had pulled the plug on the version of me I knew for 60-some years.

And that morning, as the fog wrapped itself around me, I realized something I hadn’t truly let myself admit:

Healing isn’t just physical.

It’s identity.

It’s purpose.

It’s mindset.

You don’t just recover from something like a stroke or a heart attack, you rebuild who you are, piece by piece.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗧𝘄𝗼 𝗠𝗮𝗷𝗼𝗿 𝗛𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗵 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀

Most people see the medical side of a stroke or heart attack, the tests, the pills, the rehab. But they don’t see the emotional aftermath that comes roaring in behind it.

For me, recovering from the stroke brought a wave of confusion I wasn’t prepared for. I was angry at my body for betraying me. Angry at the sudden limitations. Angry at the slowness of everything, my legs, my thoughts, my progress.

Then the heart attack showed up and piled fear on top of frustration. I felt fragile in a way I never had before. Every little sensation made me wonder, “Is something wrong again?”

Living like that is exhausting.

Add to that the momentum I lost in my work, my business, my purpose…

and I started feeling like I was watching life happen from the sidelines while everyone else kept moving. It’s a strange kind of loneliness, being surrounded by people yet feeling completely disconnected from the rhythm of life.

When your body changes, your identity gets knocked sideways. That was the weight I was carrying into that quiet morning in my living room, heavy, unsettled, and unsure of who I was now.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗦𝗵𝗶𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗱

But then something unexpected happened.

I remember sitting there, staring at the floor, trying to make sense of everything I’d lost… everything that had slipped through my fingers… everything I thought my life was supposed to look like.

And out of nowhere, a simple thought came through the fog:

“I’m still here.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t emotional.

But it was true.

I’m still here.

My heart had been through hell.

My brain had taken a hit.

My confidence was cracked.

But I wasn’t gone.

And something about acknowledging that lit a small spark inside me.

Because being here means something.

Survival itself carries purpose.

Not the kind you write in a planner or set as a goal, but the kind that whispers:

“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.”

That morning, I didn’t suddenly become motivated or energized or optimistic. But I did feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time:

Possibility.

A small turning point, but a turning point nonetheless.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝗲𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗣𝗵𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗡𝗼 𝗢𝗻𝗲 𝗧𝗮𝗹𝗸𝘀 𝗔𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁

Nobody prepares you for the rebuilding phase.

It’s not glamorous.

It’s not linear.

And it’s not fast.

Healing after the physical recovery is a whole different battle. It’s slow. Sometimes painfully slow. And every time you think you’re getting somewhere, life throws a reminder your way that says, “Not so fast.”

At 68, rebuilding hasn’t been about going back to who I was.

It’s been about discovering who I’m becoming.

Rediscovering purpose at this age feels different than it did in my 30s or 40s. It’s quieter. More intentional. More rooted in meaning than in ambition.

I’ve had to redefine what “progress” looks like:

Getting out of bed with a clearer mind.

Feeling grateful instead of frustrated.

Taking a walk without fear.

Feeling joy in a small moment with Sue.

Reclaiming a sense of identity one step at a time.

These are the victories people don’t post about.

But they matter.

They’re the building blocks of the life I’m creating now.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗜𝘀 𝗧𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗠𝗲 𝗡𝗼𝘄

This chapter of my life is nothing like I expected, but it’s teaching me things I didn’t know I needed to learn.

𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦

Not the kind you force… the kind you surrender to.

Healing takes as long as it takes.

𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦

Not for everything, but for anything.

One good moment can carry you through a tough day.

𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘔𝘺 𝘉𝘰𝘥𝘺

It whispers before it screams.

I’m learning to honor those whispers.

𝘈𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘘𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴

Not “Why did this happen?” but “What can I learn from here?”

That shift changed everything.

𝘌𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘦

Not the life I thought I’d have…

but the life I still get to live.

And there is beauty here.

Purpose here.

Connection here.

Hope here.

More than I expected.

𝗜𝗻𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗢𝘄𝗻 “𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗡𝗼𝘄?” 𝗠𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁

If you’re reading this and rebuilding any part of your life, your health, your confidence, your marriage, your identity, your hope, I want you to hear something:

You’re not behind.

You’re not broken.

You’re not done.

Your story isn’t over.

It might just be beginning again.

And maybe, like me, you’re sitting in your own quiet moment, trying to make sense of everything that’s happened to you.

If so…

ask yourself the question that changed my life:

“What now?”

Not “Why me?”

Not “What did I lose?”

But “What now?”

Because that’s where the rebuilding begins.

𝗔 𝗚𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗜𝗻𝘃𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻

If you’re rebuilding a part of your life, your health, your confidence, your purpose...I’d love to hear your story.

And if you ever want to talk about what supported me in my recovery, physically and emotionally, just reach out.

I’m here.

We rebuild better together.

Bob