One Year After My Stroke

July 19, 2026

A year ago, I had a stroke.

On the day it happened, I was at a high school graduation party, helping take care of the kids. Looking back, I was already not quite myself. I was “out of it,” although I did not realize that at the time. I was present for conversations and listening to people, but I was not really participating the way I normally would.

On the drive home, things changed quickly.

We got to an intersection, and my wife noticed that something was wrong. As a nurse, she recognized the signs of a stroke almost immediately and told me to pull into a gas station.

From my perspective, none of it made sense. I did not know why we were stopping. I did not know why she had 911 dialed on her phone. I did not know that I was speaking nonsense. I thought I was speaking normally.

She told the kids to get out of the van and told me to stay in the driver’s seat. She was calm and patient with me, even though she understood that something serious was happening. The gas station happened to be directly across the street from a fire station, and an ambulance arrived within a minute or two.

The EMTs got me onto a stretcher, hooked me up to their equipment, and started asking questions. They asked my age, which I got right. My wife initially got it wrong, then laughed and said, “Actually, he is right.”

But they also kept asking me to repeat a simple sentence. I do not remember what it was. I only remember that it should have been easy, and it was not. I could not repeat it clearly.

That was when I started to understand that something was wrong.

At the hospital, they took me straight in for scans. The stroke had affected the left side of my brain, in the area responsible for language. I did not have the physical symptoms many people associate with a stroke. I could move normally. I did not have obvious weakness or facial drooping. But I had lost language in a way that was frightening and confusing—especially because I did not initially realize it was happening.

Although my wife recognized the symptoms quickly, the scans showed that the stroke had likely started before anyone could see it. I was outside the treatment window for the clot-busting medication used in some strokes.

The year since then has taught me how much of stroke recovery is invisible.

In the first couple of months, there was a lot of obvious progress. I went to speech therapy, rested constantly, and slowly regained pieces of normal life. My language improved. I could communicate again. Eventually, I returned to work.

From the outside, it may have looked like I was recovering quickly and getting back to normal. But returning to work was not the same as being recovered.

I was out on short-term disability for two months. When I came back to work at The New York Times, I started with half-days for the first month. I am incredibly grateful to my team for giving me that space. They handled my absence, supported my return, and let me build back into my work instead of expecting me to immediately operate at the same level as before.

Even after I returned, though, I still had a lot of recovery left to do.

One of the hardest things to explain about a stroke is the fatigue. It is not ordinary tiredness. It is not the kind of tiredness that a good night of sleep or a quiet weekend fixes. There were times when I could do very little and still feel completely drained. Just being awake could feel exhausting.

The brain can adapt in amazing ways after a stroke, finding new pathways around damaged areas. But that recovery takes energy. At my six-month checkup, my neurologist told me that if I returned months later with every other symptom resolved but still had fatigue, he would not be surprised. It is often one of the longest-lasting effects of a stroke.

That has been true for me.

There were also memory problems and forgetfulness. Before the stroke, I felt like I had a pretty reliable memory. Afterward, I often felt less sharp and less capable than I was used to being. I did not always feel like myself.

That was difficult in every part of my life. I did not always feel like the father I wanted to be or the husband I wanted to be. I did not feel able to take on the same share of things around the house. I wanted to contribute more. I wanted to be more present and carry more of the daily responsibilities. But there were many days when I simply did not have the energy or mental capacity.

One of the hardest parts of the year was feeling like I was disappointing my family, even when I knew the reason was outside my control.

Recovery is not linear. There is a lot of visible progress in the beginning, and once you can return to work or resume some normal activities, people understandably assume you are back to normal. But there can still be a long way to go.

That middle stage of recovery was hard. I was functional enough to be back in parts of my normal life, but I was nowhere close to fully recovered. I was still dealing with fatigue, forgetfulness, and the emotional weight of not feeling like myself. Those things affected me and my family every day, even when they were not obvious to anyone else.

We had a lot of help in the first couple of months, and I am deeply grateful for everyone who showed up for us. But I also learned that support after something like this can be hard to navigate.

In the beginning, people know that something serious has happened and want to help. As time goes on, though, it can look like life is getting back to normal. It can feel awkward to ask for help months after the initial emergency, even when the need is still there.

Looking back, practical help spread over a longer period would have been incredibly valuable. Meals a few times a week for six months might have been more helpful than meals every day for the first two months. But that is hard to know at the start, and every recovery is different. The crisis may happen in a moment, but recovery takes much longer.

My wife carried so much of that recovery.

She already had a full life before my stroke: work, school, our four kids, their activities, our home, and all the normal responsibilities that come with a family. Then, suddenly, she had to take on even more. She kept our family running while also taking care of me through something that was frightening for her, too.

There were times when it felt like our house had five kids and one adult. She carried so much of the mental load, the logistics, and the daily work of keeping life moving. I cannot fully express how much she gave up or how much she did for all of us.

I am especially grateful for her, and for my team at work. Both gave me room to recover while helping hold up the parts of life that I could not carry on my own.

Despite everything this year has held, I am proud of what I have made it through.

I am back at work as a software engineer at The New York Times. I am providing for my family. I am coaching my kids’ soccer and baseball teams again. I have been walking more, getting back into running, and trying to rebuild my fitness.

A year ago, none of that felt guaranteed.

I am proud that I have returned to parts of the life I love. I am proud that I have kept showing up, even on days when I did not feel fully like myself. I am proud that I am still moving forward.

But I would be lying if I said the fear is gone.

One of the hardest parts of having a stroke is wondering whether it could happen again. We believe a medication I had recently started may have contributed to the conditions that led to my stroke. I no longer take that medication, and that makes the likelihood of another stroke for that reason much lower. I also have an implanted heart monitor to watch for an abnormal heart rhythm that could increase my risk.

Knowing those things is reassuring. It does not eliminate the fear.

I think about what another stroke would mean for my family. I think about whether I would survive it, whether I would recover the same way, and how my wife and kids would handle it if I did not. Those are difficult thoughts to sit with.

At the heart of that fear is a simple desire: I want to be here for my family. I want to be the best husband and father I can be. I want to keep coaching my kids, going to their games and activities, working, building a life with my wife, and being present for the ordinary days that I used to take for granted.

That is what I hope the next year holds.

I hope for more recovery. I hope to feel more like myself. I hope to take on more responsibility at home and at work as my energy and capacity continue to return. I hope to keep walking and running, get in better shape, and maybe run a couple of 5Ks.

I do not know exactly what the next year will bring. I know recovery may continue to be uneven. I know there will probably still be days when I feel frustrated by what this stroke took from me.

But one year later, I am here.

I am working. I am parenting. I am coaching. I am walking, trying to run again, and continuing to recover. I am still afraid sometimes. I am still not finished recovering.

But I am moving forward.