Last year, I was taken to the hospital after I fainted on the way home from a final exam. I spent the day pulling tubes out of my arms. I watched the listless whitewashed walls and listened to them tell me to eat. I ignored their worried voices, shaking my head at the food they brought me, laughing when they told me I was going to die. It was just so funny: Me counting the seconds to death, me laying in a half-dead hospital bed. That was no way to celebrate a birthday, so I got up and left. It’s been a rough year since then, since I snuck out of that hospital on May 9th, 2016. I’ve had heart attack, dropped out of school, left my home, and technically died for three minutes. It’s been–without a doubt–the worst year ever, but somehow, I got through it; I gained thirty-nine pounds, graduated cardiac rehab, started a blog, and quite literally came back to life. I survived; against all odds, I survived, and that’s something worth celebrating.
So here I am, sitting in a Starbucks, drinking free hot chocolate and writing this post. I’ve got some research to wrap up at Senate House, and then I’m off for ice cream with my friends before dance this evening. There’s a ridiculous smile plastered across my face, and as I lick the whipped cream off my chin, I can’t help but shed a tear. It’s just so funny: How much I’ve lost, how much I’ve gained, how much I’ve learned, how much I’ve changed. It’s been one hell of a year (and one hellish year), but I’m so glad I stayed.