After the stroke, I am changed in ways subtle and profound. I feel quiet inside - and free.
I don’t want the same things. But often, I don’t know it right away. I need to walk up to the edge of something, stare at it for a moment, and think: Oh. I don’t care about this any more.
After the stroke, I am changed in ways both subtle and profound. I feel quiet inside—free. I don’t want the same things. But often, I don’t know it right away. I need to walk up to the edge of something, stare at it for a moment, and think: Oh. I don’t care about this anymore.
Last week, I finished three intense weeks of planning a year’s worth of workshops. I mapped everything into a carefully constructed, three-tier program. I built it out on Substack, wrote all the copy, created the emails. It was done. Ready. Launched.
And yet, as I stood up from my desk, I felt … nothing. Where was the spark? The rush of anticipation? I fell into bed, exhausted and more than a little confused.
At 3 AM, I woke with sudden clarity: I don’t want to do that program. No tiers. No elaborate planning. Just the simple act of service.
The realization hit me like a soft but unmistakable wave. What has changed? I’m not trying to change the world anymore. I’m not reaching to be a guru, a spiritual teacher, or someone “known.” My whole body softened into the truth of who I am—as I am. I trust what I have to give. I trust that the people who are meant to find me will.
This shift has rippled through every part of my life.
Two weeks ago, I had lunch with a friend who voted for Trump. Knowing I’d voted for Kamala, she laid out her reasons. I didn’t agree with a word she said, but I had no argument. Instead, I found myself watching her—her face, her hands moving as she spoke. I wasn’t invested in her politics. I was invested in her. I didn’t need her to know where I stood. I wanted to know her.
As I write these words, I find myself moved to tears, cherishing our lifetime of friendship.
What has changed? It’s not that I no longer care about the world—I care deeply. But I’m no longer tangled in the story of what should have happened. I’m not carrying the weight of needing to fix or control. I’m just here, turning toward what did happen and trusting myself to meet what’s to come.
Even in my family, this shift has brought a new lightness. My daughter is on the East Coast this week. Instead of coming straight home, she decided to spend a few extra days at an Airbnb with friends. I didn’t feel slighted or neglected. I felt joy. Pure joy, knowing she was surrounded by people she loves.
What has changed? I’m no longer attached to how people should behave toward me. Her joy is my joy, unclouded by expectations or need. I trust thoroughly that she loves me. There’s no need for her to prove it.
I’ve said before that the stroke changed me. Not just in that I could have died! way that people talk about. I mean my brain itself changed. This affects my balance—now and then, I tip over (just a little) to one side. It affects my cognition—just a little—making it harder to retrieve a word, though my friends assure me: we’re all in our 60s now. We forget words, too.
But these changes I’m describing are not the typical signs of age - they’re more subtle and surprising. They speak to a deepening trust in life itself. What should have been, what could have been, what was planned—all of it is dissolving, making space for what is.
There’s a freedom in this—a quiet peace that begins to express itself in external ways.
Last week, I painted the kitchen doors the color of green tea with cream. I took down the mirrors we installed 15 years ago, replacing them with strips of blonde wood paneling that my husband carried home from a job site. There wasn’t enough paneling to do the whole room, but there was enough to experiment, placing strips against the walls to cover the busy striped wallpaper.
Standing back to see how it looked, I felt my shoulders relax, my body let out a sigh.
“It’s so quiet,” I said.
And in that quiet, I hear life speaking: This is enough.
Right now, I’m in snowy Burlington, Vermont, visiting my son for a long weekend. We’ve been talking, sharing meals, and walking the streets of the beautiful town where he and my daughter-in-law have made their home. He also taught me to play Catan—and I’m totally hooked. What a fun game!
The sun has set so ridiculously early, casting a cozy stillness over the evening. The fire warms the room. My son is watching the Bills game, and my granddog, Oakley, is sleeping by my feet as I finish this note to you.
During these dark days as we approach the return of the light, I wish you all the blessings of this almost winter season. May your heart be light. May the walls of your home be ‘quiet’. May peace descend upon you and bloom within you.
With great love,
Amy
xxoo
If something in this note resonates—if you’re in the midst of your own dissolving—I’d love to know. Sometimes, sharing the shift helps anchor it. Sometimes, it’s just what someone else needed to hear.
News, Announcements, Offerings
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Amy, I too had a stroke, in 2009. Thankfully I have no physical signs except a slightly droopy eyelid, but the emotional and spiritual remnants remain. You articulated it perfectly. A year after my incident, I’d quit my job, determined to live the life I wanted on my terms. I slowed down completely. I’m still in that space, better for it. Thank you.
Amy, this gentle letting go, in particular of expectations that one had in the behavior of others... I feel this deeply and think, what if this is us preparing for a future where the future isn't necessarily on this earth? What if we're righting ourselves in a way that's balanced so as to be best prepared for what we evolve towards? I've had these feelings and much of it aligns with what you talk of in your post - stroke description.