Early Signs and Childhood
For most of my life, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I just didn’t know it had a name.
Looking back now, the signs were there from childhood.
As a child, I struggled with things like tennis, swimming, or carrying my schoolbooks – my arms would become exhausted quickly. Of course, no one knew why. My fatigue was always blamed on staying up late listening to music on my Sony CD Walkman, or reading into the night.
I internalized it, labeling myself as lazy, unmotivated, or unable to keep up with my classmates.
My body was working against anatomy I wouldn’t understand for decades.
Persevering Through Movement
I found dance as a child, and I loved it deeply. Movement felt natural to my spirit, even when it wasn’t always easy for my body.
I didn’t understand why my arms tired so quickly, why holding them in position could be so difficult, or why rehearsals sometimes left me completely drained when other dancers seemed energized.
So I did what I had learned to do.
I pushed through.
I assumed everyone else was stronger, better conditioned, or more disciplined.
I learned to ignore the fatigue. I learned to work around weakness.
And I learned to blame myself.
Over the years, there were different explanations for why I was always tired. Chronic fatigue. Depression. Other diagnoses that attempted to explain pieces of what I was experiencing.
None of them explained the whole picture.
Meanwhile, everyday things became harder. Carrying groceries, driving longer distances, chores, and anything requiring sustained use of my arms took more effort than they should have.
Still, I adapted.
Finding Painting
I lost my dad to cancer in 2019, and I struggled with the grief that followed. A couple of years later, I was looking for something to occupy my mind and give me a creative outlet, so I ordered a paint by number kit.
It didn’t last long.
The numbers were so small that I needed a magnifying glass to see them, and I quickly became frustrated with being told exactly where every color was supposed to go.
So I abandoned the kit.
Instead of throwing away the leftover paint, I took out a piece of paper and painted a Christmas tree of my own.
And something clicked.
I loved the freedom of deciding for myself where the colors went and what the painting would become. From there, I began teaching myself to paint, experimenting and learning as I went.
Painting became my therapy as I grieved the loss of my dad. It gave me somewhere to put my emotions and something positive to focus on during a difficult time. I could lose myself in color and the simple act of creating.
What began with an abandoned paint by number kit and a Christmas tree painted on paper unexpectedly became something that would change my life.
But my body was already placing limits on what I could do.
A small painting that someone else might finish in an afternoon could take me several sessions because my arms and hands tired so quickly. I learned to stop, rest, and return another day.
It didn’t matter.
I loved painting enough to work around it.
But eventually, working around it became a struggle.
When Everyday Things Became Harder
The symptoms became increasingly severe.
My arms hurt. My hands went numb. Weakness increased. The tremors became pronounced.
Holding a paintbrush became difficult.
I could see exactly what I wanted to create in my mind, but my hands couldn’t always physically do what I was asking of them.
And it wasn’t only painting anymore.
Eventually, I had to stop driving. Holding the steering wheel caused such pronounced tremors in my hands that continuing to drive was no longer safe.
Cooking became a challenge. I could no longer hold food on a fork because of the tremors. I stopped drinking from regular glasses and switched to paper cups instead.
Even typing became painful, and it still is. As using my hands became difficult, I began relying more on voice recognition for things I once typed without thinking. It became another way of adapting to what my hands could no longer comfortably do.
Little by little, ordinary pieces of independence were disappearing.
Still, I adapted.
Finally, an Answer
After years of symptoms and misdiagnoses, I finally received an explanation that made sense: bilateral thoracic outlet syndrome.
I was born with abnormal anatomy, including an extra cervical rib, that contributed to compression in my thoracic outlets.
This wasn’t something caused by poor posture. It wasn’t something I ate. It wasn’t something I could have prevented by exercising differently or simply trying harder.
The anatomy had been there all along.
In my case, the compression involved both the nerves and the subclavian arteries.
Suddenly, so much of my life made sense.
The child whose arms couldn’t keep up.
The dancer who couldn’t understand why she tired so easily.
The adult who struggled with everyday tasks.
The artist whose hands trembled around a paintbrush.
There had been a physical reason all along.
My First Surgery
In November 2025, I underwent major surgery on my right thoracic outlet.
What was found during surgery confirmed just how significant the compression had become.
The operation involved removing my first rib and the abnormal cervical rib anatomy contributing to the compression, removing muscles that were contributing to the problem, freeing nerves surrounded by dense scar tissue, and releasing the compressed subclavian artery.
Recovery was difficult.
After years of compression, nerves don’t simply recover overnight. Healing is slow. Strength takes time to return. There is no point where the calendar suddenly says you should be better.
I knew recovery could take years.
What I didn’t know was that while I was still recovering, my life was about to change again.
Easter 2026
On Easter, I suffered an ischemic stroke.
In an instant, everything changed.
I lost my speech.
I couldn’t put two words together.
I also lost sensation on my right side, including the feeling in my dominant right hand.
Before the stroke, TOS had already made typing painful. When my fingers hurt too much, I had adapted by using my voice.
Then the stroke took my voice away too.
Suddenly, communicating became incredibly difficult. My fingers still hurt when I typed, but now I could no longer rely on my voice when using my hands became too painful.
I had spent a lifetime finding ways around the things my body couldn’t do.
Now one of the ways I had learned to adapt had been taken away too.
Realizing What I Had Survived
It took time for me to fully understand what had happened.
At first, I was focused on what I had lost. My speech. The feeling on my right side. My ability to communicate. I was thinking about recovery because that was what was directly in front of me.
Only later did something much bigger begin to sink in.
I had survived a stroke.
I began to understand how differently that day could have ended and how fortunate I was to still be here.
That realization changed something in me.
The things I had lost still mattered. The pain still mattered. The frustration of struggling to speak, type, paint, or simply get through a day still mattered.
But so did the fact that I had another day.
Another conversation.
Another photograph.
Another chance to pick up a paintbrush.
Another morning to look outside and see what was blooming.
I didn’t suddenly become grateful for what happened to me. I wouldn’t wish a stroke on anyone.
But I became profoundly grateful that I survived it.
Learning to Communicate Again
Recovery from the stroke began immediately, whether I was ready for it or not.
Words that once appeared without thought had to be searched for.
Speech required concentration.
Conversations required concentration.
My brain was trying to build new pathways around damaged areas while I was simply trying to function in everyday life.
The fatigue could be overwhelming.
But little by little, words began coming back.
A word became a sentence.
A sentence became a conversation.
And recently, I reached a milestone that once felt very far away.
I was discharged from speech therapy.
I can speak.
I can communicate.
I can find my words again.
When I remember the days when I couldn’t put two words together, I understand just how enormous that is.
Painting After a Stroke
Then there was my art.
For an artist, losing sensation in my dominant hand changed everything.
When I tried to paint again, I couldn’t properly feel the paintbrush in my right hand.
I dropped it constantly.
I couldn’t depend on sensation to tell me how tightly I was holding it or exactly what my fingers were doing. Something I once did without thinking now required conscious effort.
Stroke pain added another obstacle.
But the stroke affected more than my ability to physically hold a brush.
The brain injury changed the way I process what I see, and that has changed the way I paint.
Sometimes I can see exactly what I want in my mind, but what appears on the canvas doesn’t match.
My eye, my brain, and my hand are learning to work together differently now.
That has been frustrating.
It has also forced me to loosen my grip on what I thought my art was supposed to look like.
I am learning what this version of my brain sees and what this version of my hand can create.
Once again, I am adapting.
Finding Faith and Beauty
Somewhere along the way, my connection to God and nature grew stronger too.
There have been so many things throughout this journey that I couldn’t change, fix, or even understand. In those moments, I began finding peace in simply looking around me.
A tree changing with the seasons. Flowers opening. Light across the water. Birds outside my window. The small, ordinary pieces of nature that are easy to pass without noticing.
I had always known God was in nature. On the days when my own world felt very small, those things became easier to see.
Photography became another way to create when painting was too difficult. It also taught me to slow down and notice what was still there.
There were days when I couldn’t paint.
Days when I couldn’t do much of anything.
But I could still look outside.
I could still see something beautiful.
I could still believe that this difficult moment wasn’t the whole story.
Sometimes that was enough.
Recovery Isn’t Finished
Being discharged from speech therapy doesn’t mean I am recovered from my stroke.
My brain is still healing.
I still have sensory loss. I still experience stroke pain. My dominant hand still doesn’t feel the way it once did. Neurological fatigue can make seemingly small activities take an enormous amount of energy.
And at the same time, my thoracic outlet syndrome hasn’t disappeared.
My left side still needs surgery.
The Second Surgery
In August 2026, I had surgery on my left thoracic outlet.
I knew more about what to expect this time, but there was another layer. I was going into surgery while my brain and body were still recovering from a stroke.
The surgery is now behind me, and the compression has been relieved.
Recovery is taking time. My left hand and fingers are still affected by numbness and pain, while I continue to live with pain and altered sensation on my right side from the stroke. Some of the simplest things, including typing, can be difficult.
After everything that has happened, I’ve learned not to predict too far ahead.
I don’t know exactly what the next year will look like.
I don’t know what my hands will eventually be capable of.
I don’t know what my paintings will look like months or years from now.
What I do know is that I am still here to find out.
A Story of Hope
Art entered my life after I lost my father, during a time when I needed somewhere peaceful to put my thoughts.
I couldn’t have known then how much I would eventually need it.
Painting has stayed with me through worsening physical limitations, years without answers, losing pieces of my independence, finally receiving a diagnosis, major surgery, a stroke, aphasia, sensory loss, pain, and recovery.
Photography gave me another way to create when painting became difficult.
Nature gave me beauty to see when there were days I could do little more than look.
And my faith gave me somewhere to place the things I couldn’t control.
Surviving my stroke made all of those things feel more precious.
I notice the ordinary things more now.
Another conversation matters.
Another morning matters.
Another photograph matters.
Another chance to create matters.
And I’m still here.
Still seeing beauty.
Still taking photographs.
Still picking up the paintbrush, even when I can’t completely feel it in my dominant hand.
Still finding my words.
Still creating.
Still moving forward.
For a long time, I thought hope meant getting back everything that had been taken from me.
I’m beginning to understand that sometimes hope looks different.
Sometimes hope is a word you couldn’t say yesterday.
Sometimes it’s holding onto the paintbrush a little longer.
Sometimes it’s seeing something beautiful on a day when your body won’t let you do much else.
Sometimes it’s simply waking up and realizing you have been given another day.
Sometimes it’s trusting God when you cannot see what comes next.
My story isn’t finished yet.
I don’t know exactly where life will take me from here.
But I know what I want to carry with me.
Faith.
Gratitude.
And hope.
Because even when life changes you, there are still words left to say, beauty left to see, and something new left to create.
If you’d like to learn more about Thoracic Outlet Syndrome and the condition behind much of my journey, you can read more here.
Medical Disclaimer: This article is based on my personal experience living with Thoracic Outlet Syndrome (TOS) and is shared for educational and awareness purposes only. It is not intended as medical advice and should not replace evaluation, diagnosis, or treatment by a qualified healthcare professional. If you are experiencing symptoms or have concerns about your health, please consult your healthcare provider.