On Friday, March 6, I will undergo another CT scan. They will examine my liver carefully and check for any signs of a hernia. I’m also hoping they look closely for blood clots, since I’m still on Eliquis. Every scan carries a mix of hope and fear. You want answers — but you’re afraid of what those answers might say.
I’m also dealing with ongoing issues in my leg. My doctor recommended 30–40 mmHg compression, but I’m starting with 20–30 mmHg to ease into it. It may seem like a small detail, but when you live with a chronic condition, even socks become strategy. Every decision matters.
Right now, I’m doing well. But I’ve learned something the hard way — stability doesn’t mean safety. I can feel strong today and be fighting for balance tomorrow. That’s the reality of this condition. It can shift in a single day.
There are moments when I wonder if full recovery is even possible. I won’t pretend that thought doesn’t cross my mind. But here’s the truth: this is my battle. No one else can carry it for me. No one else can win it for me.
And I refuse to surrender.
I show up every single day. I go to the gym. I walk more than 20,000 steps. I stay active not because it’s easy — but because it’s necessary. Movement is my resistance. Discipline is my weapon. Consistency is my shield.
I am not lazy. I am not passive. I am not waiting for rescue.
I am fighting — with clarity, with intention, and with everything I have.
Whatever happens, I will meet it standing.
