Ally Berlin - Bradly Wilson Photoshoot 2017

I was washing dishes at home when I realized I was foaming at the mouth. I thought I must have just been daydreaming, so I wiped the spit before picking up my phone to ask Siri what the weather was like outside—but there was one problem, I couldn't speak. Some sound came out of my mouth but it definitely didn't sound like English. I decided to give it one more try. The same thing happened. I couldn't speak; just a sound, like a mumble. I tried to call my boyfriend, but I couldn't unlock my phone. It was like my brain knew which numbers to tap on the screen but my fingers weren't cooperating.

I really didn't know if it was real life.

After what felt like a million attempts, I was finally able to dial his number. He told me to go to Urgent Care (which, thankfully, was just a few blocks away) and said he would meet me there. It wasn't until I was around the corner that I realized this was real life, and I had a panic attack. With tears streaming down my face, I wasn’t able to speak. I tried to sign in at the front desk, but I couldn't write. Just an awkward, swiggly line.

“Do you take drugs? Be honest please,” asked every doctor who saw me. Unable to reach a diagnosis (because I’ve never taken drugs), they sent me to St. John's Hospital where a doctor—seeing my less severe symptoms for the first time—dismissed my worries, saying I simply had experienced a panic attack. I went to sleep that night with my cat laying on my chest, not knowing if I was going to wake up.

The next morning, knowing I wasn't crazy, I went to Methodist Hospital where a neurologist admitted me and the tests began. "Do you do drugs? Have you done cocaine?" were always the first questions asked. Finally I was told I had had a stroke, though no one could figure out why.

I was immediately sent to therapy—a lot of therapy. Physical, occupational and speech therapy became my full-time job. I was often stared at by the other patients because I was the youngest one there, like "what's wrong with her?"

I could physically walk after my stroke, but it wasn't too cute. I joked around about my limp, hoping people thought I was a badass athlete who had been injured playing sport. My hips swayed. My physical therapist, Katie, who I nicknamed my personal trainer because of how hard she made me work, noticed I wasn't putting my heel down before my toe when I walked, so I began to consciously repeat "heel then toe, heel then toe" every time I stood up. But it took so much effort for me. Sometimes I just wanted a break, so I'd half ass it. I'd drag my right leg.

Katie had me doing simple exercises like walking onto a small box before stepping backwards. I had no perception of where things were in relation to my body. How close is the box to my foot? How far do I need to step back? It always seemed like the list of things I couldn't do got bigger and bigger. It took every fiber in my body to jump. From my toe to my head, I had to control so much. It felt like my feet were cemented onto the floor. I was sore after every session—sore from jumping a few feet. Katie made a game out of it. Basically everything I did she made feel like a game. "You know those paperclip necklaces everyone made when they were kids, make me one of those!" It took me forever. It was fun playing catch. Hard, but fun. I felt like my brain was on fire. Talk about going out of my comfort zone. But I realized that your body will never change if you don't challenge yourself. That's the truth for anyone—something I tell my clients today all the time.

And you know what hurts? Getting a Bachelor's degree in art and not being able to draw anymore. I couldn't write well, so how was I supposed to draw? I mentioned this to my occupational therapist, so she gave me a magazine and told me pick an image from it to copy. My heart sank after she praised my work, it was terrible. "It's so much better than what I could do," she said. But it's so much worse than what I'm actually capable of doing. She suggested I reach out to my drawing professor, and the response I got was incredibly supportive. She told me to embrace how I was drawing now, and that I'd find my own unique style. But honestly I didn't want to, I wanted my old style back. It took me about a year to attempt to draw again. It's the one thing that made me the most emotional. During college I was even in a gallery art show and won the Best in Design award. Then it was just taken away.

I also realized I had a hard time doing the really easy things. Fine motor skills they call it. Like shuffling cards. Putting lipstick on. Playing with Velcro. (Yes, playing with Velcro.) Cutting something in half. Carrying a piece of paper without wrinkling it. Harder than you'd think.
Ally Berlin, Stroke
Ally in hospital a few months after her stroke
Courtesy of Ally Berlin

It was little the things that I couldn't do that really bothered me. Like clean my cat's litter box. My hand was too shaky and I'd make a mess. Brushing my teeth made me feel like something was seriously wrong with me. I squeezed the toothbrush so hard that I made an indent of the brush on my hand every time. Eating felt awkward. Holding utensils took a lot of effort and I had to chew my food really well and eat small portions because my throat felt smaller. I had to just take tiny sips of water. If I didn't, I felt like I was choking.

And then there was speech therapy with Grace. My first session was emotionally painful, because I realized how many issues I really had. Worksheets galore, I always had homework. It felt like I was back in 3rd grade. Grace had me remember patterns, put together shapes, unscramble words. Most of the time speech therapy made me feel stupid. I just read three sentences and I can’t even tell you the main idea? The best was when I tried reading to my seven-year-old twin cousins and they corrected me. “Ally, that doesn’t say mousse, it says mouse!” OH, OK.

A few months later I fainted in the shower. Back to the hospital I went, which turned out to be perfect timing because the results from the heart monitor I wore for a month had come in. (Those blisters from electrodes on your skin are no joke!) The doctors found out I had atrial flutter, which is a fancy phrase for abnormal heart rhythm, caused by hereditary hyperthyroidism. My doctors decided to put a little chip inside my chest just under my skin that monitors my heart, which meant going back a few steps back in my recovery progress. I felt weaker and less coordinated. But I just worked harder.

A little less than a year later, I was able to stop therapy sessions altogether. I was nervous to face the real world. I got so comfortable with my routine of therapy week after week, that part of me didn’t want it to stop. I couldn’t really take care of myself. It especially bothered me that my nails hadn’t been done in a while. So my boyfriend responded by giving me a manicure at home. It made me feel like a person again, like a semi-normal 23-year-old girl. But it wasn’t easy.

I broke down every day. A lot of tears were shed. I wore a hat to hide my face and covered my mouth when I smiled. One day I was making myself lunch and my hands were so shaky that I gave up. Hunger couldn’t motivate me to try again. I fell to the kitchen floor and cried. Maybe I was being dramatic. I should’ve tried again. But so what? We are human and we can be weak and vulnerable at times.

It’s been three years since I had the stroke, and yes, I still have some “issues”: like when I’m exhausted, I’ll slur my words. Reading is still a challenge. Multitasking takes a lot of effort. But I really can’t complain. Throughout my recovery, I learned how much my body loves me. My body and brain worked so hard to recover.

Your body is your temple, so damn right you better spoil it. Spoil it with a very healthy lifestyle and self-love; because the first time I was able to walk down stairs without holding onto the banister, I cried. The first time I walked on a treadmill normally, I never wanted to get off. The first time I was able to run after my stroke, I burst into tears.

When I work out and feel like I can't go any harder, I think of these things, and damn right that's when I go hard. I’m still not sure why I had a stroke, but I do know it has made me so much stronger. My passion for fitness and health wouldn't be the same. And I obviously wouldn't be writing this. I've been through hell and back to find that out for myself. Physically and mentally. Now, I want to inspire people. I want to show people how strong they really are.