It began innocuously. Early 2020 felt like any other year, albeit with an undercurrent of unease as news of a strange virus began to filter in. The stories were distant, almost abstract—a market in China, a mysterious illness. It was something happening to other people, in another part of the world. Life went on as usual, and I didn’t think much of it. How could I have known that this virus, so far removed from my reality, would soon bring me to the brink of death and alter my life forever?

We had a guest over in late February. She was a close friend, someone we trusted and enjoyed having around. She had just returned from New Orleans, filled with stories of Mardi Gras celebrations. Her laughter and enthusiasm lit up the room as she recounted the sights and sounds of one of America’s most iconic festivals. We shared a meal, exchanged stories, and enjoyed what, in hindsight, felt like a moment of innocence before the storm.

Within days of her visit, I began to feel unwell. It started as a scratchy throat, the kind of minor irritation you’d barely notice. By the next day, a persistent cough joined the scratchiness, but I still wasn’t alarmed. "It’s probably allergies," I told my wife, brushing it off. Little did I know that this was the virus taking root, beginning its assault on my body.

By the third day, the fever hit, and everything changed. It wasn’t like any fever I’d experienced before. It was relentless, leaving me drenched in sweat one moment and shivering uncontrollably the next. My muscles ached as though I’d been through a grueling workout, and I felt utterly drained of energy. Walking from one room to another felt like running a marathon. Still, I tried to downplay it. "It’s just the flu," I muttered, but my wife wasn’t convinced. She was already watching me closely, her concern growing with each passing hour.

Then came the breathing difficulties. It started subtly—a slight tightness in my chest, an occasional need to take deeper breaths. But soon, it became impossible to ignore. Breathing felt like dragging air through a narrow straw, each inhale shallow and unsatisfying. My chest tightened with every effort, as if an invisible weight was pressing down on me. My wife pulled out a pulse oximeter, something we’d had lying around from a previous health scare. The number it displayed—my blood oxygen level—was shocking. It had dropped into the 70s, dangerously low.

From that moment, everything spiraled downward. My condition worsened rapidly. Each breath became a conscious effort, and I grew weaker by the hour. Eating and drinking were nearly impossible. I could barely speak, and my thoughts became clouded. It felt as though my body was shutting down, one system at a time. My wife called the doctor, describing my symptoms and oxygen levels. They told her to bring me in immediately.

The trip to the doctor’s office is a blur. I was too weak to walk, so she and a neighbor carried me to the car. I remember snippets: the cool air on my face as we left the house, the distant hum of the car engine, her voice steady and determined as she reassured me that I would be okay. At the clinic, I could barely stay conscious. The world around me was a haze of sounds and shapes. My wife spoke for me, her voice cutting through the fog. "He needs help now," she told the doctors, insisting that they administer steroids.

At the time, the use of steroids to treat COVID-19 was still controversial. But she had been reading everything she could find about emerging treatments. Her insistence paid off. They agreed, and the steroids were administered. I had made one request before my condition worsened: no ventilator. I had heard too many stories of ventilated patients who never recovered, and I was terrified of that fate. My wife respected my wishes, ensuring that every other option was explored first.

The steroids began to work, though progress was slow. Each day brought tiny improvements—a slightly deeper breath, a moment of clarity amidst the fog. But those ten days were some of the darkest of my life. I was weak, disoriented, and completely dependent on others. My wife was my lifeline, managing my care and advocating for me when I couldn’t advocate for myself.

When the fever finally broke, I thought the worst was over. But surviving the acute phase of COVID-19 was only the beginning of a much longer journey. The virus left behind a host of lingering problems—what we now call "long COVID." Fatigue became my constant companion. It wasn’t the kind of tiredness that a good night’s sleep could fix. This was bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that made even the simplest tasks feel monumental. Walking across the room left me winded. Folding laundry felt like a Herculean effort. My body, once strong and capable, felt alien to me.

My mind was affected, too. Brain fog clouded my thoughts, making it difficult to focus or retain information. Conversations became a struggle—I’d lose track of what I was saying mid-sentence or forget details moments after hearing them. It was as if a thick veil had descended over my cognition, turning once-clear ideas into jumbled fragments.

The breathing issues persisted as well. My lungs felt weaker, less reliable. I would often find myself short of breath, a sensation that brought back memories of those terrifying early days. Each episode was a stark reminder of how fragile my health had become.

The impact of my illness extended beyond my physical and mental health. It deeply affected my family, particularly my wife. She had been my rock throughout the ordeal, but the stress of caring for me took a toll on her. She shouldered an enormous burden, managing not only my care but also the household and everything else that life demanded. She rarely showed it, but I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the weight of worry that she carried every day.

My children and grandchildren were affected, too. They had to watch from a distance, unable to visit or help due to the risk of infection. Phone calls and video chats became our only connection, but they couldn’t replace the comfort of being together. I could hear the fear in their voices when they asked how I was doing, and I hated that I couldn’t reassure them. The illness created a distance between us, not just physically but emotionally. It was a reminder of how isolating sickness can be, not only for the person experiencing it but for their loved ones as well.

Emotionally, the experience left a deep mark on me. Surviving something so severe forces you to confront your own mortality in a way few other experiences can. There were moments when I wasn’t sure I would make it, moments when I felt like giving up. But there were also moments of immense gratitude—gratitude for my wife, for the doctors who treated me, and for the chance to keep living.

As I navigate life with long COVID, I’ve had to learn to adapt to a new normal. There are good days and bad, moments of progress and setbacks. But through it all, I’ve held onto the lessons this experience has taught me. Life is fragile and unpredictable, and the things we take for granted—our health, our relationships, our ability to simply breathe—are more precious than we often realize.

Surviving COVID-19 was not just a battle of the body; it was a war waged on every front—physical, mental, emotional, and relational. While the acute phase of the illness was harrowing, what followed in the months after brought its own set of challenges, challenges that tested my resilience in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

The fatigue was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Before COVID, I considered myself active and capable. A day’s work might leave me tired, but it was the kind of tiredness that a night’s sleep could cure. After COVID, even the smallest exertion drained me completely. There were days when getting out of bed felt like scaling a mountain. I remember one morning vividly: I sat at the edge of the bed, intending to stand up and walk to the kitchen, but my legs felt like lead. Every muscle screamed in protest, and I had to lie back down, defeated. It was humbling and infuriating to feel so powerless in my own body.

This wasn’t just tiredness; it was a complete lack of energy, a sense that my body was running on empty no matter how much rest I got. It affected every aspect of my life. Simple chores like folding laundry or washing dishes became monumental tasks. I avoided going up and down stairs unless absolutely necessary because the effort left me gasping for air. Even sitting upright for long periods felt exhausting.

The physical challenges didn’t stop there. I experienced joint pain and muscle weakness that seemed to have no clear cause. It wasn’t constant, but when it flared up, it left me immobile. Some mornings, my hands ached so much that holding a cup of coffee felt impossible. Other times, my knees would throb, making every step an ordeal. I began to wonder if this was my new reality, if I’d ever regain the physical strength I once had.

The mental effects were equally debilitating. Brain fog became my constant companion, a haze that clouded my thoughts and muddled my memory. Tasks that once came naturally, like balancing a checkbook or following a recipe, now felt insurmountable. I’d start a sentence and forget what I was trying to say halfway through. Reading became frustrating because I couldn’t retain what I had just read. Conversations with friends and family often left me feeling embarrassed and frustrated, as though I had lost a part of myself that I could never get back.

This cognitive decline affected my confidence. I began to doubt my ability to contribute meaningfully to discussions or handle responsibilities I once managed with ease. The frustration often gave way to anger, anger at my own limitations and at the virus that had caused them. But the anger didn’t solve anything; it only left me more drained.

Emotionally, the aftermath of COVID-19 was a rollercoaster. Surviving something so severe forced me to confront my own mortality in ways I had never considered before. There were moments during the illness when I truly thought I wouldn’t make it, moments when I was ready to let go. Coming back from that brink left me with a profound sense of gratitude, but also a lingering fear. What if it happened again? What if the next time, I wasn’t so lucky? These thoughts became a shadow over my recovery, a constant reminder of my vulnerability.

The impact on my family was profound. My wife, who had been my rock during the worst days of the illness, continued to shoulder much of the burden during my recovery. She took on responsibilities I could no longer handle, from managing household tasks to navigating the complexities of my medical care. While she rarely showed it, I knew the stress was taking a toll on her. She worried constantly, not just about my physical health, but also about my mental well-being. She encouraged me to talk about my feelings, to share what I was going through, but there were times when I didn’t know how to put it into words.

Socially, the experience was isolating. COVID-19 was a shared global crisis, yet the personal nature of my illness and recovery made me feel alone. Friends reached out with kind words and offers of help, but I often felt too exhausted to respond. Invitations to gatherings or events were declined, not just because of lingering health concerns, but because I didn’t have the energy to participate. Over time, the calls and messages grew less frequent, and I found myself retreating further into my own world.

As the months went on, I began to explore ways to manage my symptoms and reclaim some sense of normalcy. I started physical therapy to rebuild my strength, though progress was slow and often frustrating. Breathing exercises became a daily ritual, a way to improve my lung function and stave off the episodes of breathlessness that still haunted me. I followed a cognitive therapist online to address the brain fog, learning techniques to improve focus and memory. These efforts helped, but they were just small steps on a long and uncertain journey.

One unexpected benefit of the experience was the way it deepened my relationships with the people who stuck by me. My wife and I grew closer in ways I hadn’t anticipated. She showed me a depth of love and resilience that I will never forget. My children, despite the distance created by the pandemic, made a concerted effort to stay connected, sending letters, photos, and videos that lifted my spirits on the darkest days.

Through it all, I found myself reflecting on the lessons this experience had taught me. I realized how much I had taken for granted before—my health, my independence, even the simple act of breathing. I learned the importance of leaning on others, of accepting help when it’s offered. And I discovered a well of resilience within myself that I didn’t know existed.

But recovery is not a straight line. There are days when I feel almost like my old self, and days when the fatigue, pain, and brain fog come roaring back. On those days, it’s easy to feel discouraged, to wonder if I’ll ever truly get better. Yet, I hold onto hope. Hope that with time, my body and mind will continue to heal. Hope that the lessons I’ve learned will stay with me long after the symptoms have faded. And hope that by sharing my story, I can help others who are navigating their own journeys through illness and recovery.

One of the most startling realizations during my recovery was how much COVID-19 stripped away my sense of control. Before the illness, I had always been someone who could tackle challenges head-on, solve problems, and push through difficulties. COVID changed all of that. My body refused to cooperate, my mind felt clouded and unreliable, and even my emotions felt foreign at times. It was as if the virus had not only attacked my physical health but also unraveled the threads of who I thought I was.

The physical toll of long COVID wasn’t just about fatigue or pain—it affected every corner of my daily life. My sense of balance was off, leaving me unsteady on my feet and prone to dizzy spells. My heart would race inexplicably, a sensation that was both frightening and disorienting. Sleep became elusive. Nights that should have brought rest were filled with tossing and turning, plagued by a strange combination of exhaustion and restlessness. When I did manage to sleep, I often woke up feeling no better than when I lay down.

Eating became another challenge. My appetite had changed, and certain foods I once enjoyed now seemed unappealing or even nauseating. Meals felt more like a chore than a pleasure, and I began to lose weight—not in a healthy, intentional way, but in a way that left me feeling weaker and more vulnerable. My wife, ever attentive, tried everything to entice me to eat, from cooking my favorite dishes to introducing new recipes. Sometimes it worked, but more often, I found myself eating out of necessity rather than enjoyment.

One of the most difficult aspects of my recovery was the unpredictability of my symptoms. Some days, I felt almost normal, as though I had turned a corner and could see the light at the end of the tunnel. But then, without warning, a wave of fatigue or pain or brain fog would crash over me, dragging me back down. It was like trying to climb a hill of loose sand—two steps forward, one step back, with no clear end in sight.

This unpredictability made it hard to plan anything. Simple commitments, like visiting family or running errands, became sources of anxiety. What if I woke up that day too exhausted to follow through? What if I got halfway through an outing and had to turn back? The fear of disappointing others, or of being perceived as unreliable, weighed heavily on me. Over time, I found myself withdrawing more and more, not because I didn’t want to see people, but because I didn’t trust my body to cooperate.

The emotional side of recovery was equally complex. Surviving a life-threatening illness should have been a cause for celebration, but instead, I found myself grappling with a sense of loss. I mourned the person I used to be—the energy I once had, the confidence, the ease with which I navigated the world. At times, it felt like I was a shadow of my former self, and I struggled to reconcile who I was now with who I had been before COVID.

This sense of loss extended to my relationships. My wife and I, though closer in many ways, also faced new challenges. She had taken on so much during my illness and recovery, and while she never complained, I could see the strain it caused. I felt guilty for how much she had to shoulder, even though I knew it wasn’t my fault. There were moments when we both felt overwhelmed, when the weight of everything seemed too much to bear. But we found ways to navigate those moments together, leaning on the strength of our bond and our shared determination to get through it.

My relationships with my children and grandchildren also changed. They were supportive and understanding, but there was a new dynamic—one where I was no longer the strong, capable father and grandfather they had always known. Instead, they saw me as someone who needed care and understanding, someone who wasn’t invincible. It was humbling, and at times, frustrating. I wanted to be the one providing support, not the one receiving it.

This shift in dynamics extended to my friends and social circles. Some people were incredibly supportive, checking in regularly and offering to help in any way they could. Others, however, seemed to pull away. Whether it was fear of the virus, discomfort with my new reality, or simply the natural drift that happens in difficult times, I’m not sure. What I do know is that those absences hurt, even if I tried to convince myself otherwise.

As the months turned into a year, I began to think more about the broader implications of what I had been through. COVID-19 was not just a personal crisis—it was a global one. Millions of people around the world were facing similar struggles, and many had lost loved ones to the virus. I felt an odd mixture of grief for those who hadn’t survived and gratitude that I had. It was a sobering reminder of how fragile life is and how connected we all are, even in the face of something as isolating as a pandemic.

I also thought a lot about the healthcare workers who had cared for me. They were navigating uncharted territory, trying to treat a virus that was still poorly understood. Their courage, compassion, and dedication left a lasting impression on me. They weren’t just treating patients; they were fighting a battle on behalf of humanity, often at great personal cost. I will always be grateful for their efforts and the role they played in my recovery.

As I continued to adapt to my new normal, I found solace in small victories. Taking a short walk without needing to rest halfway, completing a household task that had seemed impossible just weeks earlier, or holding a conversation without losing my train of thought—each of these moments felt like a step forward, however small. They reminded me that progress is possible, even if it’s slow and uneven.

I also began to explore new ways of finding meaning and purpose. Writing about my experience became a therapeutic outlet, a way to process everything I had been through and to share my story with others who might be facing similar challenges. I connected with online support groups for long COVID patients, where I found a sense of camaraderie and understanding that was deeply comforting.

At the same time, I grappled with the larger questions that my experience had raised. What does it mean to truly live, rather than just survive? How do we find joy and purpose in the face of adversity? And what responsibilities do we have to others, particularly in times of crisis? These were questions I didn’t have easy answers to, but they guided my reflections and shaped my perspective on the world.

Through it all, one thing became clear: life is both fragile and resilient. It can be upended in an instant, but it can also adapt and rebuild. Surviving COVID-19 was not the end of my journey—it was the beginning of a new chapter, one marked by challenges but also by opportunities to grow, to connect, and to make the most of the time I have.

I moved further into my recovery, the days began to take on a new rhythm, albeit one marked by limitations and uncertainty. Each morning, I would wake with a faint glimmer of hope that today might be better than yesterday. But more often than not, I was reminded of the virus’s lingering grip on my body and mind. Every action felt deliberate, calculated, as if I were rationing out the little energy I had to make it through the day.

One thing I hadn’t anticipated was how much the illness would change my relationship with time. Before COVID-19, time felt abundant. I thought about the future in broad strokes—family vacations, projects I wanted to complete, milestones I looked forward to. But during recovery, time became something I measured in moments. A good hour was a victory. A good day felt like a blessing. The future, once so expansive, now felt fragile and uncertain.

These shifts in perspective seeped into how I viewed my relationships as well. I began to see every interaction with my wife, children, and grandchildren as an opportunity to express gratitude and love. There was a new urgency in how I spoke to them, a sense that nothing should go unsaid. I realized that I had often assumed there would always be more time—time to apologize for mistakes, time to deepen connections, time to enjoy each other’s company. COVID-19 shattered that illusion, and I resolved to make the most of whatever time I had.

However, even with this newfound clarity, not every moment was positive. The emotional weight of recovery was immense. I found myself slipping into bouts of melancholy, overwhelmed by the sheer scope of what I had lost. My body no longer felt like my own, and my mind betrayed me with its fog and forgetfulness. The things I once took pride in—my strength, my sharpness, my ability to provide for my family—felt out of reach. There were days when I didn’t recognize the person in the mirror, days when I felt like a shell of my former self.

My wife noticed these shifts in my mood. She tried her best to lift my spirits, reminding me of how far I had come and the resilience I had shown. But her encouragement often clashed with my internal narrative. It’s hard to celebrate survival when you feel like you’re merely existing. Still, her unwavering support kept me tethered to reality, and I leaned on her more than I ever had before.

One evening, we had a conversation that stayed with me. She asked, “What do you want your life to look like now? Not what it was before, but what it could be moving forward?” Her question stopped me in my tracks. I had been so focused on what I had lost that I hadn’t considered the possibility of building something new. That conversation marked a turning point. It didn’t erase the challenges, but it gave me a new lens through which to view them.

I began to explore ways to adapt to my new reality. Physical therapy became a cornerstone of my routine, though progress was painstakingly slow. I learned to set small, achievable goals: walking a few extra steps each day, lifting slightly heavier weights, or practicing balance exercises. Each milestone felt like a tiny reclamation of my independence, a reminder that I could still push forward despite the setbacks.

As I continued to navigate recovery, I found myself reflecting on the broader implications of the pandemic. COVID-19 had exposed so many vulnerabilities—not just in individuals like me but in entire communities and systems. It highlighted the fragility of our healthcare infrastructure, the inequities that left certain populations more vulnerable, and the ways in which isolation can erode our sense of connection and belonging. These reflections weighed heavily on me, but they also deepened my empathy for others who were struggling in their own ways.

I thought often about the healthcare workers who had cared for me and so many others. They had faced unimaginable challenges, working long hours in high-risk environments, often without the resources they needed. Their dedication and compassion left a lasting impression on me, and I resolved to find ways to support and honor their work, whether through advocacy, donations, or simply expressing my gratitude whenever I had the chance.

Another aspect of the pandemic that struck me was how differently people responded to it. Some rallied together, offering support and kindness to those in need. Others succumbed to fear or frustration, lashing out in ways that deepened divisions. I saw families torn apart by disagreements over safety measures, friendships strained by differing views, and communities grappling with the weight of collective trauma. It was a stark reminder of how crises can bring out both the best and worst in us.

For me, the pandemic underscored the importance of empathy and understanding. Everyone was carrying their own burdens, whether it was the loss of a loved one, the stress of economic uncertainty, or the exhaustion of being a frontline worker. I realized that my own struggles, while significant, were part of a much larger tapestry of human experience. This perspective helped me find moments of grace, even on the hardest days.

As time went on, I began to notice subtle but meaningful changes in how I approached life. I became more intentional about how I spent my time and energy. Activities that once felt like obligations—like calling a friend or spending an afternoon with family—now felt like privileges. I started paying closer attention to the small joys in life: the warmth of the sun on my face, the sound of birds outside my window, the comfort of a kind word from a loved one. These moments didn’t erase the challenges I faced, but they reminded me of the beauty that still existed in the world.

My experience with COVID-19 also deepened my sense of purpose. I realized that surviving something so severe came with a responsibility to share my story and help others who might be going through similar struggles. I began speaking with support groups for long COVID patients, offering advice and encouragement to those who felt lost or overwhelmed. I also started writing more, I wanted to shed light on the realities of long COVID, to give a voice to the millions of people navigating its challenges, and to advocate for better research and resources.

Through these efforts, I found a renewed sense of connection. I wasn’t alone in this journey, and neither were the people I spoke with. We were part of a community—a patchwork of individuals bound by shared experiences and a shared determination to persevere. This sense of solidarity became a source of strength, reminding me that even in the face of adversity, we are capable of supporting and uplifting one another.

Surviving COVID-19 was a transformative experience, one that left scars but also revealed new strengths. Looking back, it’s astonishing how much life can change in such a short time. The person I was before COVID-19 feels like a distant memory—a version of myself who took health, energy, and even the simplest joys of life for granted. The virus forced me to confront vulnerabilities I didn’t know I had and to adapt to a reality I never anticipated.

The physical toll of long COVID has been profound. My body, once reliable and strong, now requires careful attention and patience. Every step forward has been hard-earned, and progress is measured in small but meaningful victories. I’ve learned to listen to my body, to give it the rest and care it needs, even when it frustrates me. While I may not be the person I was before, I’ve come to appreciate the resilience that has carried me through.

Mentally and emotionally, the journey has been equally challenging. There were moments of despair, times when it felt like the weight of everything was too much to bear. But those moments also taught me the value of hope and the importance of leaning on the people who love and support me. My wife has been my rock, my steady source of strength, and I am endlessly grateful for her unwavering presence. My family has reminded me of the power of connection, even when distance and uncertainty made it difficult to stay close.

This experience has also deepened my empathy and understanding for others. The pandemic has affected everyone in unique and profound ways, and I’ve come to see how much we all carry silently. It has reminded me of the importance of kindness, of reaching out to others even when we don’t know the right words to say. Sometimes, simply being present is enough.

As I continue to live with long COVID, I’ve found a new sense of purpose. Sharing my story, whether through writing, speaking, or simply listening to others, has become a way to give meaning to what I’ve been through. It’s a reminder that even in the face of adversity, we can find ways to contribute, to connect, and to make a difference.

Most importantly, this journey has taught me to treasure the present. Life is fragile and unpredictable, and none of us knows what tomorrow will bring. But there is so much beauty to be found in the here and now—the warmth of a loved one’s smile, the comfort of a quiet moment, the satisfaction of a small victory. These are the things that sustain me, that remind me why I fought so hard to survive.

As I close this post, I do so with a sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the people who supported me, for the healthcare workers who cared for me, and for the strength I found within myself. The road ahead is still uncertain, but I know I’m not walking it alone. And for that, I am profoundly thankful.