Walking out of the hospital that day felt surreal. The air was crisp, around 65 degrees, the sky looked a little bluer, and even the smallest sounds felt louder. My chest ached from all of the CPR and the new device now implanted inside me, but I was alive — and that reality hit in waves. It still does to this day. Believe me, I still pinch myself from time to time.

For the first few days at home, I tried to keep things normal. The kids needed routine. My husband needed reassurance. And I… well, I needed to pretend I was okay. But inside, I wasn’t the same person who walked into that ER just days before. That version of me was gone and this one was here to stay. To adapt, learn, relearn, and more.

I had been given a second chance — actually, a fourth — and with that came both gratitude and fear. Every flutter in my chest, every skipped heartbeat, every time I felt lightheaded… I wondered, “Is this it again?” Sleep no longer came. The quiet was too loud, and the memories of what I didn’t fully remember were overwhelming, they still are to this day.

My parents stayed close. For a while, they didn’t let me out of their sight. Every time I coughed, shifted, or sighed, in front of them, their eyes would shoot toward me — that unspoken look of a parent who’s seen too much, who was now living in constant fear. I carried guilt for what my dad had witnessed, even though I knew it wasn’t my fault. That’s the thing about trauma — it changes EVERYONE it touches. Trauma bonding is a real thing. As I continue to share my story, you will hear just how much this has affected my children, the trauma no parent every wants their child to carry.

In true Michelle fashion, I tried to find the light in it all. Dark humor has always been my shield. I’d joke with the doctors, when asked how I was doing I would respond with “I’m alive,” and with others about “having a backup plan when things go south (my pacer/defibrillator).” But late at night, when it was just me and the silence of the house, I’d quietly place my hand over the left side of my chest and feel the steady rhythm of the device that now keeps me alive.

Every beat was a reminder: I was still here. Every beat is a reminder: I AM still here!

The recovery wasn’t just physical. Emotionally and mentally, I had to rebuild piece by piece. The fear of “what if it happens again?” looms constantly. There are follow-up appointments, device checks, medications, and endless conversations about my “new normal.” Eventually, I would learn about the “what if it happens again” and where it led me.

But within the fear came something powerful — genuine clarity.

I started noticing things I used to rush past: the way my kids laughed, how sunlight came through the window, the comfort of a normal, uneventful day. I stopped waiting for the perfect moment and started cherishing the ordinary ones. Make the most of every single moment, you never know when you will have your last one to cherish.

My husband and I grew stronger. That call he received — the one where he was told I had died — changed him too. We stopped taking each other for granted. Every disagreement seemed smaller. Every hug lasted a little longer. He became even more protective, and I became even more grateful. If there was any doubt of our standing- his unconditional love washed it away.

And my dad — my hero in every way that counts — he became a living reminder of what unconditional love looks like. We don’t often talk about that day anymore, but we don’t need to. It lives silently between us, in glances, in quiet moments, and in gratitude.

As the months went on, I learned more about my heart condition, about what my body could handle, and about the new boundaries I’d have to live within. It wasn’t easy. There were good days and days that made me question why this happened to me. But each time I looked back at that date — February 1, 2017 — I realized that it wasn’t just the day I first died. It was the first day I started living!

I’ve often said that God doesn’t waste pain. That day, and everything that followed, became part of my testimony. It reminded me that every breath, every sunrise, and every heartbeat is borrowed grace.

And while my story didn’t end there — (not even close) — that chapter was the beginning of something deeper: a life lived with purpose, with appreciation, and with an unshakable faith that even when things fall apart, miracles can still happen.