Adwoa Okorewaa : Wellspring of A Matriach

On illness, faith, and the second chance I almost missed

The storm came fast and changed the air,
It left a person standing there.
I did not know. I did not choose.
With so much lost, I feared I’d lose
The very heart of who I am,
Broken like a fallen dam.

I used to run. I used to strive.
I thought that was what meant to thrive.
But when my body slowed to rest,
I put my spirit to the test.

I had to learn to sit quite still,
To climb a different kind of hill.
It is not the life I had before.
I had to close a heavy door.

But in this room, the light is soft.
I hold my heavy heart aloft.
I am different now, and that is okay.
I am finding beauty in the gray.

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A life paused, a faith that stayed

It’s been a minute! Not for lack of words, but because the months between November and January have been one of deep reflection that changed me in ways I am still learning to understand.

I celebrate my birthday in November. This year, it was quiet. I was unwell, so I stayed home and later went out for dinner with my family. What I missed most was my grandmother’s voice. Every year, she made my birthday feel sacred. She reminded me that it was not just a celebration, but the day I was born and given purpose. This year, for the second time in a row, that voice was absent, and the silence felt heavy.

December made that absence sharper.
December 19 is my grandmother’s birthday; she would have been 93 in December 2025.
But by a twist of fate, in December 2022 it also became my second birthday.

The year 2022 was challenging. I had relocated for work a year earlier and was still adjusting to a new culture, while carrying career pressure and family responsibilities. My body eventually gave in. I had COVID. I had chickenpox for the first time in my life. I fell ill several times, but the most frightening episode came in November, when what seemed like a common flu turned into a critical illness, and I temporarily lost my hearing in both ears after weeks of treatment. In early December, I faintly regained hearing in my left ear, and I felt lucky.

I was advised to see a specialist. The appointment was scheduled for December 19

.

That morning, I called my grandmother to wish her a happy birthday. She was preparing for her ninetieth celebration. I struggled to hear her as my own hearing was slipping. A few hours later, everything changed.

The specialist found something serious, something usually described in textbooks and rarely seen in practice. I was told that the largest hospital in the country, though only thirty minutes away, might be too far given my condition. I needed to reach another major facility within fifteen minutes. The doctor made calls and cancelled the ambulance; even a five- to ten-minute delay could be life-threatening, and he believed a private vehicle was the fastest option. I knew something was wrong, but I did not fully understand how close I was to the edge. I was admitted immediately. From that point, my memory fades. I lost consciousness, drifting in and out.

When I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by doctors and specialists who looked genuinely puzzled. Many were amazed that I was alive. I was later told that based on my condition, survival had not been expected.

I remember times when student doctors were brought in to have “a look” at the peculiar case and what felt like a medical miracle. It felt funny to me then. But that’s a story for another day.

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Becoming the miracle I am

Days passed. And then came the moment that changed everything.

For the first time since I had been admitted, I heard my grandmother’s voice.
Clear. Familiar. Steady.

She said in Fanti dialect,
“I have been praying. I kept faith. I knew you would come back to us. I thank God for bringing you back. This is your second chance, your rebirth.”

I felt the weight of everything I had been through, and the miracle of simply being there, alive. Those words stayed with me. They still do.

In that moment, I understood something I had overlooked for years: the quiet power of constant prayer. The strength of faith lived daily, not loudly. Wherever I was in the world, my grandmother prayed for me morning and night. That carried me when my body could not.

In those early days, I sometimes could not remember my own name. Months later, I was my talkative self again. You would never imagine how ill I had been.

But I felt it.
I knew it.
I was different.

For nearly three years, I had been focused on becoming who I was before. Before illness. Before everything changed. In doing that, I forgot to be thankful. I forgot to see the purpose of the miracle I survived. I wanted my old life back instead of honoring the new one I had been given. I kept asking myself why I could no longer work for fifteen hours without a break, why the energetic woman who stayed sharp and active for days without rest seemed to be gone.

I survived, but I had not yet learned how to live.

Then, on December 30, 2025, it finally became clear.

This second chance was not meant to take me backwards. It was meant to move me forward. I was not saved to return to who I was. I was saved to become someone new.

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New Year, New Moi

As I step into 2026, I am letting go of the idea of the vibrant girl I used to be. For a long time, I lived with frustration and felt broken. But now, I am choosing a different kind of strength. I have traded speed for breath.

I used to measure myself by how fast I could go.
Now, I measure myself by how deeply I can breathe.

I did not ask for these cracks, but I have learned that gold shows best in them.
This year is not about fixing myself.
It is about accepting the miracle I have become.

My grandmother never taught through grand speeches. She taught through how she lived: with quiet prayer, steady presence, and trust during uncertain seasons. She believed that change was not something to fight, but something to meet with patience and grace. For anyone shaped by loss, transition, or a life that unfolded differently than planned, her values offer a gentle guide.

Slow down and listen to what life is asking of you now. Give yourself permission to pause without self-judgment. Ask for help when you need it. You can choose small, intentional steps forward, grounded in gratitude, faith, and self-compassion. Sometimes, the bravest action is simply allowing yourself to live differently and to live well.

More fragile, yes. Somehow more whole.
If I seem different, it is because I am.
November brought me into the world.
December 19 brought me back.

No one else may see the difference.
I do.
And that is enough.

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