Seven Years Ago, I Walked Myself Into Resurrection

There are chapters we never choose, but they choose us. Seven years ago, I was walking around with death tapping on my shoulder, and no one could hear it but me. This is not just a story about illness— it's about intuition. The terrifying silence of being dismissed. And the sacred roar of deciding to save yourself. This is how I almost became a ghost. And why I'll never stop speaking for the living.

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I was dying.
And they called it allergies.

Said it so casual,
like my body wasn't a burning building
with no exits left.
Like I wasn't a mother unraveling
in real time,
lungs playing a ghost note
with every breath I begged to borrow.

The whistle in my chest wasn't human.
It was a warning.
A funeral dirge sung
by my own ribcage.

I blacked out behind steering wheels
and inside pet stores—
collapsed under aquariums
like God Himself was trying
to show me how heavy my silence had become.
Still, I worked.
Still, I smiled.
Still, I said,
"I'm fine."

But I wasn't.
I hadn't been for weeks.
No bowel movements.
No peace.
Just pain that felt prophetic.
Visions that blurred the veil.
Hallucinations that made me question
if I was already halfway gone.

So I walked myself to the ER.
No dramatics.
No grand finale.
Just a quiet plea:
"I'm about to die."

Then machines took over.
Tubes and masks and the rhythm of monitors—
my new lullaby.

And the verdict?
AIDS.
Not a sentence.
But a story.
An origin.
A name for what had haunted me,
and nearly won.

Cryptococcus—
fungus in the bloodstream,
creeping toward my brain
but never making it.
Because even in my lowest moment,
my mind stayed mine.
God said, Not yet.
Not her.

PCP Pneumonia had grown wild and unchecked,
but I was still here.
A mother of an 18‑year‑old
who had just thrown his cap in the air,
and I hadn't yet seen the man he would become.
I hadn't held a grandbaby.
Haven't buried my parents.
Haven't told this story.

But I would.

Because I didn't die.
I resurrected.

✨ So when I speak now,
it's with lungs that were borrowed and bought back.
With breath baptized in purpose.
With a whistle that once sounded like death,
now echoing through every word I write,
every step I reclaim,
every life I touch.

Seven years ago, I almost became a mystery unsolved.
Today, I'm a miracle unfolding.
And baby,
I still got verses left.

This blog was originally posted on Wreckage & Rebirth