My Story (Part 1)

The Illusion of Success

Three years ago, I had a stroke.

I was young. 43.

Career-driven, chief of staff at a high-growth start-up. Every task was urgent. Every crisis was mine to solve. I was the culture keeper, the emotional shock absorber, the CEO whisperer — the human buffer between staff and toxicity.

But I was more than that.  I was a mother in a bustling household of four.  I was a social whirlwind. I carved out time for hobbies, studies, personal interests. I was living the “work hard, play hard” cliché, pushed to its extreme.  I had internalised a version of success that was all-consuming: do it all, be everything. I was the embodiment of the Gen X woman’s myth, the one passed down by mothers and grandmothers who couldn’t “have it all,” but wanted better for us.

Be the sounding board, the mum, the wife, the career woman. Be exceptional at work, indispensable at home. Hold it all together. That was the brief.  But that narrative comes with symptoms. The belief that I had to prove I could do it all, be it all, and never drop a single ball.  

I spread myself thin. 

I didn’t pause.

I didn’t sleep.

I ignored the panic attacks, the creeping signs of burnout.

Until I couldn’t.

The Snap and the Shock of Stroke

In summer 2021, I finally said “enough.” My kids were being side-lined. My health was fraying. I struck a deal with myself and with that myth that was playing over and over in my head: stay at the job for nine more months, deliver what I’d promised, and then walk away with shares and a sliver of self-respect. I would still be that success I had always perceived myself to be.  All it would take was one last sprint – and once this job was done, I could find balance.

Then one ordinary Thursday night, after dinner with friends, I walked home with my husband Onur. But I woke up in a hospital bed.

You’ve had a stroke, my husband said. I laughed.  That was absurd.

But it wasn’t.

That week in hospital was the beginning of a new life. One that looked nothing like the one before.

It was surreal. I was still speaking. Still “me.” But I wasn’t. My brain was fogged. My body was betraying me. I leaned to the left. Walking was exhausting. My energy disappeared overnight. My doctors explained that this was serious and that recovery would take time.

Of course, living in our culture of busyness, I left the hospital and decided to push through. I ran on sheer adrenaline. And then I collapsed.