Reflections on 2025: A Journey of Healing

2025 was a year that tested my strength in ways I never expected. Facing serious health challenges pushed me into unfamiliar territory, forcing me to confront not only physical pain but also emotional and mental hurdles. This post shares my journey through those challenges, the recovery process, and the lessons I learned along the way. I hope my experience offers encouragement and practical insights for anyone navigating any struggles of their own.

The Unexpected Beginning

At the start of 2025, I was in good health, or so I thought. In early February, I suddenly began experiencing symptoms that disrupted my daily life—frequent anxiety and rapid heart rate, nausea, dizziness, occasional crying spells, and eventually, trembling in my hands and legs. Not knowing the severity of my condition or the road I was headed at first, I tried to pull through and continue working with minor accommodations.

It wasn't until my body began ringing loud alarm bells through recurring panic attacks a few days later, that I realized something might be seriously wrong. Unfortunately, by then, it was too late.

The rest of February 2025 is a blur—one day, I received my manager's support to run away from the office, I tried working remotely, then tried taking a few days off, meanwhile, beginning to explore more urgent medical help. Before it really sunk in, I was on a short-term health leave and had stepped back completely from full-time work. I began seeing more doctors and specialists, frequenting emergency rooms, and eventually, under the advisement of my medical team, receiving round-the-clock care through hospitalization.

This is when my voice began to do strange things. At first, I found it difficult to "spit out" the words that were in my head, as if there was a buffering process in between my head and my mouth that sometimes erased the words altogether. Soon, the delays in my speech turned to intensifying pain in my neck, shoulders, and chest, as if I was drowning everytime I tried to speak, and even when I could push the words through, they came out with a severe stutter. By March, I'd stopped speaking altogether and started writing or typing to communicate with my doctors and caregivers.

This experience itself was overwhelming. I felt a mix of terror, confusion, frustration, and anger. The more I couldn't speak and these feelings continued, the more my body and mind deteriorated. The uncertainty about what is happening and what lay ahead was daunting.

Until around mid-March, I hadn't received a clear diagnosis or treatment plan. While day by day, my mood, anxiety, and pain seemed to worsen, and my loved ones were struggling more and more to understand what's going on and find ways to help, I felt helpless, following unsure instructions about what to try or what not to do, meanwhile, not being 100% certain that any of these interventions will help.

Navigating Treatment and Setbacks

Long story short, the treatment began with a combination of medication, lifestyle changes, and psychotherapy. By mid-March, I'd returned home from the hospital, no longer needing round-the-clock care, and my symptoms were diagnosed as a severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder causing panic. The diagnosis around the speech conditions were still uncertain—at first, the doctors and specialists I saw described my symptoms as "difficulty word finding," then "stuttering due to anxiety," and eventually a "speech disorder."

One of the most difficult parts of this early journey was the not knowing. As a former researcher and academic, I didn't realize how naturally comforted I felt by the semblance of certainty, coming from the power of information—like concrete medical diagnoses, treatment plans, and prognoses.

Paired with this difficulty was navigating the healthcare system and trying to find appropriate professionals on my own: as some bittersweet examples, during this process, I've been refused by a well-meaning family doctor due to the severity of my symptoms, encountered several doctors and nurses who refused to read my notes as they "didn't have a lot of time," dismissed my symptoms, or undermined my ability to make decisions about my body because of my inability to speak. Finding the "right" psychotherapist who understands what I'm going through was also a challenging journey I had to navigate, mostly on my own, like a series of blind dates when you hardly have the energy (nor ability) to introduce yourself, nevermind trying to verbalize your experience. By the end of the month, I'd lost close to 20 pounds without noticing.

Despite these challenges, I held on to my patience and hope that recovery is rarely linear, and I'm taking the "right" steps to "find healing" soon. When April rolled around, however, I began to grow impatient, and coincidentally, I had a trip to my home country, South Korea, booked from months ago—what initially was supposed to be my honeymoon. I began receiving suggestions from my family and friends to try exploring medical help in Korea instead of cancelling the trip as differences such as trying psychotherapy in my native language, Korean, and with a therapist who has a deeper understanding of my cultural background may be helpful. I thought there may be value in simply receiving a second opinion as well. Thankfully, the medication treatment thus far had improved my mood and energy sufficiently enough to travel, and I received the approval from my Canadian medical team. Nonetheless, I still needed the support of my husband, family, or friends, to accommodate and pay close attention due to persistently fluctuating symptoms such as anxiety, panic, and difficulty speaking.

By May, although the difficulty with speech remained unchanged, perhaps due to some changed conditions I found helpful (i.e. receiving psychotherapy in Korean, feeling a little more reassured from receiving a second medical opinion, being exposed to new scenery that made me a little less anxious and sometimes, even pleasant), I returned to Canada feeling better, generally. Readjusting to life at "home," I tried to keep up a positive mindset that things are getting better and my speech will return soon too. I tried my best to stop hiding away from seeing family and friends due to the reluctance to speak and be less worried about the "future." I even began exploring (or returning to) different creative and physical activities that don't require speaking to feel "normal." This included candle and craft making, yoga, dance classes, or simply being around friends like nothing had changed.

In late summer, however, things started to shift again. I received an updated diagnosis from my specialist that my persistent speech issue may be due to a "Functional Neurological Disorder" (FND) that can trigger a variety of physical symptoms, including problems with speech. I was recommended to find a speech therapist and begin receiving assessment and treatment. In hindsight, despite this process having been the "right" and perhaps necessary bridge to cross, it piled on a new set of difficulties and led me to new and unexpected lows.

Any changes in diagnosis, treatment plans, and prognosis, by this point, made me nervous and spiral into hopeful and at the same time, frustrating searches on AI for answers in addition to sleepless nights. After meeting with another set of new specialists on speech and voice, I received differing potential diagnoses and prognoses such as a "severe stutter," "Muscle Tension Dysphonia," or "Spasmodic Dysphonia," which required further tests and appointments with specialists for confirmation, to be scheduled months down the line. Meantime, I tried my best to follow through with the daily exercises for improving my stutter (such as breathing and pronunciation) and act "as normal as possible" to reassure my family and friends (and perhaps myself) that "I'm okay," and that I'm not giving up.

By the fall, all such efforts led me to a new toll. By October, my chest, neck, and shoulder pains when trying to speak worsened, extending further to tingling and numbness in my lower back, arms, and legs, and my voice completely disappeared—I went from "having difficulty speaking" to being "unable to speak." I didn't realize until having gone through this experience, how attached my mood, self-esteem, and emotions were to my words, voice, and ability to speak.

In fear, shame, and embarrassment, everything quickly deteriorated, and soon, I began avoiding the presence of people around me, including my husband, family, and closest friends. Before I realized, I became depressed, scared of going outside, and hardly able to carry out day-to-day functions. I also became grappled in the recurrent fear that my illness is no longer a "temporary" issue, and that this may be a more permanent reality. What that meant for me, my life, and my loved ones—these were fears I could no longer ignore and pretend "I'm okay."

Out of desperation, I spent many days and weeks in October and November alone. Few silver linings were that I finally found the "right" voice therapist *(Gwen Merrick, an SLP who specializes in voice disorders) and psychotherapist: the same person who just happened to be licensed in both practices and seemed to understand what I'm going through the most, and that my husband and family began to find gentle ways of helping, without making me feel more misunderstood, overwhelmed, and frustrated against their will. With the aid of the new therapist, my diagnosis and treatment plan were updated, this time to a possible "psychogenic Muscle Tension Dysphonia," meaning that my conditions may warrant exercises and treatment to improve my voice rather than my speech. This seemed to explain why despite my best wishes, the previous speech exercises to mitigate stuttering felt like I was punching above my level and feeling desperate trying to walk before I could crawl.

*I personally reached out to Gwen before sharing her information and received her permission to do so. I share this information candidly, because it took me SO long to find Gwen, and if anyone is ever in my shoes, I want to make your journey much shorter.

Healing and Recovery

A blooming field of pink flowers in sunlight.

Despite how long and dramatic the past months of pain and suffering had been, the road to recovery was surprisingly fast and sudden. After working with the new voice therapist for a few weeks, and at the same time, trying additional new interventions such as medication, physical therapy, and acupuncture, I began to regain my voice—at first as a quiet whisper, then progressively louder and louder until I was audible in one-on-one conversations in private settings or in virtual calls with the aid of a microphone.

I still vividly remember my last voice therapy session before taking a two-week break for the holidays: my therapist encouraged me to take a pause and soak in the joy and relief of feeling better, rather than holding my breath that it may get worse again. She further helped me to detach the pain I was feeling from speaking and growing my voice, and although it still hurt and much of me felt reluctant, I followed her instructions.

The return of my voice was perhaps a little anticlimactic compared to the journey of loss and suffering—a couple of days before Christmas, my husband and family noticed my voice getting closer to "normal" volume, albeit sounding low and hoarse, and by the last week of December, I surprised my family, friends, therapist, and even my insurance coordinator with an "almost normal" voice that could be heard without a mic, over the phone, across the dinner table, and in a quiet restaurant.

Although I felt glad to see my loved ones celebrate and seem relieved, it took me a week or so more to begin feeling that same joy and relief. Despite "having a voice," I felt awkward speaking, as though a new or dormant function of my body had suddenly been turned on, and the inclination to run away while speaking to people still returned, alongside the recurring pain in the back of my neck. It took another week and a couple more therapy sessions to feel sufficiently aware and perhaps to give myself the permission to let go—and celebrate.

In my final voice therapy session of 2025, I asked my therapist whether "I'm now more prone" to seeing these conditions such as the anxiety and voice disorder return as I've experienced them once. She listened and paused. Then she said, "I see what you're worried about. But I'd like to correct just one thing from what you said: if this happens again, I think you're now more prepared." My heart fluttered.

The Unknown Road Ahead

As I enter into 2026 in a cautious celebration mode, I'm keenly aware that there still are ways to go to return fully "back to normal." Although my volume is almost back to normal, I still feel lingering pain in my neck while speaking and it seems to intensify after speaking longer than usual. Many have said that my voice also sounds low, which I'm aware too, and there may be some ways to go to return to my previous range and pitch.

The vocal abilities aside, there are also many more hurdles to face when it comes to returning to life and work—the most critical one being overcoming the fear and nervousness I still feel that my symptoms may return with any sudden changes in my environment and the mental and emotional reluctance I feel speaking; still like a rebooting robot.

There are also more pending tests and appointments to go through to ensure that nothing is or was physically wrong with "the instrument"—i.e. my vocal chords—or neurologically (such as possible nerve damage).

Nevertheless, I'm much more hopeful than a few months ago that I'm on the "right" path, or so I want to believe. I also begin to cautiously dream about what my life would be and feel like, being fully "back to normal," or maybe, just maybe, embracing a "new normal."

Lessons Learned About Accessibility, Mental Health, and Women's Health

There are many lessons I learned in the past eleven months that I can't sufficiently capture in this post alone. I'm sure when things are more "in hindsight," I may come across changed and new emotions and learnings too. For now, here are some that ring the loudest:

• Despite best intentions, I learned—the hard way—and will probably never forget that many spaces in this world are not designed for people with disability. The world becomes a different place, and you lose more than just one ability when people start to assume you are different.

• Challenges in mental health are not things to put aside or be ashamed of—until it's too late. No one knows your body like you do. In the words of my therapist that stuck: your body always whispers before it screams.

• There are still large gaps in research and education about mental health, and particularly, how they show up or pair with other conditions in women. It can be frustrating, shocking, and devastating when you find yourself in the "lesser known" category.

• Sometimes, doctors don't know it all, but this doesn't mean you should feel hopeless or dismissive—healing may not be linear and most importantly, take time.

• Our brains are powerful and our bodies may tell us more than we know. Again, I will never forget: your body whispers before it screams.

People and Resources That Made a Difference

In the past eleven months, so many people have not only visited and cared for me by my side, but checked in and shared their kind thoughts and words of encouragement. Although during many early months, I couldn't properly thank or even respond to some of these kind thoughts, you know who you are—and I mean every word when I say every small gesture made a difference.

Lastly, here are some resources I came across that brought me support & learning:

• Communication Disabilities Access Canada

• March of Dimes Canada

• Speech and Stuttering Institute

• Hidden Disabilities Sunflower

• Alliance Service Dogs

• Gwen Merrick Therapy (voice & psychotherapy)

  
  

There are many more, and I hope in the near future, I can share them, in the hopes that someone else going through the same or similar struggles as well as their loved ones can benefit from them.

Moving Forward with Hope

I mean it more than ever when I try to repeat the words in my head, "New Year, New Me." I hope that things are a bit easier or at the very least, straight forward from here. As I begin to carefully share the news of my recovery, I ask for your continued patience, understanding, and support from my family, friends, and colleagues. This is my first attempt at reconnecting with the world, finding my feet on the ground again, and trying to regain some semblance of reality outside my "comfort zone."

At the same time, if there is anyone reading this who is navigating a similar journey of sudden illness, pain, or recovery, I hope my honesty and transparency can remind you that you are not alone. I deliberated for a long time how completely I wanted to share what I felt and experienced throughout last year, and in the process, navigated a lot of fear, hesitation, and admittedly, shame. These feelings are unfortunately not only in the past; they are still current.

I'm hopeful though that my final choice to share (and be done with it!) may resonate or go as far as helping someone find courage and support. May they feel that they are not alone nor "abnormal." I've waited so long to write something like this—a candid expression of my experience, thoughts, and feelings, hopefully "in hindsight," and without the debilitating fear of judgement. This too is a step toward healing, or so I want to believe.

Thanks to anyone that took the time to read this until the end.

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PS. Celebrating my birthday in a few weeks, I've put together a little fundraiser to mark the milestones thus far and donate to the causes that have been enveloping my mind for the past several months: mental health and women's health research and education. It would be the best "birthday gift" to me, if you could consider contributing to this campaign, and at the end of January 2026, all the proceeds will be split 50/50 and donated to the Centre for Addictions and Mental Health and Women's College Hospital Foundation. Visit the link for more information or to donate.

Happy New Year.

#mentalhealth #journalling #findinghealing #fundraising #healing #mentalhealthmatters #womenshealthmatters #gratitude #recovery