When Life Demands a Pause

 Today I’m writing something different from what I usually share. Not an update about work or a new project, but something much more personal, something that came from a moment that changed everything.

Two weeks ago, around 6 p.m. on an ordinary Friday, I was working with a colleague on a project proposal. I was focused, fully immersed, doing the kind of work I genuinely love. Then suddenly, without warning, my body collapsed into a pain I couldn’t make sense of. I rushed to the Emergency Room, scared and confused, only to be told it was “nothing” and sent home.

But two days later, on Sunday morning, the pain was unbearable. I returned to the ER, this time knowing something was truly wrong. Within hours I was admitted, and by December 2nd,  one day before my 50th birthday,  I was undergoing spine surgery.

It’s strange how life rearranges itself in an instant. One moment you’re reviewing a proposal, thinking about deadlines and deliverables, and the next you’re staring at a hospital ceiling, realizing your body has forced you into a pause you didn’t choose. There’s a kind of silence that comes with moments like these. Not just the physical silence of hospital rooms, but an inner quiet, the sudden awareness that everything you thought was urgent can wait, and everything you took for granted cannot.

I’ve always been someone who pushes through. I’m passionate about my work, about creating, building, helping, moving. But lying there in pain, unable to move, waiting for answers, I had to admit something uncomfortable: my body had been speaking to me long before that Friday night. And I wasn’t listening.

Now, recovering, I am learning,  or maybe relearning,  what it means to pay attention. My body moves differently. It feels different. Some days the pain is sharp, other days the numbness is what scares me. The doctors tell me recovery may take months. My body tells me to slow down. And I’m finally learning to obey.

There is something humbling about realizing how fragile human existence is. We walk around making plans, building futures, filling calendars, believing we have endless time. But all it takes is one moment,  one unexpected shift,  to remind us that we are made of soft tissue and borrowed days. And yet, somehow, the fragility doesn’t make life weaker. It makes it miraculous.

Back home, I found myself noticing everything differently,  the light, the air, the smallest routines. Even the act of walking across a room felt like a gift. Gratitude arrived quietly but powerfully. Gratitude for my body, still fighting for me. Gratitude for the people who surrounded me with support. Gratitude for work that I love, and for the privilege of having purpose. Gratitude simply for being alive.

This experience also reminded me of something essential: loving your work is not the same as letting it consume you. Balance is not a luxury,  it’s a necessity. You can be dedicated and still need rest. You can be ambitious and still need boundaries. You can be strong and still be brought to your knees. And that’s okay. It’s all part of being human.

Recovery has forced me into patience, a virtue I’ve never been especially good at. I’m used to speed, to momentum, to intensity. But healing has its own rhythm, one I can’t control. Each day I wake up and try again: to move a little more, to breathe through discomfort, to trust the process. Some days I feel progress. Other days I feel fear. Most days, I feel both. But underneath it all, there is hope,  quiet, steady hope.

Albert Camus once wrote, “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” I hold that line close now. Because even on the hardest days, there is something inside me that insists on healing, on returning, on rising.

Turning 50 the day after spine surgery is not how I imagined beginning this new decade of my life. But maybe it’s exactly the reminder I needed, that time is precious, that life is fragile, that love and gratitude matter more than anything we rush through. If you’re reading this, take a moment. A real moment. Thank your body. Thank your people. Thank your life. Don’t wait for it to pause you before you start listening.

I didn’t choose this interruption. But I can choose what it teaches me. And maybe that is its own kind of healing,  a quieter, wiser beginning to whatever comes next.

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