Category Archives: Second Chances

Staying authentic and genuine.

I woke up this morning and enjoyed reading people’s posts. The emotions were raw as words spilled out about fears, growth, happiness, and having loved and lost with hopes of letting go and loving again. I want to send a heartfelt thanks to all those who put into words so eloquently all the emotions and experiences I can relate to. I am inspired to get back into writing and reading WordPress.

WordPress is such a juxtaposition against the social media posts that hold smiling faces drinking coffee watching the morning sunrise from their deck or vacation spot and a glass of wine at sunset. Everyone’s kids are excelling in sports, graduating, and getting married. Spouses are the most loving, supportive partners. Congratulations on another year of a happy and content life.

Recently a friend posted a comment on social media about having loved someone without regret but negatively commented about the experience. I reached out to make sure she was okay because she usually posts positive comments. She was fine, just going through the ups and downs of a relationship that had ended. She called me a few days later and told me a family member wanted her to take down the post. It wasn’t the message she should be sending. I told her to leave it, it was authentic and genuine, and it was how she felt. Life’s not always about cute cat videos and plastered smiles. I told her I would have never known to reach out to make sure she is okay had I not seen that comment. Sadly, anyone who dares to post a real emotion or struggle seems to be shot down with comments about the inappropriateness of airing dirty laundry. Somehow WordPress has escaped this, and for that, I am grateful.

Life after a brain bleed. #Second Chances

Second Chance Mission

Second Chance Club

Expect

#Second_Chances by Joyce Kostakis

I glance at the calendar and remember that it is my one year anniversary. It is a good one. October 20, 2016, I joined the Second Chance club. I suffered a brain bleed and was hospitalized for eight days.

On my second or third day in the hospital, my doctor makes his morning rounds. “You are lucky to be alive,” he tells me as thoughts of I’d rather be dead than feel this level of pain race through my head. As if he can read my mind, he assures me the pain will go away. Thank God. I am relieved. I choose to believe him. I can expect this pain to go away.

“When?” I ask.

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