T
here are moments that divide a life into before and after. My stroke was one of them.
Before, I was a husband, a father, a provider.
After, I was learning how to lift a hand, how to speak without fear, how to believe that tomorrow still wanted me.
In that space where everything broke—my strength, my confidence, my sense of self—my wife did not.
We have been together for 26 years. That number sounds simple, almost ordinary. But behind it is a love that learned how to bend without breaking, how to stay when staying was the hardest thing to do.
When the stroke came, life spoke a cruel language. Rooms felt smaller. Time felt heavier. I was not the man I used to be—and I was terrified that I never would be again.
But she stayed.
Not just beside me—for me.
From teacher, she became caregiver. She bathed me when my body refused to cooperate. She helped me stand when my legs forgot how. She walked with me into therapy rooms where pain echoed louder than hope. She held my hand through every small, stubborn step forward.
Without warning, she became the head of our family.
She carried the weight I dropped.
She did not complain.
She did not run.
She rose.
And then there were our children—angels disguised as ordinary kids who suddenly became extraordinary.
Betty, who once dreamed only of being a teacher, began dreaming of healing too. She watched my medicine like a guardian clock. “O Daddy, bawal ka nang magpuyat.” Even when I interrupted her reviews, even when her time was stolen by my needs—she chose love.
Totoy, my brave boy, turned from a communication student into my personal therapist. “Tiis lang Daddy, masakit ‘to.” He warned me the massages would hurt. They did. But every ache was a promise: You are not alone.
At first, I could not bear the pain.
But love has a way of teaching us endurance.
Slowly, I learned to breathe through it.
Slowly, I learned to live again.
They did not just take care of me. They rebuilt me.
When I fell apart, my wife held the family together—and in doing so, she held me too.
She did not change roles;
she became everything.
Now, as we mark 26 years of marriage, I understand something deeper than romance:
Love is not found in perfect moments.
It is forged in broken ones.
To my wife—my strength, my home, my miracle—thank you for carrying me when I could not carry myself. Thank you for choosing me, again and again, even when I was hard to love.
I promise you this:
I will keep rising.
I will keep fighting.
I will grow stronger—
not just for me, but for you.
Because our story is not over.
It is only learning how to stand.
