I was born with a congenital heart defect known as Transposition of the Great Arteries (TGA), and underwent corrective surgery when I was one month old. From a very young age, hospitals, regular check-ups, and physical limitations became a normal part of my life. I was restricted from high-intensity activities which often made me feel different from others.
As a child, I harbored resentment toward my parents. I questioned why I was born this way and why I had to endure pain, hospital visits, and restrictions that others did not have to face in their life. As I matured, I came to understand that my health predicament was not the fault of my parents. Slowly, I learned to accept my situation and the life I had been given. I tried my best to live positively choosing happiness where I could and enjoying each moment rather than dwelling on what I lacked.
When I was thirteen, doctors discovered that my aortic valve had begun to weaken. The weakening would cause regurgitation and also an increase risk of heart failure. I was prescribed losartan to slowdown the deterioration of the aortic valve while awaiting a valve replacement surgery. In a serious and sobering tone, the doctors spoke to me and my parents about the procedure, and the reality of life expectancy after such a major operation.
Hearing this was deeply unsettling. Until then, I had lived with a mindset of enjoying the present. Suddenly, it felt as though a countdown had begun. I became more cautious with my decisions, weighing every choice heavily. On the flipside, the rebellious teenager in me refused to fully accept this reality. I wanted to escape to live as if nothing had changed. This inner conflict showed itself in my actions. I did not always take my medication as prescribed as a reaction to my personal inward struggle.
Wrestling with my emotions led me into overthinking. I constantly replayed my decisions, blaming myself for what I had done, and what I had failed to do. Every choice felt as though it needed to be the “right” one for a future that would suddenly feel uncertain. Over time, this cycle of self-blame and second-guessing eroded my confidence and self-esteem.
By December 2024, doctors determined that my valve replacement surgery could no longer be delayed. The risks were clearly laid out for a major heart surgery, and there was a real possibility of death. For the first time, I had to confront the idea that this might be the end of my story.
The months leading up to March 2025 were heavy. My overthinking intensified, crowding my mind with thoughts about the potential end of my life. At some point, I stopped fighting those thoughts and began to accept them. I made peace with the possibility that I might not wake up from surgery.
During that time, I began reaching out to people from my past. I met old friends, gathered with close family members, and spent time with those who mattered most. Some encouraged me to remain hopeful. Others cried when they heard about my situation. One friend wrote a long message before my surgery. She shared how in high school, seeing me carefree and joyful despite my condition had given her hope during her own struggles. She told me she hoped to see that same hope in me again. Her words stayed with me.
As I lay on the operating bed, my mind raced with thoughts of everything I could have done differently, and everything I wished I had done before this day. Soon after, general anesthesia was administered, and everything faded into black.
When I woke up in the intensive care unit, my body was pierced with multiple tubes and needles. Every movement brought pain. As the effects of the painkillers wore off, my sensitivity to pain intensified, and my overthinking sky-rocketed.
Because of my congenital heart condition, I was placed in the pediatric ICU. For several days, I barely slept. The cries of children around me echoed through the ward. Hearing children suffer through similar heart conditions was deeply distressing. I could not stop imagining what their parents must be enduring. Everything felt shrouded in darkness. I found myself thinking I would rather face heart failure than endure this suffering again.
Even when I tried to distract myself with YouTube videos or checking on my friends’ lives, negative thoughts overwhelmed me. I questioned why I was not like them and why I could not be happy as they were. I used to believe that people with depression simply needed to learn to be grateful for what they had. Now I was experiencing it firsthand the inability to feel joy, even when surrounded by things I once loved. It was one of the most frightening experiences I had ever known.
felt like a medical condition had now become something that would shape the smallest details of my daily life.
I was placed on warfarin, a blood-thinning medication necessary to reduce the risk of stroke caused by blood clots forming around the artificial valve. While essential, this medication introduced new challenges that is, an increased risk of bleeding and the need for constant monitoring. Daily decisions that others rarely think about now carried serious consequences.
Then came March 20th, 2025.
When I was finally able to stand and move on my own, I was transferred to a normal ward for recovery. There, doctors began briefing me about the lasting lifestyle changes that would follow my valve replacement surgery. What once
One of the most difficult adjustments involved food. As someone who loves food and enjoys exploring different cuisines, this was especially painful. I had to become acutely aware of what I consumed, particularly food and supplements that could affect blood thickness. Items rich in vitamin K and C, as well as fish oil, pomegranate, and other foods known to influence blood clotting, could no longer be enjoyed freely. Eating, which once brought joy and discovery, now became something I had to carefully regulate.
My physical activities were also limited. Contact sports such as basketball, which I once enjoyed, was no longer an option due to the increased risk of stroke or severe injury. These restrictions became constant reminders of my condition and the fragility of life, reinforcing the feeling that my freedom had been reduced even further.
During my recovery period, I learned more about my surgery. My parents told me that at some stage of the operation, I had nearly flat-lined. What was supposed to be a six-hour procedure had turned into a duration of nearly two full days. I suffered an anaphylactic shock due to an allergic reaction to antibiotics that led to severe internal bleeding. I had to undergo another emergency open-heart surgery to remove the accumulated blood. During that procedure, the doctors discovered that the metallic valve implanted earlier was faulty and they replaced it immediately.
Learning this shook me deeply. Knowing how close I had come to death, and how many things had gone wrong, intensified my stress and anxiety. I felt overwhelmed by the fragility of life.
As I processed this information, regret and self-blame weighed heavily on me. I blamed myself for my inconsistent intake of prescribed medication and for not taking my condition more seriously in the years earlier. I felt as though I had shortened my lifespan through my own irresponsibility. These thoughts pulled me even deeper into depression, leaving me overwhelmed by guilt, fear, and despair.
At that point, I urgently needed to speak to someone who had gone through a similar experience. My mind was heavy, filled with negativity and unanswered questions. I pleaded with caretakers and doctors to allow me to talk to someone I could relate to. Eventually, they introduced me to a man named Henry.
Henry is Muslim and, unlike me, did not have a congenital heart condition. He shared that he had been healthy until the age of twenty-nine, when he began experiencing shortness of breath. Doctors discovered three failing heart valves, and he had to undergo surgery to replace all three. As he spoke, I realized that many of the thoughts he described mirrored my own - anger, blame, resentment, and even blaming his parents.
What stood out most was how he overcame that darkness. He testified that it was through faith and hope in God that he was able to leave that destructive mindset behind. He told me that regardless of religion, we must hold on to faith, trusting that our Creator loves us deeply.
Hearing those words changed something in me. For the first time, I reflected on the miracles in my own life. Despite the complications, allergic shock, internal bleeding, and faulty valve, I was still alive. From that conversation, I felt the Holy Spirit strongly. The darkness that had surrounded me for so long lifted. My mind felt at peace, and my heart felt lighter.
Recalling the blessings I had received throughout my life, along with the message my friend had written before surgery, I found strength returning - both physically and mentally. I am deeply grateful to Henry for reaching out to me at my lowest point and helping me see how deeply God loves each of us.
Looking back, I now see that meeting Henry was not a coincidence. God often works through people to accomplish His purposes. Henry’s words were simple, yet they carried truth and light. Through him, I was reminded that faith and hope in God transcend differences, and that our Creator’s love reaches all His children. That encounter taught me that the Spirit can testify of truth through anyone who speaks sincerely, and that God is always aware of us - even in pain, fear, and uncertainty.
During my recovery, a passage from Doctrine and Covenants 121:7–8 came to mind: “My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment.” At the time, my surgery and suffering felt endless. Yet this scripture helped me see my experience from an eternal perspective. What felt unbearable in the moment was only a brief chapter in the story of my life. The pain, fear, and uncertainty did not define me, nor did they mean that God had abandoned me.
I testify that hope is more than optimism or positive thinking. As taught in Moroni 7:41, true hope is found “through the Atonement of Christ.” Although my circumstances did not immediately change and my challenges did not disappear, my heart did. In moments of pain, fear, and uncertainty, I came to know that I was not alone. That I was known and deeply loved by God. I testify that Jesus Christ is the source of enduring hope, and that through Him, even our darkest trials can become moments of peace, strength, and renewed purpose.