Leaving the Stroke Behind

by Cassie Jewell

The stress of supervising a residential program during COVID shook me. My easy confidence began to crack. I started drinking again. Then my marriage collapsed. I drank more. From there, I spiraled into darker places, ones I thought I’d permanently left behind. I changed worksites, hoping things would get better. They got worse.

Then I was demoted. That loss hit me harder than the divorce. You see, somewhere along the way, I had built my identity around two things: my career and competence. I knew how to be a counselor. I knew how to help people. I knew how to lead. When the demotion took that away, I felt as though there was nothing left.

Two days later, at 42, I had a stroke. The career I’d spent years building was gone, and now whatever I might have salvaged seemed gone with it. The brain I had relied on for everything—my work, my competence, my identity—had betrayed me.

My stroke affected me far more cognitively than physically. I had difficulty with decision-making, impulsivity, and emotion regulation. Not exactly the kind of person you want counseling you.

So, what did I do? I started drinking more, of course! My doctor warned me that I needed to stop and it was starting to interfere with my relationship, so I thought I’d give treatment a try. I wasn’t certain that I was an alcoholic at this point, but it was certain that alcohol was causing consequences in my life and I really had nothing to lose. I booked a one-way ticket to Scottsdale, Arizona. The plan was to detox first and then attend a residential program.

My loved ones sometimes seemed angrier about the stroke than I was. My brain didn’t have the bandwidth to entertain the idea that I should be mad. I was too busy figuring out how to live in it.

I’m not grateful for my stroke. It didn’t happen for a reason, and it didn’t magically make me a better person. But it did stop me in my tracks when I was barreling down a path of self-destruction. Maybe I should be grateful for that. But no. I refuse.

The stroke took too much from me. Let people who are better at this than I am be grateful for their strokes. Let them find the blessing and emerge newly inspired. I’m not going to pretend I feel something I don’t. Because recovery isn’t inspirational when you’re the one doing it.

And now, with this recovery thing under my belt, I feel even more equipped to do that. It’s multilayered: my early life experiences, my meth addiction, my stroke, and then my drinking problem. None of these experiences made me wiser or better simply because they happened. But living through them—and figuring out what to do with them—has shaped the counselor I’ve become.

When I first entered the field, I was idealistic and ready to save the world. I know better now. I can’t save anyone. But I can sit with people while they figure out how to save themselves.

My stroke recovery left me a little softer, slower, and kinder. My experience in treatment taught me just how difficult treatment can be. Now that I’ve been on the other side, I’m better able to understand—and adapt to—the vastly different needs of people entering treatment.

About the Author

Cassie Jewell is a mental health professional and writer whose work is shaped by both professional experience and her own journey with alcohol addiction and recovery. She writes candidly about addiction, mental health, personal growth, and the realities of rebuilding a life. Her writing reflects on the lessons, challenges, and unexpected discoveries that come with learning to live differently.

• Cassie Jewell
• stroke
• stroke recovery