Maychelle Marzan

Growing Up Beside Survivors

There’s a different kind of childhood that comes from growing up with grandparents who survived a stroke.

You learn things other kids don’t notice yet. You learn patience before adulthood. You learn silence can mean exhaustion, not anger. You learn that healing is not always loud — sometimes it’s just showing up every day.

My grandparents were stroke survivors. Growing up around them changed the way I understood health, family, and even love itself. As a child, I didn’t fully understand what a stroke meant. I only noticed the small things: slower steps, medications lined beside the kitchen, quiet afternoons after doctor appointments, careful meals, reminders to rest, and the way our family became softer around them.

As I got older, everything started connecting.

I realized the heart carries more than blood. It carries stress, habits, emotions, exhaustion, and the weight people keep hidden. I began understanding how important it is to care for the body before it forces you to stop. Heart health suddenly became personal, not just medical.

Watching my grandparents survive taught me that prevention matters. The little things matter:

* moving your body,

* eating better,

* resting properly,

* managing stress,

* checking your health,

* and making time for the people you love.

That’s one reason hiking became meaningful to me.

Hiking is more than exercise. It became a reminder that health is a privilege and movement is something not everyone gets back after losing it. Every uphill climb reminds me of resilience. Every deep breath reminds me of how important our heart and body truly are. Nature slows life down enough for me to appreciate what my grandparents fought to keep — time.

When I hike, I think about survival differently now. Not just surviving illness, but surviving life with strength, gratitude, and purpose.

Growing up beside stroke survivors also taught me empathy. Aging can feel lonely. Recovery can feel frustrating. Sometimes the strongest people become dependent on others, and that shift is not easy to accept. But I learned that dignity can still exist in vulnerability. Love can exist in caregiving. Strength can exist in slowing down.

Heart and stroke awareness is not only about hospitals or statistics. Sometimes it starts at home. Sometimes it starts with watching the people you love struggle to hold a spoon again, relearn words, or walk carefully across a room. Those moments stay with you forever.

Because of them, I value health differently now.

I value walks, fresh air, long conversations, rest days, and every chance to move freely.

Most importantly, I learned that taking care of your heart is also taking care of the people connected to it.

And every hike I take carries a piece of their story with me.