Anyone else feel like an imposter at their own miracle celebration? I’m back at the Saturday prayer group tonight. It’s been eight months of clinical hell. My mother is weeping next to me—she’s touching my arm like I’m some kind of holy relic. The room is full of aunties who sent over plastic containers of soup I couldn't even swallow. They think their intercession worked. They think the "power of the spirit" pulled me out of the ICU. I sat there tonight and felt a total sense of depersonalization. I’m 33. I should be at the peak of my career, taking my kids to soccer, doing normal things. Instead I move like I’m eighty. My mother says the illness was a test. The chemotherapy and the autoimmune flare were just "obstacles." I look at the fluorescent lights and I don't feel grateful. I feel exhausted.