Ramon Santos Reflections While Recovering

Ramon Santos

April 5, 2025
Psalm 145
A Psalm of Praise. Of David.
1
I will exalt you, my God the King;
I will praise your name for ever and ever.
2
Every day I will praise you
and extol your name for ever and ever.
3
Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise;
his greatness no one can fathom.
4
One generation commends your works to another;
they tell of your mighty acts.
5
They speak of the glorious splendor of your majesty—
and I will meditate on your wonderful works.
6
They tell of the power of your awesome works—
and I will proclaim your great deeds.
7
They celebrate your abundant goodness
and joyfully sing of your righteousness.
8
The Lord is gracious and compassionate,
slow to anger and rich in love.

This is what awaits me—not love, not romance, not some grand future of fame or fortune. Not anymore. Age and a recent mild stroke have introduced a kind of stillness that feels more like truth than loss. Some may call this a bleak outlook, but for me, it's just clarity. And the sooner I embrace it, the more peace I find.
The alternative is a cruel delusion: to chase after things I can no longer sustain—intense love, constant recognition, worldly accomplishment. To die trying to keep up with dreams that no longer serve me. I’m done with that.
Instead, I am choosing something smaller—but more real. Simpler goals, quieter joys.
A short walk in the morning.
A few lines written in a journal.
Meditation in the presence of God.
Learning something new—not for accolades, but for the sheer joy of curiosity.
Maybe I’ll pick up video editing again, not to go viral, but to create something beautiful for its own sake.
These small things… they are enough.
I want to read more—books that nourish me.
Watch films that stir the soul.
Return to the road, behind the wheel again, feeling the freedom of movement.
Flirt a little, perhaps, not to ignite a grand romance but to enjoy the human spark.
This is the joy of simplicity. This is the new rule I live by.
I am slowly letting go of the myth of the grand finale.
There will be no standing ovation. No climactic exit.
Instead, what’s ahead is a quiet presence in the hearts of a few—
Family who remember me with kindness.
Friends who still call or write.
Perhaps a few strangers online who read the stories I posted long ago.
I still post those old writings—my younger self’s dreams and words. Sometimes I wonder if someone might stumble upon them and admire them. That thought, though far-fetched, brings a little warmth. But I’m not writing for recognition anymore. I’m writing because it’s what I do. Even if no one reads it.
Before my stroke, I lived in the clouds. I chased big dreams that never quite materialized. Now, I live in my body. In my breath. In the silence. In the gentle pace of recovery. Today, I will do a bit of stretching, some light chores, and try to spend more time sitting upright rather than lying in bed. Rest is no longer laziness—it’s sacred.
I know this phase won’t last forever. In three to six months, the doctors say, my symptoms may fade. I may return to full independence: walking, driving, gardening, and exercising like I used to. But one thing will not return—my old mindset.
I won’t go back to trying to please everyone. That part of me—so eager to gain approval, so quick to sacrifice my peace—is something I now recognize as harmful.
Pleasing others had become a habit, almost an addiction. Whether it was coworkers, bosses, patients, even strangers in the park—I was always giving. Always striving to be the good guy. Always ready to rescue, even when I was drowning.
Even my family, whom I love dearly, has unknowingly been a part of this cycle. And now, I realize the answer is not to fix this habit through sheer willpower. The answer is to withdraw from the situations that feed it. To stop showing up in spaces where I’m expected to perform.
Stillness with the Lord is my refuge now.
This is what the Lord has taught me: I do not need to be “good” in every moment, to every person, by every worldly standard. I don’t need to contort myself to fit into what others need or expect. I don’t need to grind or hustle or strive.
I don’t need to wake up dreading a workday.
I don’t need to earn extra money to prove my worth.
I don’t need to punish my body with hours of walking each morning.
What I need is stillness—and to know that my Lord is God.
So this is the shape of my new life:
Acceptance of reality as it is.
A deliberate removal from people and situations that demand my energy.
A gentle environment that supports peace and recovery.
Activities that bring me joy and help me grow—not for applause, but for healing.
And yes, I know idleness has its own temptations. It’s easy to let the hours slip away in passive scrolling, watching the same kinds of reels or shorts, consuming content that offers nothing but distraction. They’re harmless enough—but empty.
So here’s the next rule in my new life:
Fill my time with things that are useful, enjoyable, and nourishing.
Read deeply.
Write meaningfully.
Create, not to impress—but because it brings me alive.
This is not resignation. It is renewal.
This is not defeat. It is clarity.
This is not the end. It is a beautiful, quiet beginning.


April 6, 2025
Acts 16:11–15
Lydia’s Conversion in Philippi
11 From Troas we put out to sea and sailed straight for Samothrace, and the next day we went on to Neapolis.
12 From there we traveled to Philippi, a Roman colony and the leading city of that district of Macedonia. And we stayed there several days.
13 On the Sabbath we went outside the city gate to the river, where we expected to find a place of prayer. We sat down and began to speak to the women who had gathered there.
14 One of those listening was a woman from the city of Thyatira named Lydia, a dealer in purple cloth. She was a worshiper of God. The Lord opened her heart to respond to Paul’s message.
15 When she and the members of her household were baptized, she invited us to her home. “If you consider me a believer in the Lord,” she said, “come and stay at my house.” And she persuaded us.

The simple act of hospitality—welcoming strangers into one’s home—was recorded for eternity. Lydia didn’t preach, perform miracles, or die a martyr. She simply opened her heart and her home. And because of that, her name is forever remembered in Scripture as the woman who welcomed Paul and helped nurture the early church.
What a humbling thought: that legacy doesn’t have to be loud. It doesn’t have to be earned through tireless striving or great accomplishment. Sometimes, the quiet act of love is enough to echo through time.
How different this is from the world I’ve known—the world where legacy is something we work ourselves to the bone to build. I know this firsthand. I’ve spent years trying to secure some kind of lasting value, only to find that the effort often leaves me drained, disoriented, and no closer to peace.
Yesterday, I lost myself in the screen again—seven or eight hours consumed by social media. It’s strange how easily time slips away there, how quickly I fall into the trap of scrolling. I tell myself it’s harmless, maybe even entertaining. But when the screen turns off, what remains is a kind of hollowness. Not the fullness of joy, just the fading afterglow of distraction.
I find myself watching the young—the beautiful, the energetic, the hopeful. They dance, laugh, flaunt, dream. And there I am, 62, placing my attention, my mind, even my longing in the midst of youth that is no longer mine. There's nothing wrong with admiring vitality, but pretending I can still belong in that world is unfulfilling. It highlights the distance between where I am and where I used to be.
Social media, for me now, is little more than a modern version of radio and television—something to watch, not something to live. The people I see are untouchable, unreachable, as if they exist in a different realm. And more often than not, those who look like me—older, slower, gentler—appear only in caricature: mocked, sidelined, or shown in states of desperation. That disconnect pierces the illusion.
I don't belong to that world anymore. And perhaps that’s not a loss—it’s an invitation. To step into a different kind of joy. The joy of maturity. The joy of choosing the desires that truly fit me now. Smaller victories. Zero expectations. Quiet satisfaction.
This chapter of my life is temporary, like all others. In a few more weeks, God willing, I’ll be able to drive again, to leave the confines of this house and visit nature—the trees, the breeze, the living things that remind me of God's enduring presence. But even now, in stillness, I am learning to celebrate the freedom I once overlooked. I no longer have to fill each day with pressure, performance, or people-pleasing.
I have stories to write—old stories, real stories. I’m slowly editing them with the help of ChatGPT. Maybe someday I’ll share them again, just for the joy of sharing. I have business matters to attend to, a home to manage, and the blessing of social security to help me stay afloat. But gone is the tyranny of a workday built around stress and expectation.
I now believe the Lord allowed this mild stroke as a kind of release. A divine permission to finally let go. I was carrying burdens I no longer needed to carry—papers, patients, obligations. I kept delaying my exit from work, unable to tell good people goodbye. But now, God made the decision for me. And I am grateful.
What remains is the responsibility—and privilege—of living this “free life” well. What does that look like? Not endless screen time. Not escape. But carefully chosen activities that bring peace, joy, and meaning.
Yesterday I tried to live a full day—meditation, movement, coffee, staying “awake” from sunrise to sunset. It was exhausting. I’m learning that active days need to be balanced with deep rest. And sleep, once taken for granted, now feels like the most precious gift. For decades I sacrificed it in the name of duty. Now I let it restore me.
My eyes, tired from screens, need gentleness. I’ve ordered brain-stimulating workbooks—simple, analog tasks that can engage my mind without overloading my senses. And today I’ll return to the fantasy novel I’ve been reading. Escaping into other worlds helps, especially when this one feels limited by illness and recovery.
And best of all, I can write. Writing doesn’t require youth. It doesn’t require a public face. In fact, anonymity makes it freer. Who cares if no one knows me? These words are mine. These thoughts are mine. They are a kind of prayer, a creative whisper into the silence.
So like Lydia, I will open my heart—quietly, simply—and offer what I have. Not to the masses. Not for recognition. But to be faithful to what remains.



April 7, 2025
Isaiah 46:3–9
“Listen to me, you descendants of Jacob,
all the remnant of the people of Israel,
you whom I have upheld since your birth,
and have carried since you were born.
Even to your old age and gray hairs
I am he, I am he who will sustain you.
I have made you and I will carry you;
I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”

God has carried me from birth, and He is still carrying me now—in this unfamiliar season of recovery, slowness, and humility. These words from Isaiah resound deeply in me today. Even to gray hairs, even to old age, He sustains me. He is not only the God of strength and youth, but also of weakness, of stillness, and of quiet healing.
It’s now been over two weeks since my mild stroke. Though the symptoms have not worsened, I remain cautious and observant. I’ve begun to consider short-distance driving again. Perhaps even walking in the park. It will be gradual—I know this now—and I accept that the full return to normalcy will take time. Three months, maybe more. But each small step is still a step.
There have been many lifestyle changes, born not of resolution but necessity. I am more watchful of my blood pressure, religious about medication, and intentional in movement. I've discovered that recovery is not a straight line. It’s trial and error. Some days I try to act like my old self, staying upright and alert all day—and I pay for it with fatigue. Other days I return to rest, and in that stillness, I find unexpected joy.
Yesterday, I exercised lightly in the morning, then returned to bed and napped. When I woke, I felt deeply refreshed. It was a kind of peace I hadn’t known in a long time. Now I understand why many of my former patients treasured sleep in the late mornings or afternoons—it feels like healing.
I’m learning that rest is not a weakness. It’s wisdom.
There was a time when I believed idleness was sinful. I lived by lists, driven by guilt to always do the next thing. But now I hear the Lord’s whisper: It is okay to stop. It is good to be still. Rest is not wasted time—it is a sacred space where the soul can breathe.
I’ve begun simple mental exercises—crosswords, sudoku, brain teasers—and they bring a surprising satisfaction. I’ve started reading daily again, just one chapter at a time. The stillness is no longer a void to be filled but a gentle place where I rediscover myself. I’m even writing again, editing old stories and sharing them quietly. It feels good to create again—not to impress, but simply to express.
Even when I was in the hospital, I never gave up my writing-meditations. They are moments with God, my most sincere rest. Now He seems to ask me to stretch that time, to let it become my rhythm. I wish this lesson had come more gently, but this stroke has been the softest rebuke I could have received. A nudge from the Lord saying, Enough. It’s time to rest.
I’m also confronting lifelong habits that were quietly destructive—particularly my dependency on social media and the temptation of internet porn. They were my coping mechanisms for loneliness, distractions from isolation. But they do not nourish me. They do not reflect the life I truly want. They are substitutes, not solutions.
So I’ve replaced them—slowly, gently. I spent yesterday reading, editing, preparing meals, and even watching a few episodes of a TV series. Yes, I got pulled in by a show called Adolescence, but I eventually returned to my puzzles, my movement, and the silence. It was a balanced day, and that’s a victory.
Today, I already took 430 steps indoors—making coffee, tidying, carrying out the trash, retrieving laundry. Not confined to bed, not stagnant. Moving, mindfully. I may even drive again—just a short distance to the park. Maybe I’ll walk 1,000 steps once I arrive. I won’t announce it. No one needs to know. This journey is mine.
It’s strange to think that just 18 days ago, I ignored my symptoms, brushed them off as nerve pain, kept moving, kept serving, even walked through the park and worked that Monday. Only after being officially diagnosed on March 24 did I realize how close I came to a more serious fate. And yet—even then—I was already being carried by God.
Since then I’ve had my echo, cardiogram, angiogram. I’ve added aspirin and Plavix to my list of medications. And I am still here, still healing, still moving forward.
What I must guard against now is my greatest habit: planning. Even today, as I write this, my mind returns to the ever-present “to-do” list. As if life depends on it. But it doesn’t. Life depends on balance. On listening to what the body and spirit can handle in the moment. On skipping the plan if the day calls for something simpler. That’s the new way forward: flexibility, presence, surrender.
If I do succeed in driving today, I know it will bring beauty to my eyes again—the changing skies, the familiar road, the trees that never judged my slowness. But even in that, I must not overdo it. The goal isn’t to return to who I was—it’s to become who I am now meant to be.

So here is my new approach to life:
Silence. Meditation. Rest. Gentle movement. Mindful substitution.
Replacing the hollow with the healing. Releasing the need to prove or perform. Receiving the slow joy of simply being.
God has carried me from birth, and He carries me still.
There is no one like Him.
And in His arms, I am safe—even in weakness, even in the waiting.
2025-04-07 14:50:09
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