I never imagined my morning jog would end in a battle for my life. I was halfway through the park trail when everything went fuzzy. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground—no pulse, no breath. A passing cyclist, of all people, jumped off his bike and started CPR while another called emergency services. It turns out my heart had stopped. Completely. No warning signs. Paramedics arrived fast and used a defibrillator to bring me back. I don’t remember the ambulance ride. I only remember waking up in the hospital, surrounded by beeping monitors and stunned faces.

The weeks after were a blur of gratitude and reflection. I was 42, active, and thought I was healthy. Cardiac arrest doesn’t care. The doctors said immediate CPR was the reason I survived. I now attend rehab, take medication, and have a tiny device implanted to watch over my heart like a silent guardian. Every heartbeat feels like a gift.

I’ve since connected with survivors and joined a local CPR awareness group. I speak to schools, offices—anyone willing to listen. I’m living proof that knowing CPR means giving someone a real shot at life. And for me, that shot became a second chance I’ll never take for granted.

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