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By Amy Gruenhut
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Four years ago, I almost lost my life.
On January 8, 2022, I woke up and told my doctor, “I feel like I’m dying.” I could barely speak. I couldn’t get out of bed. My head felt like it was going to explode.
The day before, I had already gone to the ER after what I thought was a bad respiratory infection. I was sent home. But overnight, everything got worse. My speech became slurred. I was weak. I felt disoriented. My parents rushed me back to the hospital, where I was admitted and diagnosed with viral encephalitis, a rare brain infection that causes inflammation of the brain and can become life-threatening within hours.
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Soon after, I was induced into a two-week coma. When I woke up, I could not speak. I could not breathe on my own. I could not eat. I could not walk.
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Today, I live in New York City. I work full-time. I live independently. I run almost daily and am training for my 10th marathon this fall.
Sometimes I forget how extraordinary that is. Surviving doesn’t mean life suddenly becomes easier. It means you see everything differently.
Long before the brain infection, I had already fought one battle with my body.
In 2002, at 23 years old, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS). My feet went numb. Then my legs. I was told I might never walk again. I kept that diagnosis quiet for years because I didn’t want it to define me. Through rehab, physical therapy and determination, I regained my strength.
Still, nothing prepared me for January 2022. What began as what I thought was a cold turned into something far more dangerous.
When I woke from the coma weeks later, my body was unrecognizable to me. I had lost muscle. I was weak. Even sitting at the edge of the bed exhausted me. The first time I tried to stand, it took 30 minutes, with assistance, just to take one step.
One step.
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I remember realizing how fragile life felt. I had gone from being healthy, active and independent to needing help to do the most basic things. I was scared, but I also remember thinking: I have to fight my way back.
There is something deeply humbling about having to relearn how to move your own body. The simple act of putting your feet on the floor becomes a triumph. Physical therapists surrounded me with patience. They believed in my progress and pushed me, even when I could not yet see it.
When I left the hospital, recovery didn’t feel miraculous. It felt exhausting. It was physical therapy. Speech therapy. Occupational therapy. Small repetitions. Tiny wins. Walking down a hallway became progress. Standing without help became progress.
Three months after leaving the hospital, I run-walked my first 5K. That race was never really about running. It was proof to myself that I was still moving forward. After months of learning how to stand, walk and rebuild my strength, crossing that finish line felt like reclaiming a part of myself I thought I had lost.
Eight months after nearly dying, I ran the New York City Marathon for the second time.
I do not share that because it sounds impressive. I share it because recovery is not magic. It is mundane, repetitive, exhausting work. It is showing up to physical therapy when you don’t feel like it. It is strength training when your muscles shake and you just feel like you can’t do it. It is choosing to believe progress is happening even when you cannot measure it yet.
Resilience is not glamorous. It is quiet.
Four years later, I celebrate what I call my “life anniversary,” not because everything is perfect, but because I am here. I sometimes forget how lucky I am. I get frustrated at work deadlines. I complain about long training runs. I worry about things that, in the grand scheme, do not matter. And then I remember: I was once lying in a hospital bed unable to move or speak and almost dead.
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Perspective changes everything.
I now volunteer at Mount Sinai, visiting patients in neuro rehab—many of whom are facing devastating prognoses. Some may never walk again. Some may never live independently. Some are overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty. When I walk into their rooms, I am not there as a miracle story. I am there as proof that progress is possible.
I tell them honestly: Surviving doesn’t mean life is easier. It means you choose to approach it differently. You redefine what strength looks like. You celebrate incremental victories. You do the work. You believe in doing hard things and commit to getting better.
Healing isn't linear. I still experience setbacks. Living with multiple sclerosis means fatigue can hit hard. Some days my body feels stronger than others. Some runs feel effortless. Some feel heavier. There are days I need to rest instead of push. I’ve had to learn that resilience is not always about forcing forward—it is also knowing when recovery is part of strength.
Running became my metaphor for that commitment. I didn’t start running until 2019, at age 40. After surviving viral encephalitis, running took on even deeper meaning. Each mile reminds me that I can do hard things. Each marathon is a declaration that my body is not fragile; it is resilient.
I have now run nine global marathons, including five Abbott World Marathon Majors. In March 2027, I hope to stand at the starting line in Tokyo to earn my sixth Abbott World Marathon star.
But the medals are not the point. The point is that I once could not take a step. The point is that in 2002, I was told I might never walk again. In 2022, I was in a coma and had to learn to walk, talk and breathe again. And in between those moments, I made thousands of small, ordinary decisions to keep going.
People often ask what my outlook is now. It is this: We do not control what happens to us. We control how we respond. I do not know what the future holds. Surviving a brain infection means I understand how quickly life can shift.
I also know that pushing forward—even imperfectly—changes outcomes. Progress may look like one small step today. That is enough.
Four years ago, I almost lost my life. Today, I am alive. I am running. I am working. I am living independently. I am supporting others who are fighting their own battles.
And every morning when I wake up, I understand something I didn't before: The greatest miracle was not simply surviving.
It was realizing that prognosis is not destiny, that resilience can be stronger than fear and that sometimes a second chance at life can become an even greater life than the one you had before.
Amy Gruenhut is a New York City-based marketing executive and marathon runner who volunteers with Mount Sinai's neuro rehabilitation program, supporting patients on their journey toward recovery.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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