On Life Support, Trying to Meet a Deadline | The Day I Claimed My Self Worth | by Sonia Gupta | Inspiring Story #227

In February, I nearly died.

But it didn’t start with flashing lights or a dramatic collapse. It started with a cough. Mild, irritating, and in my head, nothing more than a little breathlessness. I told myself it would pass. I had no fever. I could still walk. How bad could it really be?

It was the 20th of February, and in my mind, there was still plenty of time before my flight to India on March 5th. I was scheduled to speak at an International Women’s Day event—a proud, full-circle moment in my journey. I told myself I couldn’t miss it. I wouldn't miss it. So, I kept going.

But just hours later, I was rushed to the hospital. And within days, I was placed on life support, my body battling pneumonia, Influenza B, and a clot on my lung. Everything shut down.

Conditioned to Push Through, No Matter The Cost

I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known.

Because the next memory I have is waking up in a hospital bed on March 4^th, fourteen days later. My throat ached from the ventilator tube I didn’t remember. My body was too weak to sit up. I was surrounded by machines, wires, silence.

And in that surreal, half-conscious state, one of my first thoughts was this:

“Maybe I can still make it to the event... it’s three days away.”

Three days away. I couldn’t lift my head. I could barely breathe on my own. And still, my mind clung to the next deadline, the next obligation.

That’s how deeply I had been conditioned to push through, no matter the cost. To show up, even if I was dying.

Over-Delivering, Over-Achieving ... 

Because I’m not just a woman. I’m a South Asian single woman.

Which means I walk with a lifetime of pressure: divorced, judged, scrutinized. There’s no space for weakness. No applause for boundaries. You’re either enduring, or you’re failing.

So, I performed strength like it was survival. I over-delivered, over-achieved, and gave everything of myself - to my children, to my work, to my community. Until there was nothing left for me.

When I finally came fully to, I saw my older son, 20 years old, eyes red with a mix of relief and rage.

He looked at me and said:
“Mum, I’m not doing this shit again.”

And that’s when the shame cracked through me. Not because he was angry, but because he was right.

He had watched me pour from an empty cup until the cup itself shattered. He had watched his mother, his only parent, ignore every sign, every warning, until she landed in a hospital bed hooked up to machines. And he had sat there, preparing for the worst.

That’s not a burden a child should carry.

The Belief That Exhaustion Meant Value

I was still shackled to the belief that I had to earn my right to rest. That martyrdom was motherhood. That exhaustion meant value.

But this time, my body had drawn the boundary for me. It shut me down because I refused to stop. It saved me from myself.

Learning to Claim My Self Worth

Recovery hasn’t been linear or graceful. I’ve had to learn how to sit still. How to say, “I’m tired,” without apology. How to feel worthy—even when I’m not doing, not fixing, not giving.

I’m learning how to live in a world where my health, my peace, and my happiness come first—not as an afterthought, but as a foundation.

Because my boys didn’t need a mother who did everything.

They needed a mother who stayed alive.

And now, I choose life—not just in survival mode, but in fullness, in softness, in truth.