The real reason I write this newsletter

Happy Friday, DMV! It’s April 24 — which is a special day for me. Two years ago today, I almost died.

I was undergoing a “minimally invasive procedure” to resolve some health issues. It would be painful, the doctors said, so they planned to dull the pain with a nerve block.

However, they mistakenly injected the nerve block into my bloodstream and stopped my heart.

They performed CPR on me to save me. They intubated me and put me in the ICU. The next day, they discharged me. I walked out of the hospital with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). The problem I went in for remains unfixed.

But I’m alive.

I did not suffer permanent organ damage or any broken ribs, though my chest still hurts to this day. My brain could not process what had happened to me, though therapy has helped. For months, I walked around in a dense fog, unable to think clearly or process multiple stimuli — noises, changing traffic lights, people talking at the same time.

About three weeks later, I went back to work. My primary care doc told me something along the lines of, “This is a bad analogy, but it’s like spraining your ankle: You want to keep it moving, but you don’t want to run a marathon.”

I was crying every day. Tears just quietly spilled out. Why me?

Back in the newsroom, where I was a breaking news and newsletter editor, my bosses told me that on July 1, they wanted to launch a new newsletter called Post Local. They wanted me to author it, give it a voice, a personal touch and joy.

I didn’t say this aloud at the time, but in my head, I thought: “Joy? What the f**k is joy?”

Me being me, a diligent worker bee, I dove into the assignment. I wasn’t used to writing professionally in the first person, but I came to love it. I focused on the D.C. region’s collective experience. I wrote about fireflies, birds, sunrises and the night sky. You shared your photos of hawks and owls. I wrote about hiking with my family. You sent me photos of the turning leaves in our forests and of your legs soaking in the backyard kiddie pool during a summer heat wave.

Readers wrote to thank me for starting their days, over a cup of coffee, with comfort and joy. My brain relaxed. With the newsletter and all of you, I found peace and happiness again. Mental health experts often suggest writing daily about things for which you are grateful. I treated Post Local as my gratitude journal. It worked.

Then on Feb. 4, I was among more than 300 journalists “eliminated” by the Washington Post. My intros in Post Local and your shared photos came to an abrupt end.

But I couldn’t let go of my newsletter. The day after the mass layoffs, I launched Alisa’s Daily Dose. I was in a daze. I was struggling to talk. The layoff and the aftermath triggered my PTSD, but I could type and write. I wanted to tell readers what happened and continue this journey with you.

I chose the name “Daily Dose” while still in shock. I hesitated to use “dose” because of its association with medication. But in retrospect, it was perfect. My newsletter had become a daily dose of comfort and joy for me and for many of you, too.

Many readers have described my quick pivot after being laid off as “resilience.” This resilience comes in part from my recovery, but also from my years reporting in Asia covering the Indian Ocean tsunami, an insurgency in southern Thailand, suicide bombings in Afghanistan and so much more.

I often say that two years ago today, I died and was reborn a superhero. I now have a superpower: I know in my heart, mind and body that it can all vanish at any moment. And because I know this, life — in spite of everything — tastes so good.

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Thanks for reading me!

“This iris bed is in a circular driveway at my home in Gore, Va. The flowers were planted by my parents years ago and bloom annually. They have the loveliest fragrance,” Pam Bell wrote in her submission.

“I love to refurbish old Weber grills into a fun, colorful flower bed,” wrote Ana Velásquez.

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