Think of a time when some one told you a story about themselves that was real, and it affected you. Week after week, we watch our favorite (and least favorite) wrestlers grunt, groan and grapple their way through their individual hardships and desires. Some speak in riddles or threats, some plaintive and earnest. In all promos, the concept is to convey those hardships and desires. As social media brings us closer than ever to these "characters," it no longer becomes voyeurism when the performer truly speaks from the heart. The wrestling promo of today can speak to more than wanting justice or revenge: it can let you in to the performer's lives, and sometimes can touch you in a way you didn't expect.

Whether we realize it or not, when we watch wrestling, or any sport or live programming, we're watching people at work. It's not quite a 9 to 5 job with a punch clock and eight bosses complaining about TPS reports, but it's a workplace, nonetheless, and sometimes personal issues can affect those workers. There may be family concerns, health concerns, monetary concerns or other ailments that can linger in the mind during the work day. Sometimes, the best remedy is to talk about it to a sympathetic ear. Despite our own issues, we are that sympathetic ear.

When Kevin Owens spoke of his Ill mother in the hospital holding back tears, you knew this wasn't just being performative. It was hard to jeer Drew McIntyre when he revealed his wife needed emergency surgery and she implored the Sinister Scot to win the WWE Championship at Clash at the Castle. Mercedes Mone spoke of the mental anguish she suffered when she thought her career might be over after her ankle injury.

There have been many career-threatening or career-ending stories that have been told through these soliloquies, yet when Britt Baker spoke of an episode that left her partially paralyzed on her right side, and her fears of not being remembered, I knew all too well those emotions. That fear. The self-doubt. The anguish. The inner pain with the physical pain.

It was a relatively uneventful morning during a rare day off from a six-week old job I had just started coming out of the end of the pandemic. After being out of work for eight months, I was excited to start on a new employment journey where I wasn't in charge, for a change. I was pretty worn out, but proud that I was catching on pretty quickly, and the team there seemed to like having me around. I was somebody again, after months of people basically having to avoid each other.

A relatively warm, sunny December day prompted me to want to handle some neighborhood errands while my roommates weren't home and the lady was at her house, not feeling well. I stopped being lazy and sitting around the house, put down the Wordament game on my phone, and tried to get up out of my recliner, when I discovered I couldn't get up out of my chair.

I unsuccessfully tried to get up a few times, thinking maybe it was just a spasm or something, but it wasn't happening. Having been in wheelchair and living on the second floor years ago (guy was in such a hurry to go to work, he didn't notice the red light or the long-haired guy crossing the street at 6am), I managed to crab my way on my rear end out of the bedroom and down the stairs to get near the front door. I wasn't sure what was going on, so I dragged myself towards the front door to catch a little fresh air and make a phone call. I had no idea I was losing brain matter with every second passing.

One of my roommates ("Why You Become a Pro Wrestler, Or Why You Don't" from a couple of weeks ago was about him and his brother) came home and saw something was wrong with me. He lifted me into a nearby chair while my lady hurried to the house, and as the paramedics arrived and called ahead to Winthrop Hospital, they knew there was a dire situation, and that's the last thing I remember for about the next week.

Two weeks in the hospital, and I still really didn't understand what happened. I consider myself a reasonably smart person, yet I didn't understand what a stroke really was. It wasn't until about two weeks into a four-month residence at a very low-level nursing and rehabilitation center that, of all people, a creepy social worker made an off-hand comment that made it perfectly clear when he said, "A part of your brain died. Now, you have to re-teach yourself the things your brain no longer does naturally. Stuck literally in a tiny hospital bed, with my left side completely paralyzed but still able to speak relatively well (I went to college for broadcasting and journalism), I was both devastated and determined. Little by slowly, I started regaining movement in my leg and arm through daily therapy, exercise and pure will, because I absolutely hated being in that rehab. Once I was able to hold up my head (watching television apparently is physical therapy?), they had me lightly walking and beginning to use my left hand again. After four months in a building previously ravaged from COVID deaths, I needed to get out of there.

It took four months to get back home to my MMA buddies and the rest of the crew, but I was in terrible shape overall. I had arrogantly said previously that I would be back working in six months. It's been over 3 1/2 years now. Once I came home and the landlord of the house we were renting came by and saw me, he saw me now as a liability rather than an asset, and wanted to sell the house we were renting. Now, I can't work, it takes forever to prove permanent disability to New York State, and I'm going to lose my home.

Depression and anxiety set in like never before. I had only a four pronged cane for support, and I would fall regularly. Two days after my landlord paid me to leave, I fell straight on my shoulder coming out of the bathroom early one morning during a holiday weekend at the cheap motel I went to while I tried to find permanent housing and separated my left shoulder. The progress I had made with my left arm halted, and I'm only now getting back to where I was that day. Here I was again, crawling on the floor to get help.

Help was something I struggled with asking for. As the upbeat, unflappable team leader, I was the source for assistance when people needed an ear or a hug. When things got too heavy for others, I was the kind voice and the kick in the butt to rally them through life at times. On one fateful December day, more than 30% of my brain physically died, though my physical body was still alive and breathing. I didn't know what or who I was anymore, and didn't know if anybody cared enough to tell me.

When Britt spoke of her mini-stroke and what she felt like, I stopped what I was doing, looked in her eyes on the television, and I cried. I knew exactly what she was talking about, because I had just been there, and quite frankly not too far away from it still. I was instantly taken back to my own situation early on. The fear. The anxiety. The depression. The worry. Yet, I felt like she needed the hug more than me in that moment. That was not a story for a program, that was what life looked like for a perfectly healthy and talented young woman who all of a sudden, thought it was all over.

I said a prayer for her and dried my eyes. I spoke briefly about it here in a couple of comments, but I felt the need to say more. I reached out to her directly, just to tell her a bit about my own story. She doesn't know me at all, but I feel as if I knew her, and what strength and courage it took to stand in front of not just a hot Chicago crowd, but hundreds of thousands of other faceless individuals. She's an athlete in her 20's who was able to recover, with a slew of people happy to see her in the ring again. I'm a guy slightly above his 20's still fighting my way back to what I consider normalcy, where a handful of people might notice if I don't post for a day or two. Those that know me saw me once use a commode as a walker to re-teach myself how to walk after my right side was shattered in 2003. I'm a ruthless fighter for me when I believe in myself, and with help and support reminding me I'm not alone, I'll keep biting and scratching until I'm where I want to be, just like Britt, Kevin, Drew, Bryan Danielson, Adam Copeland, Saraya, or Bret Hart, Lex Luger, Joe Anoa'i and others too numerous to mention who we can still enjoy being with us, wrestling or not.

What should have been the culmination of a feud will now be the beginning of a feud with Mercedes Mone as a result of Britt's promo at All In next month at Wembley Stadium in London, England, but does it really matter in the big picture today? These are two women who each went through their own personal hells for over a year apiece just to get to this point. They will tear each other to shreds in front of hopefully a ridiculously huge crowd, and I'm rooting for that. More importantly, I'm rooting for the human beings, because I get it. More than they'll ever understand, and that's good s**t, pal.

Mental health issues can cause physical health issues, and can feel insurmountable. There is always an ear available. Call 988 wherever you are in the United States, at any time, if something becomes too much, because YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

You can find me @TomVanDam195 on X, Tom Van Dam on Facebook, or at the local 7-11 sometimes.

Take care of each other, and please, comment as you see fit.