I walked into the courtyard in Arlington, Virginia, and my team was standing in a circle, waiting for me. They had surprised me with a bunch of vegan donuts and pastries because it was my 28th birthday. It was so sweet but I don't like my birthday because I don't like the attention.

That's the last thing I remember about August 4, 2022. Because while I was later fundraising for the International Rescue Committee in Lafayette Park, Washington D.C., I was struck by lightning.

The doctors have told me that those hours before the accident are not going to come back. It's really frustrating. I keep asking people who were there that day to fill in the blanks for me.

It was apparently a humid, warm day, and then it suddenly clouded over. It rained heavily and I took refuge under a tree with four other people—although one of them walked away from the tree, as she was getting soaked, just before the lightning struck. Six bolts of lightning struck the tree, where the remaining four of us stood, within half a second. We absorbed every strike through the ground.

Some people in the park that day say they heard a really loud boom. I don't remember anything but a few days after I got home from the hospital, I was lying on my couch and I fell asleep lightly. I saw a really bright ball moving towards my face and then it hit my chest. It felt like my chest broke open, and I woke up, feeling out of breath. I've experienced that a few times since the incident.

The four of us under the tree on August 4 received aid almost immediately after the lightning strike, from the Secret Service, two passing ER nurses and an ER doctor. My mouth was apparently locked open and I was completely purple. For about 35 minutes, the healthcare professionals weren't able to use defibrillators on us because we were too wet. When the EMTs arrived they brought towels and larger defibrillators.

My heart stopped beating twice—the second time was for almost 13 minutes. But luckily for me, no one in the park wanted to give up on me, as I had recovered the last time and squeezed someone's hand. I was really lucky because very few people come back when their heart has stopped beating for 10 minutes, and those that do are usually completely brain dead, and require machines to stay alive.

The doctors have no explanation for why I survived. The three people who had stayed under the tree with me passed away.

I went back to the park a few weeks ago and saw people had left flowers by the tree. I made sure these were presented nicely, because I saw it as a space for Donna, James, and Brooks, who lost their lives. I felt it was my duty because I got the one ticket out, so I wanted to make sure that I was honoring them.

I don't remember being in the ER or the ICU, where I was for two days while they checked my vital organs. I woke up in the Burn Center when a nurse was giving me medication through an IV. I could taste the saline in my mouth, it was like drinking sea water.

I remember thinking: Why am I in a hospital? But I was so sedated that I just took it—which is so unlike me, as I usually want to understand everything. When I finally realized what had happened, I felt sorry for scaring my husband and family.

At this center, nurses checked on my wounds and scrubbed me down. It hurt very badly, but they would always administer pain medication prior, and I had really nice nurses who would talk with me while they did it.

I had ferning—fern-like red marks—from my right ankle to my kneecap, which is where the zip had been on the cargo pants I was wearing when I was struck. I had burns on my left wrist and upper left arm, but the worst of it was on my stomach and upper left thigh, where my tablet had been. I had second-degree burns and it was like a deep hole. I watched as it slowly filled back up with skin and pores and hair. That was disgusting and awful.

When I went home, I had to scrub my burns, treat them with ointment, and wrap them up in gauze, which took two hours every day. I'd sit in a shower chair so I didn't slip and my mom would help me.

I feel guilty that my mom has yet to go back to her home in California. I'm so grateful for my mom, dad, brother and husband for being my support system, but I don't want to have to need them. It's basically the version of me not liking attention on my birthday but in the most extreme form—and I have to deal with that for months.

The burns are mostly superficial now. But the really painful part, and the worst of it, is the nerve pain in from my waist to my feet.

It's a constant pain. In the first two weeks, I was up throughout the night, screaming out in pain. When it's really bad, it feels like standing in snow, up to your waist. You feel the stinging and burning sensation but it never numbs out, it doesn't ever decrease.

Then eventually it starts to feel like you're on fire—like if you were to take that same body and put it in a very hot jacuzzi—and that burning, tingling and stinging never subsides either. My pain level never gets below a 5 and I like to think my pain tolerance is pretty high.

Whenever I have days of agonizing pain, especially if I've done too much walking without my walker, I get in a really low place. I feel like, how am I ever going to get better?

My doctor said I scored in every category to be diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) but we both agreed that my answers to these questions would have been completely different if I was at a better place in my recovery. So, while I have a lot of stress, anxiety and depression relating to what happened, he believes that when the situation starts to improve, my reaction to the situation will also get better.

The doctors say they expect me to make a full recovery within the next three to six months. But it has been hard to fully believe that, with the messages I have received on social media from other people who have had serve nerve pain.

People have sent me messages on LinkedIn, as I'm not on any other social media. They tried to be supportive, saying things like, "Hey, I have neuropathy from an accident 23 years ago and I understand what you're feeling." But that freaked me out. I was like: Had they been told they would make a full recovery too? Is that going to be me? It scared the crap out of me, and put me in a really low place for a few days.

I felt like my doctors were probably lying to me to keep my mental health in check—because if your mental headspace is really low, it exacerbates the physical neuropathy issues. Now, however, I feel like it is more important to focus on the day-to-day and to celebrate the small victories.

I've had to minimize stress because if I do too much brain-wise, my nerves could just completely shrivel up. For that reason, my graduate degree program in International Relations had to be sliced down heavily for this first semester.

I was really disappointed because I had been looking forward to this program for about eight years and I would have wanted to start as planned but, at the end of the day, I feel lucky to be there at all.

There have still been stressors, however. When I was at School the other day, a random person in the hallway recognized me from the news and asked me how I was doing. It really triggered me, and I got full-body chills. I felt like I couldn't talk, like I had a ball in my throat. I felt really uncomfortable and my heart was beating really fast. I was like, "I've got to go to class," and went into the classroom.

My doctor has since given me mindfulness techniques for when I come across stress like that, as well as for managing pain.

Another daily challenge is that I'm now hyper-aware of the weather. I now know that storms come so quickly, out of nowhere, so that has led to a bit of anxiety when I see clouds in the sky. I'm like, Do those look safe? If I see lightning through the blinds, it gives me a raised heart-rate.

I have a huge metal walker, so I can't go outside for my walks if there are storm clouds and potential for thunder and lightning. But that's just from a safety perspective. I don't avoid going outside when the weather is fine.

When my heart stopped—twice—I didn't go "towards a light." I don't remember anything from the near-death experience. It all just kind of stops. That's what's really freaky to me—that life can be gone just like that. There's no process or transition and no warning.

It's changed how I feel about death. I'm not afraid of it but I'm aware that it can happen at any time. No amount of protection and protocol is going to determine if you're taken out or not. It's out of your control—which, as a person with anxiety, you would think would make me have a panic attack. But it actually makes me feel better because instead of feeling like I can control something, I know for a fact that I can't.

My anxiety used to be about safety, so I would be anxious on airplanes, or worried if my dog was sick. Now, I feel that, if you're worrying, you're just wasting so much of your life. Time is so precious, and your life can be gone in a flash. You can't prevent that. All you can control is your outlook on life. I've completely relinquished my attempt to control Mother Nature because of what happened to me. I've found my peace with that.

Amber Escudero-Kontostathis is a human rights advocate for the International Rescue Committee, based in Washington.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

As told to Katie Russell.

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