Assia, 22 years old

"I am a Master's student in international marketing and a work-study student at the Ministry of Education as a communications officer. In my life, I have always been active, ambitious, a girl who moves forward and aims high. I never imagined that my heart would remind me that I was not invincible.

It all started quietly. I felt a fatigue unlike any other, dizziness, vomiting, pressure in my head as if something were about to explode. At first, I blamed my thyroid, as I have had hypothyroidism since I was 16. But deep down, I knew that this time, something was wrong. I feel my body giving way, but I keep telling myself, "It'll pass." The emergency room finds nothing, and the days go by... then a new doctor hears a heart murmur. I don't believe it. I tell myself it's nothing, a medical error, like many women who minimize their pain. Fortunately, my mother insists: "Assia, go see a cardiologist. This isn't normal." That day, my life was turned upside down. It was as if the sky had fallen on me. In the space of a few sentences, everything I knew, everything I thought I had control over, collapsed. The cardiologist told me that I had heart failure, that my heart was tired and could no longer function normally. Then he added that I also had severe aortic regurgitation, a significant backflow of blood due to a valve that no longer closed properly. The MRI revealed that this faulty valve was bicuspid, meaning it had only two leaflets instead of three. It was a congenital malformation that no one had ever seen before.

In a matter of minutes, I discover that my heart is damaged, fragile, and putting my life at risk. At 22 years old, the cardiologist makes it clear to me that this is an emergency. Not in a year, or even in a few months. I need surgery quickly.

I feel like the ground is falling out from under my feet. We're talking about my heart, my life, and open-heart surgery that I have to accept all at once, without having time to process it. Acceptance... I don't think I've fully achieved that, even today...

I choose the mechanical valve, the one that lasts a lifetime, but it's not an easy choice because I have to monitor my INR constantly, live with anticoagulants, and accept all the risks that come with it. But I choose life. On May 20, 2025, they stop my heart to repair it. When I wake up, I see the machines, the tubes, I hear the beeps. I am alive. Different. But alive. What follows will be an internal battle. Learning to walk again, to breathe, to trust this new heart that ticks like a clock in my chest. It is the sound of my survival and it reminds me that I am still here. A minute's walk seems like an eternity, but I am standing. For me, that's already a victory. And there's another part of my story that few people see. I've been profoundly deaf since birth. I went through this operation with this disability, and it changes everything. In the hospital, with the masks, the noise, the rapid movements, I couldn't understand anything. I read lips, looked into people's eyes, and tried to guess what they were saying. Sometimes I felt like I was screaming in my head, but no one could hear me. It was an excruciating feeling of helplessness. In the operating room, I felt invisible. I saw people moving, talking, preparing... and I didn't understand a thing...

Today, I live with my mechanical valve and my lifelong treatment. I continued my studies, passed my year, resumed my routine, and relearned how to live. This experience made me resilient; it awakened a strength in me that I didn't know I had. That's the word that sums up my journey: "resilience."

It also gave me a mission to help, reassure, and support all those who are going to undergo heart surgery—women, men, young people, children, people with disabilities, etc.—to give them the words, courage, and advice that I would have liked to hear before going into the operating room. This ordeal taught me that health is a precious gift, that difference is a strength, and that every heartbeat is a second chance. If my heart is still beating today, it is to bring light to those who are going through darkness. To say, "You are afraid, but you are not alone. And you will get through this."