Flashback to March 4, 1997—North Shore University Hospital in Long Island.
I wake up (or think I do) in a recovery ward. Everything is a blur. Voices are talking around me—about something… me? There is one voice I recognize.
“Mag her.”
Mag her?
I realize the “her” is me. The voice is Dr. Seaman, my OB/GYN.
As my mind slowly clears, I remember: I had a scheduled cesarean section. I was conscious during the procedure, my then-husband by my side, as our firstborn son Thomas—breech—was brought into the world.
More than 22 years later, I still don’t know how aware I truly was in those moments. What I do remember is my blood pressure spiking and being in the high-risk maternity ward, hearing that phrase—“Mag her.”
The “mag” was magnesium. To this day, I don’t know why. But I do remember what was on the TV.
Days of Our Lives.
Kristin DiMera had just had a baby too.
In my foggy state, I was oddly captivated. I wanted to see my son. I remember a brief moment of him on my chest, flashes of a camera, and then he was gone. I was in pain. And the show became a strange, steady distraction.
A week or so later, home with a newborn, exhausted and in pain, the TV was on again. The same characters. The same storyline.
My husband went to change the channel, but I stopped him.
I wanted to see what happened next.
And that’s where it began—my quiet, unexpected relationship with Days of Our Lives.
Over the years, it stayed with me.
When Thomas was little, I’d watch on days off while working as a cook in the Coast Guard. Later, as a military wife and reservist, I’d put both kids down for naps, make popcorn, pour a Diet Coke over ice, and settle in.
In 2002, when I started working full time, I moved to VCR tapes. Later, DVR. Now, streaming. The format changed, but the habit remained.
Sometimes I watched daily. Sometimes weeks went by. But it was always there when I needed it.
The characters became familiar—almost like extended family.
The Hortons, Bradys, DiMeras.
The town square, the Brady Pub, the traditions, the chaos. The comfort.
Yes, there were the ridiculous storylines—possession, comas, people returning from the dead. But woven in were real things: loss, addiction, depression, relationships, identity.
And strangely, it helped.
At different points in my life, the show mirrored something I was going through.
When Jack and Jennifer were getting divorced, I was too. I remember feeling like a failure. Then one night, I turned on an episode and saw their storyline unfolding the same way. It felt… oddly comforting.
Years later, after a difficult stretch with my own mental health, I returned to the show to find a character struggling in a similar way. Again, it helped.
When addiction, illness, or loss showed up on screen, I didn’t feel so alone in my own experiences.
It’s easy to dismiss soaps as melodramatic—and they are. That’s part of their charm.
But beneath that, there’s something else.
They tell stories about being human—messy, imperfect, resilient.
And sometimes, seeing that reflected back—even in a fictional town like Salem—can be grounding.
A few days ago, the show jumped ahead by a full year. Curious, I looked it up and learned there’s uncertainty about its future.
It made me pause.
Because while the show has changed over the years—and so have I—it has been a quiet thread through so many seasons of my life.
I don’t watch it the same way anymore.
But I still understand what it gave me.
Familiarity. Distraction. Comfort. Perspective.
Like sands through the hourglass… so are the days of our lives.
Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!
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