I Was Told I Wouldn’t Reach 35 — But Here I Am at Almost 55

I don’t know why some stories stick with you. Maybe it’s the way they surprise you, or how small chances gather and, almost by accident, push a life forward. Pastor Korede Komaiya’s story is like that for me — equal parts stubbornness, mercy, and the kind of small miracles that are too quiet to announce themselves. He shared recently that doctors once told him he wouldn’t live past 35. He’s about to turn 55. That gap between prediction and reality says a lot, and not all of it is tidy.

The moment he said it — “I was told medically that I wouldn’t live to be 35 years old, and now I’m just a few days away from 55” — I felt a quick jolt. You know, the kind you get when something both simple and huge sits in the same sentence. It’s straightforward: medical prognosis versus life lived. But underneath is a mess of days, treatments, prayers, doubts, and tiny wins you only notice afterward. He calls his life “a product of mercy.” I might say it’s a product of mercy and grit, maybe a little stubborn faith too. Perhaps that’s me projecting. Still, his words are plain and they carry weight.

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The hard edges of hope

Medical predictions can feel final — they have that cold clarity, the science-backed straight line. But human lives seldom follow a straight line. Komaiya admits he’s “escaped death over and over again.” That phrase is blunt and a touch dramatic, but it fits the experience. When someone lives past what was expected, the world rearranges itself around that fact. Friends who expected to mourn suddenly have to rethink plans; family members get another chance to argue, forgive, or heal. And the person who survives — well, they carry a map of every close call, which changes how they move through the world.

He mentions “bends that were like ends until God turned things around.” That’s a nice way to describe moments that feel terminal. I’ve seen similar turns in my own life — moments I thought were the end of a story and later realized were merely a tight corner. We tell ourselves different versions of why we kept going. For him, faith is central. For me, sometimes faith is a buddy, and sometimes science is a lifesaver. Both can live in the same story without needing to fight for credit.

Mercy, mistakes, and messy living

There’s something raw about Pastor Komaiya’s claim: “God always comes through for me, no matter the battle or my mistakes.” That line is honest in a way that avoids the usual glossy perfection you sometimes read from public figures. He’s not pretending to be flawless. He’s saying — I’ve messed up, I’ve been tested, and still something larger than me kept showing up. That’s a softer, more believable kind of testimony. It’s not the spotless prophet standing on an altar; it’s a person who knows failure and still wishes to keep moving.

He also speaks of opposition that couldn’t derail him: hatred, betrayal, and “the siege of the wicked.” Those are big words, and they sound dramatic. But again, hear the human under it: we all face people and pressures that try to stop us. Sometimes they succeed. Sometimes they don’t. Komaiya’s point, I think, is less about the enemies and more about the fact that living on — after the doctors’ verdict, after near-death moments, after personal failings — became a form of testimony. That surviving itself tested, shaped, and redirected him.

A life poured outward

One of the parts of his message that stuck with me was the emphasis on service. He writes that God “made me a father to orphans, a succour to widows, an eye to the blind, hope to the hopeless, and light to those in darkness.” It reads like a list of roles, and yet when you imagine the day-to-day, it becomes the opposite: not roles but small acts — sharing food, listening late at night, visiting the sick, organizing support. He founded The Master’s Place International Church in 2007 and leads it with his wife, Esther. That partnership matters. Leadership is often more endurance than showmanship. Doing this for nearly two decades takes a steady, often unseen, commitment.

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There’s humility in asking others to join gratitude: “Help me thank God! Gratitude mode activated.” It sounds a little playful, but it’s also human. We like shared rituals, even public ones. Telling people to thank with you is partly encouragement, partly a way to make the celebration communal. I find that kind of openness refreshing — a public figure asking for shared thanks, not for applause but for company.

A curious thing about survival narratives is how they shift priorities. When a life outlives a grim forecast, small things matter more: relationships, time with family, the next birthday. Komaiya’s reflection is a reminder that life’s value isn’t only measured in big accomplishments. Sometimes it’s counted in the faces you turn toward and the hands you hold.

There are, unsurprisingly, contradictions here. He claims divine protection, yet he also mentions battles and mistakes. He credits God, but the story also implies human choices and effort. That’s okay. Real people blend spiritual and practical explanations, sometimes inconsistently, and still mean what they say.

He’s nearing 55 now. That number feels both ordinary and surprising. Ordinary because age is just a marker; surprising because of the gap between doctors’ words and the life that followed. I like that he acknowledges gratitude without wrapping it in perfection. He doesn’t claim to have all answers. He simply points out that he was given more time and used it to try to help others.

So there it is: a life that sidestepped a grim prediction, built something lasting, and kept its tone human — imperfect, thankful, and active. I don’t know if you’ll call it miracle, luck, or perseverance. Maybe it’s all of those. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Either way, it’s a story worth pausing for, if only to remember that predictions aren’t destiny and small acts of mercy matter.