Reclaiming My Body Is Not A Group Decision
I walked into a pool hall wearing sneakers and immediately learned something important: people are real comfortable giving advice about recoveries they’ve never lived. Here’s the thing: reclaiming my body, my life, and my autonomy is not a fucking group decision.
The Medical Industrial Complex Is Broken, and We’re All Just Supposed to Accept It
The medical industrial complex has gotten completely out of fucking control, and what blows my mind is where the hell are the protests for this? When you’re in pain, when you know something is wrong with your body, the system doesn’t move toward care, it moves you through a maze. Wrong doctors. Endless referrals. Bureaucratic gatekeeping. All while you’re paying for insurance that promises access but delivers obstruction. This isn’t medicine anymore. It’s compliance theater.
When Empathy Has An Asterisk
People will feel sorry for you after an accident, right up until they find out you were on a motorcycle. Then something shifts. The empathy softens. The judgment creeps in. As if choosing to ride means you consented to being hit. As if freedom comes with a moral penalty.
Fifty Days In
Fifty days in, and I’m not where I was, but I’m not where I was told I’d be either. I can stand. I can move. I can lift, even if it’s light and ugly and slow. My body is battered, stitched, numb, leaking, and missing pieces, but my mind? My mind is on fire. Somewhere between broken bones and stubborn refusal, I finished the work. And that counts for something. Maybe everything.
A Good Day
Recovery isn’t linear. Some days you live too far inside your own head, spiraling through thoughts that don’t always land somewhere warm. And then—sometimes—the universe throws you a bone. A good day. A real one. A day where the words flow, where purpose snaps back into focus, where unexpected kindness reminds you that life is still happening. Yesterday was one of those days. And those days matter more than people realize.
When The Universe Takes Over
I don’t write on command. I write to stay ready. Because when inspiration shows up, it doesn’t ask what you planned to work on that day, it takes the wheel. Yesterday, it dragged me out of one project and dropped a whole new book in my lap. All I could do was let the words fall out.
Background Noise Is a Lie
I turned on the news because I wanted background noise. What I got instead was a full-volume assault on my nervous system: manufactured urgency, flashing lights, and the same tired voices insisting that everything was on fire. Ten minutes in, even muted, it was unbearable. Silence felt like rebellion again.
Feeding The Muscle
I ditched the wheelchair because I was done waiting.
The boot stayed longer than it should have, and it stole more muscle than I realized. Turns out the pain wasn’t injury, it was absence. Muscle that hadn’t been fed because the system decided stillness was safer than strength. I decided otherwise.
Reentry Isn’t Quiet
Lilith is gone. That part still hurts.
But the garage isn’t empty, and the urge to ride didn’t die with her.
Reentry was never going to be polite or quiet. It was always going to be loud, mechanical, and a little bit defiant. This is what leaning forward looks like when the system says “wait.”
Nothing’s Wrong, Says the System
They told me nothing was wrong.
They told me my body would absorb it.
They told me to wait.
Meanwhile, fluid sloshed around my knee like a reminder that I exist outside their flowcharts. I didn’t come to the ER because I wanted to—I came because bureaucracy left me no other option. This is what happens when medicine stops listening to bodies and starts worshiping process.
Thirteen Weeks Without A Calm Soul
Riding is how I regulate my soul. It’s how my mind and body agree to occupy the same space. And that was taken from me — not by fate, not by chance, but by someone else’s negligence. Thirteen weeks without riding isn’t just time off a bike. It’s thirteen weeks without calm, without grounding, without being fully myself. And the system that’s supposed to care? It shrugged and wrote “citations pending.”
Dating While Trans: The Part Nobody Wants to Admit
People will march for trans rights.
They’ll craft signs. Chant slogans. Call themselves allies.
But when it comes to dating us, especially if we don’t package ourselves in the most palatable way, support evaporates fast. This is the part no one likes to talk about. This is what dating while trans actually looks like when the slogans fade and the phone rings.
A Tale Of Two Sides Of The Same Night
Yesterday was a quiet victory: chores, stairs, a walker I wasn’t technically cleared to use, and a night out with people who didn’t owe me a damn thing but cared anyway. Today? A dream of autonomy, an ache that means living, and the sharp irritation of a doctor who dismissed what’s still swelling and hurting. Two sides of the same night. Both true. And I’m not stopping.
The Universe Has Jokes
Life has a way of circling a point. The accident didn’t just break my body; it rearranged my goddamned face. My front tooth now points outward like it’s trying to escape, and a piece of my lip went missing along the way. But as my brain and body claw their way back, I’ve discovered something hilarious in the chaos: the universe has jokes, and apparently I’m one of them.
Marked by Death, Judged by a Cat
A thought was burning a hole in my skull when I woke up this morning. Something important. Something sharp. And then a black cat named Lucifer jumped on the bed and punted the remote into oblivion, derailing both my inspiration and my dignity. Healing is loud, life is stupid, and apparently the only creature who understands me is also the one who keeps sabotaging me.
Recovery Rendition
When they sunk that final screw into my left wrist, something else unlocked with it. My fingers worked again — stiff, screaming, but usable — and suddenly the words poured out. In the aftermath of a crash that nearly killed me, writing became the one thing I could still control, the one place where the broken pieces rearranged themselves into something sharp, necessary, and aliv
Before Dawn
Since dying three and a half years ago, I’ve become a morning person. Not the cute “wake up at seven with coffee” kind — the “3 A.M. because the universe shook me awake” kind. And in that silence, untouched by the noise of billions of sleeping humans, my real life began.
The Rage of Recovery
Drool, dependency, and a staircase that suddenly feels like Everest. Healing isn’t noble or poetic. It’s rage, humiliation, fire, and the refusal to surrender your autonomy — even when life keeps stacking obstacles in your way.
Dreaming on the Edge of Becoming
Tonight I’m dreaming — about the book I just finished through broken bones and pain, and about the life I’m building from the ashes. This memoir is my launchpad. My declaration. My refusal to play small. And the future I’m carving is starting to take shape.
On Gratitude, Fear, and Finally Finishing the Damn Book
After months of chaos, healing, and unexpected clarity, I reread my memoir from beginning to end — and realized it’s finally fucking done. What comes next is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, but I’m stepping into it head-on.