You Don’t Get to Be More Afraid of My Recovery Than I Am
I survived injuries that kill people outright. Every minute since has been a fight, and I fought. Two months later, I got back on my bike, not because I forgot what happened, but because I refuse to let the person who hit me define the rest of my life. What surprised me wasn’t fear. It was the judgment for getting up.
Back In The Fucking Saddle
I took my bike out today for the first time in two months. It wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t razor sharp. I rode slower, gave cars more space, and listened to my body instead of my ego. But fuck it — I rode. And in doing so, something inside me snapped back into place. Healing didn’t just continue today. It shifted into overdrive.
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
Collateral Damage
One reckless U-turn destroyed my bike, my body, and my freedom—and the woman who caused it walked away with barely an inconvenience. Six weeks later, I’m still paying for her decision in flesh, bone, and stolen pieces of my life.
Don’t You Dare Tell Me To Stop Riding
People keep telling me that after my accident, I should stop riding. That idea pisses me off every single time. Riding isn’t a hobby — it’s a vital part of my soul, my identity, and the way I choose to live fully in a world terrified of risk.
The Quiet After The Storm
After a week of relying on others for even the smallest necessities, I finally find myself alone in a quiet house — the first real silence since the accident. I’m grateful, I’m hurting, and I’m oddly hopeful. This silence is a reminder of what freedom used to feel like, and what it might feel like again. But staying away from the anger that keeps clawing at me? That’s the struggle I face every damn day.
Where To Begin?
After losing a week of memory to the accident and waking up in the ICU with pain in every inch of my body, I’ve spent these past days learning how to be myself again — slowly, deliberately, stubbornly. Now I wait for the moment I can go home, rebuild my strength, and eventually throw a leg over Aurora once more. The road back is uncertain, but marching into the unknown is what I do.
The Toll For The Road Less Travelled
As I sit in my wheelchair, caught between boredom and a one-sided texting war with someone I thought was a friend, I find myself still looking forward to tomorrow. The world is testing me in every direction right now, but I’m stubbornly optimistic that the day after tomorrow will be amazing. Maybe this accident was a cosmic cleansing — a toll paid to take the road less traveled.
Thanksgiving Blessing
Five weeks after the crash that shattered bones, stole a piece of my face, and nearly took my life, I find myself overflowing with something unexpected: gratitude. From holding my blood-stained helmet for the first time to witnessing overwhelming kindness from family, friends, and my former team, this Thanksgiving feels like a lesson in love, survival, and grace.
It Goes Where I Go, Part II: The Soundtrack of a Lived Life
Music has always been the pulse of my life — from my dad’s old record cabinet to the roar of Judas Priest echoing through an arena. Somewhere along the way, my father’s house fell silent, but I can’t let that happen to me. I sing at the top of my lungs when I ride, because every note is a reminder that I’m still here — still breathing, still living, still loud.
It Goes Where I Go
People love to ask questions. Some are born of curiosity, some from awe — and some from pure, unfiltered stupidity. Like asking if I “rode in today” when I’m standing there in chaps, leather, and helmet hair. For me, riding isn’t a hobby; it’s oxygen. It’s the pulse under my skin. It’s what makes the world go silent and my soul come alive.
Rolling Stops and Righteous Fools
Motorcyclists live in a world full of backseat drivers and badge-wielding experts who don’t know the first thing about the ride. Two stories, one truth: people love to police what they don’t understand — but sometimes, justice still rolls on two wheels.
Maybe You’re Not as Tough as You Think
People today act tougher than reality should allow. Social media and the safety of steel car doors have given cowards the confidence to run their mouths like they’re Bruce Lee or Clint Eastwood, despite bodies that couldn’t back up a single word. I see it most on the road — like the frail woman who flipped me off and screamed from the safety of her SUV, convinced she was invincible. We’ve created a chickenshit society that hides behind cops, cars, and comment sections, where people mistake barking for bravery and think they can write checks their bodies can’t cash.
Cold on Cold on Cold
I’ve seen fifty-five below in Minnesota winters, but I’ve never been as cold as I was that day riding north from El Paso. Spiderwebs of pain crawling through my thighs, trash bag under a sweatshirt, stopping every thirty minutes just to warm up — cold on cold on cold. And when I finally thawed out? I still got back on the bike that night. Because the cold doesn’t change the truth. I ride. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.
Three Times
Three times the universe decided to baptize me in rain on what was supposed to be my free day. Intern lunches, tattoo sessions, Harley rides, and sudden storms—it turned into a test of grit, irritation, and freedom all at once.
15 Things Car Drivers Need to Know About Motorcycles
Every biker has that story — the car that cuts us off, the driver texting through traffic, the brake-check that nearly takes our life. Here’s what car drivers need to understand about why we ride the way we do — and why your little mistake could cost us everything.
