The Pain You Don’t Notice
Sometimes the most dangerous pain isn’t the sharp kind that makes you scream. It’s the quiet kind that hums in the background for so long you stop noticing it. After months of recovery from a crash, I discovered just how much pain my body had quietly learned to live with.
The Moment the Anger Leaves
There’s a strange moment after betrayal when the anger finally disappears. It’s the moment you realize the person who once held your heart no longer holds your gravity.
A Night for Broken Hearts
Sometimes the deepest heartbreaks are the ones you can’t explain. The ones you have to carry quietly, because telling the truth would destroy someone else’s life. So you sit with the pain, question everything you thought you understood about love, and ask God why the tests never seem to end.
What Would You Say?
If I ever sat across from the woman who hit me, what would I say? I’m not sure I’d say anything at all. I think I’d just hand her the story and let her decide who she wants to be next.
The Word I Didn’t Know I Needed
She said I was pretty. Just like that. And it hit harder than it should have because I didn’t realize how long it had been since anyone had seen me that way, or how long I’d stopped seeing myself at all.
The Part I Can’t Remember Still Won’t Let Me Go
I don’t remember the accident. That’s the part that still eats at me. The details are gone, but the questions aren’t, and every new inference feels like reopening a wound that never fully closed.
Nyx Becoming
Before the accident, I had two bikes I loved. After, I felt stripped bare. This weekend, installing parts in my living room and standing back to stare at Nyx, that feeling finally came back. This is what restoration looks like.
Strength Training, or: How Weakness Feels Before It Feels Like Progress
Last night I lifted ten-pound dumbbells and they nearly wrecked me. This morning I’m sore, smiling, and absolutely certain of one thing: strength doesn’t come back all at once, it comes back honestly, rep by rep, when you finally decide to start.
I Think I’m Afraid of the Dark Now
I don’t remember the accident, but my body does. And when the sun goes down and the headlights start moving faster than trust can keep up, the dark doesn’t feel neutral anymore.
Between Torque and Grief
My bike is finally done, brighter and louder and harder to ignore than ever. And somehow, that joy exists right next to grief, anger, and the quiet realization that my life has been reduced to a number in someone else’s legal game.
Learning the Shape of the New Me
Coming back to work after the accident taught me something I wasn’t ready to learn. The hardest part wasn’t the schedule, the exhaustion, or the logistics. It was realizing my mind doesn’t work the way it used to. This is about grief, fear, and learning what it costs to survive.
Reclaiming MY Normal
After months of hospitals, recovery, and forced stillness, I finally felt like myself again, not because I was healed, but because I was seen. This isn’t a story about rushing back or pretending nothing happened. It’s about reclaiming the version of “normal” that keeps my mind alive, my sanity intact, and my life moving forward.
I’m Still Here
I survived fractures, surgeries, lost teeth, missing memories, and a body that sometimes feels like it’s held together by stubbornness and hardware. Bureaucracy tried to wear me down. Pain tried to slow me. The road reminded me who the fuck I am. I’m still here, and I’m not done moving.
Some Days the Words Don’t Come, But the Ride Does
Some days I wake up with stories clawing to get out. Other days, my wrist hurts, my foot protests, and the words stay quiet. On those days, I ride. And somewhere between cold air, torque, and movement, my soul remembers who the fuck I am.
Between Sleeps
I fall asleep early, wake up in the middle of the night, write until dawn, ride through cold Santa Fe mornings, then do it all over again. It wasn’t the routine I planned, but it’s the one that’s healing me. Writing has become the thread that stitches my body, mind, and spirit back together, and right now, I wouldn’t trade this strange, quiet rhythm for anything.
The Silent Moments
People have opinions about my recovery. Strong ones. They form them from moments, snapshots, not from the hours spent in silence at two in the morning, staring at medical records, trying to understand what my body remembers even when my mind does not. This isn’t recklessness. It’s reckoning. And what you’re seeing is only a fraction of a much deeper transformation.
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.
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.
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.