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.
The Gift I Didn’t Ask For
Everyone tells me it must be a blessing that I don’t remember the accident. That it’s a gift not to carry those images, those moments, that trauma. But they’re wrong. What they don’t understand is that my brain didn’t just erase the crash, it erased an entire day, the ER, the ICU, the moments that defined the months that followed. And I’m left carrying rage, grief, and pain without context. That kind of absence isn’t mercy. It feels like theft.
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.
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.
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
Four Weeks in the System, and One Woman Who Finally Showed Up
After four weeks trapped in a maze of cancelled surgeries, mixed messages, and hospital bureaucracy, I finally met a surgeon who didn’t waste time, didn’t sugarcoat anything, and actually fixed the damn problem. This is the story of surviving the system long enough to find the person who gave me hope again.
The Shoulder, the System, and the Bullshit We Call “Healthcare”
Something is still incredibly wrong with my shoulders — but getting a doctor to care feels harder than surviving the accident itself. This is the reality of navigating a medical system built on ego, blind compliance, and checklist culture when all you want is to actually heal.
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.