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.
Stop Calling It An Accident
We use the word “accident” like an emotional airbag. It cushions the blow, softens accountability, and blurs the line between negligence and chance. But most of what we label accidental is entirely predictable, and preventable.
Coverage Limits
There’s something uniquely brutal about watching your trauma converted into arithmetic. Brain bleed. Collapsed lung. Facial reconstruction. Months of recovery. And at the end of it all? Coverage limits. It isn’t justice. It’s math.
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.
Justice Before Sunrise
At 4:30 in the morning, I’m not chasing vengeance. I’m chasing a word this country was built on: justice. If someone can make a negligent U-turn, nearly kill a motorcyclist, and walk away without so much as a citation, what does that say about liberty? About accountability? About fairness?
Lawyers, Leadership, and Lips
What a fucking week. Lawyers talking numbers. Leadership finding its footing again. Surgery scheduled for the part of my face that never fully healed. Justice, it turns out, isn’t a courtroom ideal, it’s an insurance calculation. And I’m still learning how to live in the space between gratitude and anger.
Four Months
Four months can hold a lifetime. Concerts. Bikes. A brand-new tire that never got its second chance. Hospital photos I didn’t remember taking, but my body remembers living. Trauma doesn’t change you slowly, it rewires you overnight. You wake up different. And then one day, you have to walk back into your life and see who’s still there.
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.
The Case Of The Swollen Knee
I survived the crash. I survived the hospital. What I didn’t survive intact was the space between diagnosis and action. This is the story of how a system designed to save lives can still refuse to fix a problem while documenting, referring, billing, and delaying its way into absurdity.
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.
Shaken By God, Shaken By Fate
After surviving multiple cardiac deaths, I thought I understood fragility and purpose. But this recent crash shook me in a way nothing else has. Not because I died — but because someone else nearly ended me through carelessness. Now I'm wrestling with existence, meaning, and the terrifying truth that my life isn't only in my hands.