A Good Fucking Day
Today didn’t fix everything. I’m still not the same person I was before the accident, and maybe I never will be. But for the first time in a while, my brain showed up, my bike plans snapped into place, and something I built actually landed exactly right. Some days aren’t about healing or closure. Some days are just about momentum. And today? Today was a good fucking day.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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
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.
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.
Maybe Patience Isn’t the Virtue They Say It Is
Patience and I have a long, ugly history. I can do it — I just fucking hate it. Growing up poor taught me how to wait, but recovering from this accident is teaching me something else entirely: sometimes patience is just forced stillness dressed up as virtue.