The Survivor’s Club
There’s a moment when you realize the scars aren’t random. They tell a story … of holding on, of not letting go, of surviving something that was trying to end you. And when you meet others who carry the same marks, you recognize it immediately. You’re part of something now.
Closer to Closure?
I didn’t call her for revenge. I called because I wanted to finish something. To look her in the eye and say the words that would finally let me walk away.
Cut, Stitch, Publish
On the same day I hand my face over to a surgeon’s knife, I’m waiting for something else to be born: my first book. One stitched back together. One finally set free. Either way, something changes today.
You’re Fucking Welcome
Pride wasn’t born out of comfort. It was born out of survival. This is about Michael. About blood. About hiding. About violence. About what it actually cost to make today safer. And about the complicated gratitude that comes with inheriting freedom.
I’m Making Heat Again
After my crash, my body stopped running hot. Rooms felt cold. Nights needed blankets. Riding felt different. I think my body redirected every spare ounce of energy toward survival. But tonight, in the middle of the night, one leg kicked out from under the covers, I realized something simple and powerful: I’m making heat again.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.