Awakening the Words
As my body heals, something else is coming back online — my words. Surgery restored movement to my left hand, and suddenly I’m typing again, writing like a woman starved for expression. It feels like healing and creativity are feeding each other in a loop. For the first time since the accident, my mind is awake, my fingers are working, and I finally feel like myself again — at least a little.
The Quiet After The Storm
After a week of relying on others for even the smallest necessities, I finally find myself alone in a quiet house — the first real silence since the accident. I’m grateful, I’m hurting, and I’m oddly hopeful. This silence is a reminder of what freedom used to feel like, and what it might feel like again. But staying away from the anger that keeps clawing at me? That’s the struggle I face every damn day.
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.
Somewhere Between Betrayal and Gratitude
Healing is a strange place — especially when gratitude and betrayal collide within hours of each other. This is what it feels like to navigate pain, loyalty, and the unexpected sting of exploitation on the blackest of Fridays. Some people show you love; others reveal themselves. Either way, you learn who belongs at your table.
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.
It Goes Where I Go, Part II: The Soundtrack of a Lived Life
Music has always been the pulse of my life — from my dad’s old record cabinet to the roar of Judas Priest echoing through an arena. Somewhere along the way, my father’s house fell silent, but I can’t let that happen to me. I sing at the top of my lungs when I ride, because every note is a reminder that I’m still here — still breathing, still living, still loud.
It Goes Where I Go
People love to ask questions. Some are born of curiosity, some from awe — and some from pure, unfiltered stupidity. Like asking if I “rode in today” when I’m standing there in chaps, leather, and helmet hair. For me, riding isn’t a hobby; it’s oxygen. It’s the pulse under my skin. It’s what makes the world go silent and my soul come alive.
The Cost of Feeling Safe
We traded our liberty for a sense of comfort, and called it progress. The founders would call it surrender. From DUI checkpoints to border stops miles inland, the “land of the free” has become a nation policed by its own fears.
Hey Toddlers: Do Your Fucking Job
Twenty-two days into a government shutdown, Congress is still throwing tantrums instead of governing. If any of us handled our jobs this way, we’d be fired. But in D.C., failure pays — and the rest of the country foots the bill.
We Are Not The Same
One ride. One crash. One picture that lit a fire.
I don’t want to be your ally. I don’t want to be your therapist. I already came out, did the work, and live it every day. Don’t text me a photo of you playing pretend and expect applause. We are not the same.
American Roulette
A cold morning ride, coffee with a colleague, and a breakfast date that turned into a protest invite — another reminder that dating in your fifties is American Roulette, and I’m better off riding solo.
Rolling Stops and Righteous Fools
Motorcyclists live in a world full of backseat drivers and badge-wielding experts who don’t know the first thing about the ride. Two stories, one truth: people love to police what they don’t understand — but sometimes, justice still rolls on two wheels.
Maybe You’re Not as Tough as You Think
People today act tougher than reality should allow. Social media and the safety of steel car doors have given cowards the confidence to run their mouths like they’re Bruce Lee or Clint Eastwood, despite bodies that couldn’t back up a single word. I see it most on the road — like the frail woman who flipped me off and screamed from the safety of her SUV, convinced she was invincible. We’ve created a chickenshit society that hides behind cops, cars, and comment sections, where people mistake barking for bravery and think they can write checks their bodies can’t cash.
Liberty On Trial
A Nogales man was sentenced to 32 months in prison for pointing a gun at a Border Patrol agent — on his own land. Court records show the agent drew first, aiming at the man’s pit bull. The homeowner reacted exactly how the Founders envisioned when they wrote the Second Amendment. For that, he’s headed to prison. Liberty itself is on trial.
Libertarian… When It Fits My Narrative
The Libertarian Party should stand for liberty — but too often it’s a costume, worn by people who only care about being different. When even “libertarians” argue for limits on freedom, what’s left of the promise America was built on?
Shall Not Be Infringed (Unless You’re Buying Kale)
If you don’t trust me to carry a gun in your store, then I don’t trust you with my money. Don’t ask me to disarm just to shop for groceries.