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.
Micro-Rant: Your Voicemail Is Too Damn Long
I had to call my insurance adjuster today, and of course he didn’t answer — but the real crime was his voicemail. Why are people still recording long-ass greetings like it’s 1997? Nobody needs a personal monologue before the beep. Just let me leave the damn message.
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.
Pins & Progress
I went to Albuquerque to get the pins removed from my left foot — three pieces of stainless steel holding my toes together. The appointment was a bureaucratic nightmare, the pain was no joke, and the recovery delay hit harder than expected. Healing is progress… but sometimes it feels like punishment.
Collateral Damage
One reckless U-turn destroyed my bike, my body, and my freedom—and the woman who caused it walked away with barely an inconvenience. Six weeks later, I’m still paying for her decision in flesh, bone, and stolen pieces of my life.
Don’t You Dare Tell Me To Stop Riding
People keep telling me that after my accident, I should stop riding. That idea pisses me off every single time. Riding isn’t a hobby — it’s a vital part of my soul, my identity, and the way I choose to live fully in a world terrified of risk.
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.
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.