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.”
Dating While Trans: The Part Nobody Wants to Admit
People will march for trans rights.
They’ll craft signs. Chant slogans. Call themselves allies.
But when it comes to dating us, especially if we don’t package ourselves in the most palatable way, support evaporates fast. This is the part no one likes to talk about. This is what dating while trans actually looks like when the slogans fade and the phone rings.
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
Before Dawn
Since dying three and a half years ago, I’ve become a morning person. Not the cute “wake up at seven with coffee” kind — the “3 A.M. because the universe shook me awake” kind. And in that silence, untouched by the noise of billions of sleeping humans, my real life began.
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.
Dreaming on the Edge of Becoming
Tonight I’m dreaming — about the book I just finished through broken bones and pain, and about the life I’m building from the ashes. This memoir is my launchpad. My declaration. My refusal to play small. And the future I’m carving is starting to take shape.
On Gratitude, Fear, and Finally Finishing the Damn Book
After months of chaos, healing, and unexpected clarity, I reread my memoir from beginning to end — and realized it’s finally fucking done. What comes next is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, but I’m stepping into it head-on.
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.