The Legal Gladiator Lie
Hollywood sold us a fantasy: lawyers as warriors, justice as inevitable. What I learned after my motorcycle crash is that personal injury law isn’t a battlefield. It’s a ballroom, and the dance is already choreographed.
I Am Not Reckless. I Am Deliberate.
There’s a difference between recklessness and deliberation. What people see is the decision. What they don’t see is the relentless internal trial that led to it.
What the Hell Happened to Driving?
Traffic up to Los Alamos isn’t bad because there are more people. It’s bad because two or three drivers at the front of the pack have collectively decided that fifteen miles under the speed limit is a personality trait. And somewhere between horsepower and hesitation, we lost something.
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.
We Create the Problems
Human existence sometimes feels like an endless loop: we build systems, then build more systems to fix the systems we built. Meanwhile, the machine hums, and we call it progress.
Free Enough to Complain
I rode all day in freezing sun, hands numb, coffee in my veins, donuts as fuel. And downtown? Protestors. Two years later, still marching like the sky fell. Here’s what I actually saw: a free country loud enough to complain inside it.
What Would You Say?
If I ever sat across from the woman who hit me, what would I say? I’m not sure I’d say anything at all. I think I’d just hand her the story and let her decide who she wants to be next.
Goddamned Appointments
I survived the crash. I survived the hospital. Now I’m just trying to survive the goddamned appointments long enough to get back to being me.
Coverage Limits
There’s something uniquely brutal about watching your trauma converted into arithmetic. Brain bleed. Collapsed lung. Facial reconstruction. Months of recovery. And at the end of it all? Coverage limits. It isn’t justice. It’s math.
The Word I Didn’t Know I Needed
She said I was pretty. Just like that. And it hit harder than it should have because I didn’t realize how long it had been since anyone had seen me that way, or how long I’d stopped seeing myself at all.
What Harley Is Actually Selling
Harley-Davidson doesn’t sell motorcycles. If they did, Honda would win every time. What they sell is muscle, grit, and the permission to make a machine your own. And sometimes, they forget that.
Don’t Fall Back Asleep
It’s easy to fall back asleep. Not literal sleep, the slow kind. The creative kind. The “I’ll do it tomorrow” kind. And one missed morning can turn into a year if you’re not careful.
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.
The Part I Can’t Remember Still Won’t Let Me Go
I don’t remember the accident. That’s the part that still eats at me. The details are gone, but the questions aren’t, and every new inference feels like reopening a wound that never fully closed.
It’s Never Fucking Done
I’ve called And So, She Rose “done” three different times. Broken wrist. Proofreader hired. Names changed. BFF feedback incorporated. And now the cover artist is working, which means “done” isn’t done until I say it is and publish the damn thing. Welcome to the chaos of self-publishing, where the writing ends and the real work begins.
The Keeper of the Speed
Fresh from cardiology, defibrillator checked and heart cleared for duty, I rolled into my subdivision only to be greeted by the self-appointed Keeper of the Speed. Apparently retirement now comes with hand signals and moral authority. I had thoughts. My exhaust had volume.
Torque Therapy
Four days of throttle therapy. Mild workouts, no routine, and a chrome-plated monster named Aurora reminding Santa Fe what torque feels like. Now I’m staring at camshafts like a junkie looking for the next hit.
Nyx Becoming
Before the accident, I had two bikes I loved. After, I felt stripped bare. This weekend, installing parts in my living room and standing back to stare at Nyx, that feeling finally came back. This is what restoration looks like.
Two in the Morning, and Not Done Yet
The lawyers are done. The insurance companies ran their formulas. The paperwork closed. But four months after nearly losing my life, my body isn’t finished. Healing doesn’t move at the speed of settlements. It moves at the speed of scar tissue. In the meantime? I build.