One week post-ankle surgery. I really thought I was going to tough this one out. I told myself I’d be brave, stay strong, keep pushing, maybe even get back to the gym right away. But somewhere between determination and common sense, reality kicked in. Why would I push myself for two weeks and risk aggravating the stitches on my ankle when healing is finally within reach? Going to the gym would mean constant transferring, constant friction, constant irritation to an area that desperately needs rest. And after everything I’ve already been through with my amputated leg — the open wounds, the spitting stitches, the endless setbacks — I just couldn’t justify sabotaging my own healing again. I had finally reached a point where I could start wearing my prosthetic again at the beginning of May, only for everything to come to a complete stop because of this ankle surgery. Yesterday, I decided to try anyway. I put the prosthetic on just to see if I could do it. But because my ankle currently has...
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My Journey From Rock Bottom to Guiding Others Out of the Darkness
I’ve been in the depths of despair more times than I can count. And every time, somehow, I’ve found my way back to the light—not because someone handed me a roadmap, but because I learned how to crawl, scrape, and claw my way out.
That’s the only path I know:
out of the darkness and toward the light.
After my stroke, I hit rock bottom in more ways than one—physically, emotionally, spiritually. Life wasn’t just hard. It was suffocating and we were in the middle of a pandemic. I was exhausted from surviving. Tired of struggling. Tired of feeling trapped in circumstances that didn’t reflect who I truly was inside.
And so I did the work.
Not the kind of work where you journal for three days and suddenly manifest a Ferrari.
I’m talking about the deep, gritty, ugly work.
The kind where you face your anger, your fear, your trauma, your toxic patterns, your self-sabotage, your resentment, your victimhood, your grief. The kind where you sit in the dark parts of yourself long enough to understand them instead of running from them.
It wasn’t glamorous.
Honestly, it felt like eating a tossed salad with anchovies in it—and I hate anchovies. But I ate the damn thing anyway because I wanted change more than I wanted comfort.
So I tried everything.
Writing.
Meditation.
Energy work.
Sound healing.
NLP.
Sacred geometry.
Prayer.
Grounding.
Breathwork.
Rewiring my mind.
Learning how to reconnect with my heart after life tried to harden it.
It wasn’t neat.
It wasn’t linear.
It was a giant tossed salad of healing tools—and somehow, it worked.
Not because I did it perfectly.
But because I kept showing up.
And then life hit me again.
A tragic accident changed my body forever and cost me my limb.
Suddenly I wasn’t just healing from a stroke anymore. I was navigating surgeries, trauma, physical pain, phantom pain, prosthetics, setbacks, exhaustion, fear, financial stress, and another identity shift I never asked for.
There were moments where I could have given up.
Moments where it would have been easier to become bitter.
Moments where I questioned everything.
But something inside me refused to die.
And what’s wild is that through all of it, people started watching me differently.
Not because I pretended to have it all together.
Not because I became some perfect spiritual guru.
But because I kept getting back up.
People saw resilience.
Strength.
Humor in impossible moments.
Authenticity.
Heart.
They saw someone who had every reason to collapse—and kept choosing to keep showing up anyway.
That became my reputation.
Not perfection.
Not polished inspiration.
Resilience.
The kind earned through survival.
The truth is, I’m still doing the work. Healing isn’t a finish line. It’s layers. Seasons. Cycles. Some days I feel powerful. Some days I feel broken open. Most days, I’m both at the same time.
But everything I’ve survived has taught me this:
Rock bottom isn’t where your story ends.
Sometimes it’s where your real life begins.
And that’s why I’m here now.
Not to blow smoke up your ass.
Not to sell fake positivity.
Not to pretend healing is easy.
I’m here to tell the truth.
Healing is messy.
Growth is uncomfortable.
Transformation asks everything from you.
But I also know what’s possible when someone refuses to quit on themselves.
So if you’re sitting in the darkness right now, feeling lost, broken, exhausted, angry, grieving, scared, or completely disconnected from who you used to be—I get it.
I’ve been there more times than I can count.
And if you’re willing to do the real, messy, anchovy-salad kind of work?
I’ll walk beside you.
If my story resonates with you, I want to be honest about where I’m at right now.
My journey hasn’t just been emotional or spiritual—it’s been deeply physical, medical, and financial. Between my stroke recovery, my accident that resulted in limb loss, multiple surgeries, prosthetic fittings, ongoing rehabilitation, and the reality of trying to rebuild life from the ground up, the financial weight has been significant.
I’ve done everything I can to keep moving forward, to heal, to work, and to rebuild my independence—but I’m still in the middle of that process.
If you feel called to support me, whether that’s through a donation or simply by sharing my GoFundMe, it genuinely helps me continue focusing on healing, recovery, and rebuilding my life with stability and dignity.
Every bit of support goes directly toward recovery needs, daily living expenses, and the ongoing process of becoming whole again in a body and life that has been through a lot.
More than anything, thank you for being here, for reading my story, and for witnessing this journey. That alone means more than I can say.
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