Skip to main content

Trending Now: What everyone's reading.

Walking Through Fear While My Life Is Still Unstable

By The Artful Woman
  Walking Through Fear Anyway: When Survival Becomes a Daily Choice I’m at risk of losing my housing right now. That sentence alone feels surreal to write, but it’s my reality. I’ve already survived things most people only ever read about. A catastrophic accident. A medically induced coma. An amputation. Metal now holding parts of my body together—including my vertebrae, and my left leg from my knee to my ankle. I’m still learning what all of this means in real time, because even now, no one has fully explained every part of what happened to me. I also don’t remember the accident itself. Not because I’m avoiding it—but because my mind shut it out. The trauma was so severe, and my body was so critically compromised, that everything went into survival shutdown. I had kidney failure and heart failure. My body was shutting down, and my brain shut down with it. What I do remember is the day. I remember my thought process clearly in the beginning. I remember thinking I wasn’t in a...
Post a Comment

Walking Through Fear While My Life Is Still Unstable

Image
By The Artful Woman

 

Walking Through Fear Anyway: When Survival Becomes a Daily Choice

I’m at risk of losing my housing right now.

That sentence alone feels surreal to write, but it’s my reality. I’ve already survived things most people only ever read about. A catastrophic accident. A medically induced coma. An amputation. Metal now holding parts of my body together—including my vertebrae, and my left leg from my knee to my ankle. I’m still learning what all of this means in real time, because even now, no one has fully explained every part of what happened to me.

I also don’t remember the accident itself.

Not because I’m avoiding it—but because my mind shut it out.

The trauma was so severe, and my body was so critically compromised, that everything went into survival shutdown. I had kidney failure and heart failure. My body was shutting down, and my brain shut down with it.

What I do remember is the day.

I remember my thought process clearly in the beginning. I remember thinking I wasn’t in a rush. I remember it was a beautiful day. I remember deciding I wanted to take my time driving over the Ortega Highway, just to enjoy the drive over the mountains.

After that, my mind is blank.

What I do have are fragments from being in and out of consciousness afterward. Some of it was confusing. I had bizarre nightmares that felt real. Some of it was disturbing in the way the mind can distort reality after extreme trauma, heavy medication, and periods of unconsciousness. It left me traumatized in a whole other way, and scared when I was transferred to an acute care hospital.

I realize now some of it was hallucinations. But at the time, it didn’t make sense and only added to the trauma. I still can’t fully decipher what was medication, what was ICU delirium, what was my brain trying to protect itself, or what was my mind attempting to reconstruct reality while I was not fully conscious.

So I have no timeline. No memory of my surgeries, even though I had several life-threatening ones. And no clear memory of the accident itself.

Just fragments of recovery. Fragments of waking up. Fragments of slowly coming back into awareness over time. In between saying what felt like my last prayers because I didn’t think I was going to make it, because the pain was that severe.

It’s strange to live inside a body that has been through all of that, while your mind doesn’t have access to the full story of what happened to it.

Even now, I still ask myself: what actually happened to me?

And now I’m here again—facing another kind of survival.

Not just physical recovery, but survival in the most basic, practical sense: housing, income, stability. I’m in the middle of a lawsuit that is moving very slowly. Disability is still processing very slowly. I have no steady income right now. And yet every day, I still wake up and try to rebuild strength in a body that is still healing from everything it has been through.

Physical therapy isn’t really available in the way I need it to be, so I go to the gym. Even that is something I can barely afford, but I can’t afford to lose it either, because it’s what’s helping me rebuild my strength and endurance. It’s one of the only things keeping me moving forward.

And while all of that is happening, my mind doesn’t stay quiet.

It races.

How am I going to pay rent?
What happens if I lose my housing?
What happens if I can’t stabilize in time?
Did I endure all of this just to become homeless and end up on the streets? Why would God allow this to happen to me?

Those thoughts don’t politely wait their turn. They come in waves. Loud. Persistent. Relentless. The fear is so intense it can feel paralyzing, and I have to actively work through it so I can get myself back into a place of action—so it doesn’t take over my mind and pull my body with it.

And still, I have to choose how I respond to it every day.

I have to choose not to let my thoughts take over completely.
I have to choose to get up anyway.
I have to choose to keep rebuilding my body, even when my mind feels like it’s unraveling.

At some point, I had to start a GoFundMe.

That was not easy. It’s humbling in a way that’s hard to explain. But it’s also shown me something I didn’t expect: people showing up. That part has been deeply human.

Not in huge dramatic ways. But quietly. Consistently. People I know. People I barely know. People I’ve never met sending $10, $20—small amounts that don’t feel small when you realize they’re being given with care, intention, and the hope that enough small pieces can hold someone up long enough to survive and stabilize.

So I’m living in both realities at once.

Fear is still here. Very real. Very present. Not something I can meditate away or positive-think out of existence. But alongside it, there is also movement. Action. Support. Breath. Rebuilding.

And a decision I keep making over and over again:

I will not let this situation define the end of my story.

I didn’t choose the accident. I didn’t choose the medical chaos that followed it. I didn’t choose the financial instability that came after trying to rebuild my life while my body was still recovering.

But I do get to choose how I move through it now.

Some days that choice is strong. Some days it barely exists. But it’s still there.

And right now, I am learning something I never expected to learn in this lifetime:

Fear doesn’t always disappear before you move forward.

Sometimes you move forward with it still in your mind and still in your body.

Not because you’re fearless—but because you don’t have another honest option but to keep going.

Trusting that somewhere in that movement… life will meet me halfway.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading my story.

I’m currently navigating recovery, housing instability, and financial uncertainty after a catastrophic accident and major medical trauma. I’m trying to stay housed, continue rebuilding my strength, and stabilize my life while I wait for legal and disability processes to move forward.

If you’re able to help—whether it’s a donation or sharing my GoFundMe—I would be deeply grateful. Even small contributions make a real difference in helping me stay afloat right now.

👉  GoFundMe 

Thank you for showing up in whatever way you can. It truly matters.



Survivor Story, Trauma Recovery, Disability Awareness, Amputation Survivor, Life After Trauma, Medical Trauma, ICU Recovery, Chronic Pain Life, Invisible Disability, Brain Injury Recovery, Housing Insecurity, GoFundMe Support, Survivor Journey, Resilience, Rebuilding Life, Second Chances, Healing Journey, Chronic Illness Warrior, Adaptive Life, Survival Mode


Labels:
Location: Lake Elsinore, CA, USA

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular Posts

I fiercely protect my energy — and let me tell you why.

By The Artful Woman
  I fiercely protect my energy — and let me tell you why. For most of my life, I’ve been the type of person people could count on. A good person. Someone who would show up, give, listen, and hold space. But when you’re wired like that, people often mistake it for weakness. Instead of honoring it, they take advantage. They lean on it. They drain it. I call them time bandits, energy thieves, and soul snatchers — people who see your kindness as an open door to take, take, and take some more. And when you don’t have boundaries, they will absolutely drain you. And for me, being an empath only intensified that experience. I feel things deeply. I absorb the emotions, chaos, and energy of the people around me. At first, I didn’t even realize it wasn’t mine. I carried other people’s burdens like they were my own. And when it got too heavy, when the overload became unbearable, I didn’t have tools to release it. So I numbed. I distracted myself. I tried to bury it. But here’s the truth: a lo...
Post a Comment
Read more

When Trauma Breaks Your Reality, You Start Questioning Everything

By The Artful Woman
  I came across a quote recently that stopped me in my tracks: “Quantum physics is where they hide the scientific proof of spirituality.” And honestly? After everything I’ve survived, that line hit differently. A few years ago, I probably would have read that quote and simply thought it sounded interesting. But trauma has a way of stripping life down to its rawest truths. After my stroke… after my accident… after losing a limb and watching my entire identity collapse in front of me… I started questioning everything I thought I knew about healing, reality, energy, and what it truly means to survive. Because when your body experiences extreme trauma, you realize very quickly that healing is not just physical. It’s emotional. Mental. Energetic. Spiritual. Science is finally catching up to what ancient spiritual traditions have taught for centuries: everything is energy. Our thoughts affect our bodies. Stress changes the nervous system. Fear impacts healing. Intention matters. Human b...
Post a Comment
Read more

I Survived. And That’s Not the Whole Story.

By The Artful Woman
  Nine months after surviving a catastrophic car accident and losing her leg, Jean shares the hidden reality of trauma, grief, anger, and rebuilding a life that will never be the same. A deeply honest reflection on survival, healing, and what comes after simply staying alive. People like to say, “But you survived.” They say it like it’s the end of the sentence. Like survival wraps everything up neatly with a bow. It doesn’t. I survived my accident. I also lost my leg. And those two truths exist at the same time. Survival isn’t a finish line. It’s the beginning of a long, quiet aftermath that no one prepares you for. The part where the adrenaline fades, the visitors go home, and you’re left alone in your body at night — in pain, awake, thinking. That’s where grief lives. Not the dramatic kind. The relentless kind. The kind that shows up when you can’t get comfortable in bed. When nerve pain lights up your body. When you realize your future won’t look the way you planned...
Post a Comment
Read more