Nobody tells you that becoming an amputee basically turns your entire life into an Olympic event called: “Can I Make It To The Bathroom In Time?” Spoiler alert: Sometimes the answer is no. People see amputees out in public and think: “Wow. So inspiring. So strong.” Meanwhile at home, I’m one missed transfer away from becoming a biohazard. My life now revolves around timing. My bladder’s timing. My bowels’ timing. My cat’s timing. My dog’s timing. And unfortunately, I’m the slowest one in the house. Ironically, my cat seems to understand my disability more than my dog does. Which feels unfair considering the dog literally survived the accident with me and witnessed everything firsthand. But my cat watches me struggle like: “She is fragile. We must proceed carefully.” Meanwhile my dog is just out here operating under the belief that I still function like a normal human being. After my second surgery to remove hardware from my leg, I came home wearing a medical boot...
The other day, I had what I can only call a Satori moment — a sudden burst of awareness that cracked me open just enough to see something I’d been avoiding. I was sitting there, letting myself drift into joy. I was visualizing the things I want to create — and what my future would look like, all flowing together in ways that light me up. I could feel the happiness start to bubble up inside me. That fizzy, almost electric sensation that says yes, this is the life I’m creating . Then — boom — shutdown. I blocked it. Just like that. A familiar wall. That subtle, silent sabotage whispering, “Don’t feel too much. Don’t get too excited. What if it doesn’t happen?” It was as if some hidden part of me whispered, Don’t get your hopes up… what if it doesn’t happen? I could feel myself shutting the door on joy before it could fully enter. That lie dressed up like protection. And then, I said it: “Do I have a heart wall?” And suddenly—tears. Full-body truth. That wasn’t just a question. That ...