Lately, it has been hot, so I decided to do something that would make life a little easier. I cooked a bunch of different meals in the crock pot, put them into containers, and froze them. That way, when the weather is hot, I wouldn't have to do much cooking. Then a flyer came in from the local Mexican market. They had pineapples, plantains, mangoes, watermelon, cucumbers—fresh fruits and vegetables at really good prices. They also had beef shanks. So after the gym, I had my caretaker take me to the store. I already had plenty of food at home. I had meals in the freezer, food in the refrigerator, and everything I needed. I wasn't going to the store because I was running out of food. But when I got there, something happened. I felt happy. The store was colorful and full of fresh food. I could choose one of this, two of that, three of something else. I wasn't limited to whatever quantity happened to come in a package. I could actually look at what I wanted and decide what I wa...
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 — and no one can tell you what it will look like instead.
For a long time, I didn’t let myself feel angry.
I needed all my energy to heal. I needed to believe in my body. I needed positivity, determination, focus. Anger felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.
So I postponed it.
But grief doesn’t disappear just because you ignore it. It waits.
And lately, in the middle of the night, when the pain won’t let me sleep, the truth shows up:
I’m angry.
I’m angry that someone else’s reckless decision changed my life forever.
I’m angry that he doesn’t have to live with the aftermath — I do.
I’m angry that I’m the one figuring out how to survive financially, physically, emotionally, creatively — all at once.
I’m angry that people talk about survival like it cancels out loss.
It doesn’t.
Losing a limb isn’t just a physical loss. It’s the loss of ease. Of certainty. Of identity. Of the unconscious trust you had in your body to just… work.
It’s grieving the version of yourself who didn’t have to think this hard about everything.
And here’s the part people don’t like to hear:
You can be grateful to be alive and furious about what it cost you.
Those feelings are not opposites. They’re neighbors.
Grief after trauma isn’t linear. It doesn’t move politely from sadness to acceptance. Sometimes it shows up as rage. Sometimes fear. Sometimes exhaustion. Sometimes dark humor. Sometimes all of it in one day.
That doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It means you’re processing something real.
I’m still here.
I’m still surviving.
And I’m still grieving.
Not because I’m weak — but because something was taken from me, and pretending otherwise doesn’t heal anything.
Survival is not the end of the story.
It’s the part where the real work begins.
If this story resonates with you—if you've ever faced loss, trauma, or the challenge of rebuilding a life you never asked for—I invite you to continue following my journey. Recovery after a catastrophic accident is a long road, and every day brings new physical, emotional, and financial challenges. If you'd like to help support my healing and the next chapter of my life, please consider contributing to my GoFundMe or sharing it with others. Your kindness and generosity truly make a difference and remind me that I don't have to walk this path alone.
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