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...
A raw reflection on rebuilding life after stroke, amputation, and chronic pain, exploring the balance between movement, rest, and nervous system healing without losing identity or strength.
There’s a strange thing that happens after major trauma.
People expect you to slow down.
To be fragile.
To disappear into recovery.
But that’s not what happens inside me.
Inside me, there’s still a drive. A fire. A pull toward movement, toward strength, toward doing something—anything—that makes me feel like I’m still here.
Because I’ve survived things most people don’t see up close: a stroke, major fractures, organ failure, amputation, and a body that has had to rebuild itself from the inside out.
So when I say I want to move again, I mean it in every part of me.
But I’ve also learned something important:
My body is not a machine.
It’s not bionic.
It’s not something I can push endlessly without consequence.
It is living tissue that remembers everything it has survived.
And sometimes, it simply says: stop.
Not as failure.
As intelligence.
I used to think rest meant I was falling behind. That if I stopped, I’d lose momentum, lose strength, lose myself.
But I’ve started to understand something different.
Rest is not the opposite of progress.
It is part of it.
I go to the gym every other day now. Not because I’m limiting myself, but because I’m learning rhythm instead of force. I push. I build. I rest. And my body responds better when I listen instead of override.
On the days I don’t go, I still feel the urge to move. I still feel the pull to do more, be more, fix more. But I’ve realized something important about that voice—it doesn’t always mean I need to act. Sometimes it just means I’m alive inside a body that remembers strength.
And I don’t have to turn that urgency into exhaustion and more pain.
I’m also learning to return to the things that bring me back into myself—sound, vibration, grounding tools, small moments with drum, singing bowls, or tuning fork. Not as big healing rituals. Not as performances. Just as reminders that I’m still here inside my body.
But even those things have to be small right now. Because my nervous system is still rebuilding. And I’m learning that more is not always better—sometimes more is just more overload.
What I’m really learning is this:
I don’t have to prove I’m not an invalid.
I don’t have to earn rest by exhaustion.
I don’t have to turn recovery into punishment.
I can move.
I can rest.
I can rebuild.
And all of it can belong to the same life.
I’m not starting over.
I’m recalibrating.
And for the first time, I’m trying to let my body lead instead of my urgency.
Because my body has survived everything I didn’t think it could survive.
It deserves to be listened to now.
My journey didn't end when I survived the accident—it began. Every day is filled with healing, pain, rehabilitation, and the search for a new purpose. If my story has touched you and you'd like to help me continue rebuilding my life after losing my leg and enduring multiple traumatic injuries, please consider supporting my GoFundMe. Every donation, share, and kind word helps me keep moving forward toward recovery and a future filled with possibility.
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