06/12/2025
Ten years ago today, my life was forever altered.
Not in the way people imagine when they think of second chances.
It didn’t come with joy or clarity. It came with trauma, broken bones, and nights that felt longer than any day.
Almost four years ago, I stopped speaking about the crash.
Not because it stopped mattering, but because it mattered too much.
Talking about it didn’t heal me—it tore me open again and again.
So I chose silence, to protect the parts of me still bleeding.
Now, I choose to take a step back, not just from the story, but from my role as a speaker and advocate on impaired driving/distracted driving.
This isn’t about turning away from the cause. It’s about turning inward for a while.
It’s about giving myself permission to heal in a different way.
Because even strong voices need rest.
And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is choose ourselves.
Because silence doesn’t mean I’m okay.
It means I’m surviving in the only way I know how.
We don’t always witness healing sometimes it happens in invisible ways.
Healing can look like getting out of bed when everything hurts.
Like saying, “I can’t talk about it,” and meaning, I’m saving myself today.
Over twenty surgeries later, my body will never be what it once was.
I look “fine,” they say. But what I carry is invisible.
My trauma lives in the shadows of fast-moving cars,
in the ache of my joints every morning,
in the tears that fall when no one is looking.
That’s the truth of an invisible disability: you can’t see it, but it never leaves.
I struggle to stand for long periods of time.
Sometimes, just being upright feels like a battle.
The pain can be unbearable, radiating through me in waves, reminding me of everything I’ve survived.
I’ve learned how to mask it well, to smile through it, to keep going.
But it’s always there, just beneath the surface.
The emotional labor, the inner healing, it’s exhausting.
But I’ve done it. I’m still doing it.
Not to return to who I was before, but to become someone stronger, softer, and more self-aware.
The crash, caused by someone else’s reckless decision, does not define me.
What defines me is how I show up every day through pain, through fear, through grief.
I’ve walked through every stage, sometimes circling back to the hardest ones.
But each step matters. Even the ugly ones.
Even the ones where I felt like giving up.
So today, I honor the version of me that survived.
The one that still cries.
The one that still heals.
The one that has every right to be proud.
If you’re reading this, love hard.
Hold people close.
Never take your body for granted.
Mobility is a gift.
Life is fragile.
And healing… healing is a quiet kind of miracle.
But this isn’t where my story ends.
Throughout this journey, I was told I would never walk again.
I was told I would never be able to have children.
And soon, against all odds, I’ll be walking down the aisle, marrying the love of my life.
I’ll be watching my two beautiful daughters, whom I gave birth to, scatter petals as the flower girls at our wedding.
So if you’re in the middle of your storm, please know: the sun does come back.
It may not look like you imagined, but life can still bloom in the aftermath.
There is hope.
There is healing.
There is love.
And there is always sunshine after the storm.
This is not the end of my story.
It’s just a quieter one.
And to those who never left my side thank you.
To my parents, family, friends, and my best friend who stood by me through every step, if it weren’t for you, I’m not sure I’d be here today.
Your strength carried me when I had none.
Your love, your presence, they reminded me I was never truly alone.
Thank you for never giving up on me, even when I could barely hold on myself
