Today is ten years since I fell two hundred feet out of the sky. Ten years ago I was unconscious in a hospital bed, machines keeping me alive, doctors telling my family they didn’t know if I’d make it.
They told me I’d make a “100% recovery.” That was a lie. My shoulder was left untreated. My leg was put back together 36° crooked. And here I am a decade later, dealing with the fallout of choices they made in those early hours.
Thirteen months ago I had a hip replacement. I thought it would help me walk again, help me live more like a normal human being. Instead, I walked out of that hospital more disabled than I went in. Since then, my hip has been on a rollercoaster. Some days it feels like it has moods of its own—burning, stabbing, pressure, shutting me down. Some days it surprises me with a little relief. Most days, it’s just a fight to keep moving.
Yesterday at Duke, I sat in the waiting room for almost two hours because their new check-in system didn’t register me. I just sat there in stillness—no phone, no distractions—just sitting with myself. By the time I finally saw the surgeon, it was more of the same: vague answers, promises to “review the MRI” and “talk to radiology,” but no urgency, no real movement. Just another delay while I keep living in this body that feels like it’s breaking down.
On the way home, I stopped at a little place in Kernersville called Local Roots Coffee Shop. It was nothing fancy—just an old house converted into a café. I ordered a cappuccino and sat on the porch, and that’s where life surprised me.
A man walked out and struck up a conversation. He was 56, a trucker, originally from Puerto Rico. Within minutes, he was telling me about a secret he carried for decades—how he was molested as a child, and how only at 50 did he begin to speak it, to integrate it. For half an hour, we sat together, sharing stories, reflecting, meeting in a space of truth that felt rare and unplanned. Before he left, I shared a video with him—The Wisdom of Trauma with Dr. Gabor Maté—something that has spoken to me on my own journey.
A little later, another man joined us—this one from Mexico originally—and the three of us sat there, three strangers, talking about our lives, our struggles, our healing.
I’d only had three and a half hours of sleep the night before, but somehow I was able to be fully present for those conversations. And I actually enjoyed them. The first man said it felt synchronistic that we crossed paths, and I think he was right. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been stuck at Duke for two hours earlier that morning. These are the kinds of moments that keep me going—little reminders that even when the system fails me, life still has its own timing.
This journey has made me feel like a tightrope walker. I never know if it’s okay to sit or stand. To walk or rest. Every choice feels delicate, like one wrong move could take more away from me. It’s exhausting. It’s despairing.
And then a bird lands on my feeder and spins in circles. Or I find myself sunbathing and cloud-gazing, realizing that not every dark cloud is a storm, sometimes it’s just shadow. Or I talk to strangers on a porch who share their deepest truths. These moments don’t fix my body, but they remind me that presence is still possible.
I told a friend tonight that the deeper you feel, the wider the spectrum of emotion becomes—from fear and anger to acceptance and gratitude. It’s a hard spectrum to walk. I see so much beauty in this world, and there’s a part of me that longs to be out in it: traveling, immersing myself in different cultures, connecting with people on deep and intimate levels. Instead, I’m here—more homebound than I’ve ever been. And while that hasn’t all been bad—it’s given me time to face myself, to work through fears, to integrate things I used to run from—there’s still this ache for connection, for adventure, for beauty lived out in the world.
Today marks a decade since the fall. A decade since I woke up in a broken body. And tonight, I still feel broken, but I also feel awake to something bigger. I see the pain everyone carries. I see how disconnected this society is, how late-stage capitalism grinds us down, how most people don’t even know what happened to them. And I see myself in that too—unlearning step by step.
Tomorrow I go into a QHHT session. I’ve written down 50 questions—about why I fell, what this has all been for, and if healing is still possible for me. I am excited to see how it goes!
Ten years ago, I hit the ground and didn’t die. That fall didn’t just break me—it cracked me open. And even now, in the middle of despair, I’m still here. Still breathing. Still listening. Still alive to the possibility that even this pain is somehow part of the path.