A Moment of Stability

When I lost my legs, the first wave of chaos hit fast—rent, bills, medical debt, car payments, all crashing in while I was still processing what happened.

But then something rare happened: I was offered a place to stay. My parents opened their doors and gave me what most people in my situation never get—a soft place to land. It wasn’t flashy. But it gave me the one thing I needed most: time.

Time to heal. Time to think. Time to stop living hour by hour, wondering what crisis would hit next.

Most People Don’t Get That

The truth is, many people who experience major medical trauma or disability don’t get that break. They’re still working, still parenting, still scraping together rent while navigating appointments, prosthetic fittings, and emotional breakdowns.

For a lot of people, survival never stops long enough for recovery to begin.

If you’re living that reality—facing eviction, couch surfing, trying to “stay positive” in a hotel room or your car—this post is for you. Not with answers, but with solidarity.

What Help Actually Looks Like

Help isn’t always therapy or an inspiring quote on Instagram. Sometimes help is:

• A friend dropping off a hot meal because you can’t cook.

• A storage bin to organize your meds so you don’t forget.

• An air mattress that doesn’t deflate after 20 minutes.

• A tiny fridge to keep your food safe when you’re crashing at someone’s place.

These aren’t luxuries. These are lifelines.

If You're in the Middle of It

You’re not doing anything wrong because you haven’t "bounced back."

You’re not weak because you’re not meal prepping and manifesting in the middle of survival mode.

You’re a human doing your best with a system that was never built for people like us.

If no one else has said it today: You’re doing enough.

Final Thought

I was given space to recover. That was a privilege. A lot of people don’t get that.

If you’re still trying to survive while healing—please know that you're not behind. You're in it. And someday, if and when you get the space to breathe again, I hope you get to do more than just survive.

Until then, we’ll keep showing up. One step. One pain point. One small comfort at a time.