When I tell people what happened to me,
I always pause when I see the look on their face.

That wide-eyed shock.
That “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
The disbelief.
The pity.

But what they don’t know….
what they could never guess….
is that the most traumatizing part of my story
didn’t happen in the car.
Or the hospital.
Or even the moment I heard the word “paralyzed.”

No.
The part that broke me was everything after.

It was waking up in a nursing home
surrounded by strangers
with no answers
no dignity
and no one coming to save me.

It was the silence from friends I thought would be there.
The family members who said, “We love you,”
but quietly started pulling away.

It was the looks.
The stares.
The questions.
The dehumanizing curiosity.

It was having to fight for equipment,
fight for care,
fight for my children….
while trying to survive in a body I didn’t recognize anymore.

It was being treated like a burden
by people who once claimed they’d never leave.

It was learning to smile through pain that never ended.
To laugh when I wanted to scream.
To plan my life around ramps and bathrooms
instead of dreams and possibilities.

So no…
the accident wasn’t the hardest part.

The hardest part
was realizing the world had no idea what to do with me
once I stopped looking like everyone else

By: Krystina | #WheelStrong

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