The Weight Of Surviving

Life With Legs

Memory is strange after brain injury.

Some parts of my life are completely gone. Others survive in tiny flashes so vivid they almost hurt physically when they return. Sometimes I remember feelings more than actual events. Sometimes I remember movement more than conversations. Wind. Speed. Music. Laughter. Motion.

Always motion.

That’s what I miss most.

Movement without thought.

Movement without fear.

Movement without planning every inch of existence first.

Before the accident, I never understood how much freedom lived inside ordinary mobility. Nobody really does until it disappears. Walking felt automatic back then. Standing felt automatic. Running felt automatic. My body was something I simply existed inside, not something I constantly negotiated with every hour of every day.

Now every movement requires awareness.

Planning.

Energy.

Transfers.

Pain calculations.

Pressure relief.

Accessibility.

But before?

Before, my body and I simply existed together naturally.

And God, I miss that.

I remember running.

Not perfectly. Not fully. But enough.

I remember the feeling of momentum. Feet hitting pavement quickly. The feeling of movement through air. The kind of movement where your body responds instantly without hesitation. I remember how effortless freedom used to feel.

That’s the thing about mobility.

When you have it, you barely notice it.

You don’t wake up grateful that your legs work. You just live. You walk to kitchens half asleep. You stand while brushing your teeth. You run to answer doors. You dance stupidly in living rooms. You pace while angry. You jump over puddles without thinking.

You live inside movement so naturally that it becomes invisible.

Until one day it isn’t.

And then suddenly every tiny thing you lost becomes heartbreakingly obvious.

I remember skateboarding too.

Bits and pieces of it.

Enough to feel the ache of missing it.

The rush of balance. The sound of wheels against pavement. Falling and getting back up again laughing. That feeling of being reckless and alive at the same time.

I miss recklessness sometimes.

Not the destructive kind.

The physical kind.

The freedom to move your body carelessly without fear of consequences.

Now consequences exist everywhere.

One wrong transfer.

One pressure sore.

One infection.

One injury.

My body no longer allows carelessness.

And I grieve that deeply.

I remember stunt riding too.

Adrenaline.

Speed.

The feeling of your heart racing while doing something dangerous but thrilling. I think part of me always chased intensity because I was trying to outrun emotional pain even back then. Motion distracted me. Speed distracted me. Chaos distracted me.

But underneath all that recklessness was freedom too.

Real freedom.

Freedom to physically exist without barriers.

Freedom to trust my own body completely.

That trust is gone now.

And losing trust in your own body changes your identity more than people realize.

The wheelchair did not just steal abilities from me.

It stole versions of myself too.

That’s the grief people don’t fully understand.

When mobility disappears, identity shifts with it.

Suddenly you are no longer the person you once physically recognized. Your routines change. Your relationship with space changes. Your relationship with mirrors changes. Your relationship with independence changes. The entire architecture of your existence changes.

And honestly?

Some days that grief crushes me.

Especially at night.

Especially when memories return in fragments.

I remember dancing with Elijah before everything changed too.

Those memories hurt beautifully.

Dance parties in the living room.

Music too loud.

Laughing.

Spinning him around.

Moving without thinking.

Just being his mom physically in ways I took for granted at the time.

I remember how natural it felt to stand beside him.

To move beside him.

To exist beside him physically without limitation.

Those memories are precious now.

Painful.

But precious.

Because I know exactly what was lost.

People sometimes say things like: “At least you’re alive.”

And they mean well.

They do.

But survival and grief can exist together.

I am grateful to be alive.

And I still mourn mobility every single day.

Those two truths coexist inside me constantly.

I mourn spontaneity.

I mourn dancing freely.

I mourn standing in kitchens while cooking.

I mourn walking through forests.

I mourn running toward things instead of wheeling carefully toward them.

I mourn physical motherhood too.

That one hurts deeply.

Because there are certain things I imagined doing as Elijah’s mother that became impossible afterward. Running beside him outside. Chasing him through parks. Certain sports. Certain ordinary moments mothers dream about without ever realizing they are privileges.

And honestly, sometimes I feel angry about that.

Not constantly.

But honestly.

Because disability changes parenthood emotionally too.

You adapt.

You learn new ways to love.

New ways to connect.

New ways to show up.

But adaptation still comes with grief.

People think grieving mobility sounds shallow sometimes because they reduce walking to a physical action alone. But mobility is deeply emotional. It represents freedom. Independence. Confidence. Privacy. Spontaneity. Identity.

When you lose mobility, you lose invisible things too.

You lose the ability to leave quickly without preparation.

You lose physical ease.

You lose anonymity sometimes because wheelchairs make people stare.

You lose parts of intimacy.

You lose energy.

You lose pieces of confidence.

You lose the simple ability to exist in public spaces without constant awareness of your body.

That awareness never shuts off now.

Ever.

And the hardest part?

Sometimes I barely even remember what walking felt like anymore.

That thought destroys me quietly sometimes.

I can remember movement visually, but emotionally the sensation itself feels distant now. Like trying to remember a dream after waking up. I know it existed. I know it belonged to me. But my current brain cannot fully reconnect to the physical memory anymore.

It almost feels like mourning magic.

Something impossible and beautiful that once belonged to me naturally.

I watch people walk now the way people watch birds sometimes.

Casually amazed.

They move so freely without thinking.

They stand casually shifting weight between legs while talking.

They climb stairs absentmindedly.

They dance.

Stretch.

Run across parking lots.

And none of them realize how miraculous it actually is.

I didn’t either.

Not until I lost it.

The wheelchair changed the way the world feels too. People either stare too much or avoid looking entirely. Some speak to you differently. Some assume weakness automatically. Some assume your life became smaller.

But honestly?

My world became emotionally deeper after disability, even while becoming physically harder.

Pain changed me.

Loss changed me.

I became more observant.

More empathetic.

More aware of suffering hidden inside people.

Because once you survive catastrophic change yourself, you begin recognizing invisible grief in others too.

Still…

there are moments where I miss my old body so badly I physically ache.

Especially when I dream.

Dreams are cruel sometimes because in dreams I still walk occasionally. Completely naturally. No wheelchair. No limits. Just movement. And in the dream it feels normal. Familiar. Mine.

Then I wake up.

And reality returns all over again.

That grief never becomes easy.

You simply learn how to carry it quieter.

I think people imagine acceptance means no longer hurting.

That isn’t true.

Acceptance just means learning how to continue loving life despite the pain attached to it.

And I do love life.

I truly do.

Especially now.

Ironically, losing mobility made me appreciate existence itself more deeply than I ever did while fully able-bodied.

Because now I notice everything.

Warm sunlight through windows.

The feeling of Elijah hugging me.

Music during hard nights.

Conversations that feel genuine.

Peaceful moments.

Life slowed me down violently enough that I finally started paying attention to it.

But I would be lying if I said I do not mourn who I used to be.

I mourn her often.

The girl with legs.

The girl who ran.

The girl who skateboarded.

The girl who danced freely.

The girl who moved through the world without fear.

I miss her.

But I also understand something important now:

She still exists inside me.

Not physically.

But spiritually.

Because even though my body changed completely, certain parts of me survived the accident.

My humor survived.

My love survived.

My stubbornness definitely survived.

My ability to fight survived.

And maybe that matters too.

Because the wheelchair stole my abilities.

It stole freedom.

It stole mobility.

It stole pieces of my identity.

But it did not fully steal me.

And honestly?

After everything life has taken…

that realization feels powerful enough to keep going.