“I Didn’t Cry When They Told Me I’d Never Walk Again—But I Grieved in Silence”
When the doctors told me I’d never walk again, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even flinch. I just nodded, numb. It wasn’t courage or strength—it was shock, maybe even denial. People came in with soft voices and well-meaning words, offering hope, pep talks, and pity wrapped in sympathy. I didn’t want any of it.
What I wanted was space. Space to mourn—not just the use of my legs, but the version of myself I’d spent a lifetime building. I grieved the spontaneity, the freedom, the future I had envisioned. Quietly, silently, I began to say goodbye to the life that would never be mine again.
So when a nurse suggested I get a caregiver, I refused without hesitation. I didn’t want to be someone’s responsibility. I didn’t want anyone fussing over me. I thought I could handle the weight of this new reality on my own—until Saara showed up.
She didn’t knock gently or tiptoe around me with exaggerated compassion. She wasn’t overly cheerful or artificially upbeat. She just came in, made coffee, asked if I needed anything, and got on with it. No drama, no pity, no pretending. At first, I kept my guard up. But something about her presence—the way she respected my silence without trying to fill it—made me feel… safe.
Over time, the quiet moments turned into shared stories, laughter over bad coffee, and small victories that didn’t feel quite so small anymore. I began to let her in—not all at once, but gradually, in tiny pieces I didn’t know I still had to give.
Then, one day, I dropped a bowl. It shattered on the floor, and something inside me cracked with it. All the grief, the anger, the helplessness I’d kept bottled up came rushing out in sobs I couldn’t control. Saara didn’t try to clean it up right away. She didn’t tell me to stay strong or offer empty reassurances. She just sat down beside me and listened. That was the moment I realized I didn’t just need assistance—I needed connection.
When she told me she was moving out of state for a new job, I smiled and told her I was proud—but inside, I was terrified. Terrified of losing the one person who had seen me at my lowest and didn’t turn away. I didn’t know how I’d manage without her. But instead of disappearing, Saara helped me prepare. She encouraged me to try adaptive sports. I resisted at first—afraid of failing, of being seen, of facing yet another loss. But she believed in me until I started believing in myself.
We went to the adaptive sports center together. I played wheelchair basketball, joined a cycling group, and even tried rock climbing. For the first time since my injury, I felt alive again—not in spite of my limitations, but because I had found new ways to move, to laugh, to be part of something bigger than myself.
When Saara finally left, it hurt in a way I can’t describe. But she didn’t leave me broken. She left me stronger. Because of her, I had rediscovered purpose. I had rebuilt my life—not the same life I had before, but one with just as much beauty, resilience, and possibility.
Sometimes, the people who come into our lives without warning are the ones who shape us the most. Saara didn’t just help me survive—she helped me grow. She showed me that moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting who you were; it means becoming who you were always meant to be.
And I’ll carry that with me, every step of the way—even if those steps look different now.
