In 2017, just days before my 18th birthday, my life changed in an instant.
What started as a simple hike with a friend quickly turned into something unimaginable. We chose a path that wasn’t safe. She made it across a wall embankment—but I didn’t. I fell 25 feet, landing directly on my bottom.
And I was conscious the entire time.
I remember the impact. I remember the pain. I remember realizing, in real time, that something was seriously wrong. There was no blackout, no escape from the moment—just the full weight of it all hitting at once.
I had suffered seven fractured vertebrae, including a severe T12 burst fracture. There was a 50% loss in the vertebra, and bone fragments had pushed back into my spinal cord. The damage was serious, and the road ahead was uncertain.
That injury alone was life-altering. The pain, the fear, the recovery—it was all overwhelming. Learning to move again, to function, to adapt to a body that no longer felt like my own tested me in ways I never imagined.
But my journey didn’t stop there.
After the initial injury, I experienced something even more terrifying: a spinal AVM (arteriovenous malformation) rupture. For those who may not know, a spinal AVM is an abnormal tangle of blood vessels in or around the spinal cord. When it ruptures, it can cause sudden and severe damage, including bleeding in or around the spinal cord.
What makes this even more complex—and honestly hard to process—is that spinal AVMs are very rare to develop later in life. In most cases, they are congenital, meaning a person is born with them.
That means this wasn’t something that suddenly appeared after my injury. It’s something I had likely lived with my entire life without even knowing it was there.
For years, it existed silently—until it didn’t.
Going through a traumatic spinal injury is one thing. But then learning that there was an underlying condition, something hidden within me all along, added a whole new layer of emotions. Questions, confusion, even frustration. How long had it been there? Would anything have been different if I had known?
There aren’t always clear answers.
Going through the AVM rupture on top of everything else felt like being knocked down all over again—just when I was trying to stand back up.
There were moments I didn’t know how I would keep going. Moments filled with pain, frustration, and fear of what my future would look like. But there were also moments of strength—small victories that reminded me I was still here, still fighting.
This journey has changed me in every possible way—physically, emotionally, and mentally. I’ve had to learn patience, resilience, and how to give myself grace on the hardest days. Healing hasn’t been linear. Some days are heavier than others. But every step forward—no matter how small—matters.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: our bodies can go through unimaginable trauma, but the human spirit is just as powerful. Even in the darkest moments, there is strength we don’t realize we have until we’re forced to find it.
I’m still healing. Still growing. Still learning how to navigate life after everything I’ve been through. But I’m here—and that alone means something.
And if you’re reading this and facing your own battle, whatever it may be, just know—you’re stronger than you think.