Blog One

The Weight of Being “Strong” – A Decade into the Fight

Ten years.

That’s how long I’ve lived with a spinal cord injury that turned my body into something I barely recognize. Ten years of pretending the weight of it all isn’t getting heavier. Of waking up every day with a body that won’t listen, nerves that scream, and a smile I have to convince myself to wear. I am a C5 quadriplegic—and that title alone doesn't carry the depth of what I battle each day.

Smiling Through It

People like to say, “You’re so strong,” but strength isn’t always a choice. Sometimes it’s what you do when no one listens. When you’re screaming inside from nerve pain that even seasoned neurologists and spinal cord injury specialists shrug their shoulders at—no solutions, just a follow-up appointment and a blank stare.

I’ve watched every video. Read every study. Found every workaround I could think of to make life a little easier for the people around me and myself. I communicate with patience. I try to explain my needs without sounding ungrateful. But when that effort falls flat, when I’m met with passive acknowledgment and zero follow-through, something inside breaks.

There is nothing worse than being heard but not helped.

The Unseen Grief

Behind the smile is a kind of grief that I can’t even put into words. Imagine being ten years into a catastrophic injury and still having no baseline for your health. I got a catheter placed and was sent home with no instructions. That’s how this system works. Trial by fire. Learn as you go. And don’t you dare complain too loud, or they’ll label you ungrateful.

Meanwhile, I’m constantly navigating autonomic dysreflexia—life-threatening spikes in blood pressure that feel like your brain is being wrung out like a dishrag. I’m trying to manage this while family laughs at the grill, kids cannonball into the pool, and people walk by me with full mobility, full independence, and full ignorance of the prison I’m in.

Resentment and Expectations

The real heartbreak? The ones you love start expecting something to change, as if time alone should’ve made it better. They want the old me. The vibrant entertainer. The funny brother. The dependable friend. But I’m here struggling to keep my bowels under control, faking peace through tears of chronic pain, and trying not to look like a burden when I ask for help I can’t give myself.

The more I ask—gently, kindly, repeatedly—the more I see resentment in their eyes. Like my needs are a buzzkill. Like I should just smile and be grateful. As if existing in this body isn’t already exhausting.

Mental Health in the Age of Noise

Social media and American culture don’t help. We’re living in a world where attention spans are shorter than ever. Everything is dopamine, distraction, and distortion. Try explaining nuanced medical needs to someone who checks their phone every 90 seconds. Try asking for emotional patience from a society addicted to instant gratification.

It’s lonely in this kind of noise. It’s not the kind of loneliness you fix with friends or a funny video. It’s the kind that settles deep in your bones when you realize the world’s moving faster and you’re stuck asking for your legs to be stretched.

And when the people closest to you start to act like your reality is just a phase you haven’t outgrown… it gets dark.

Really dark.

Still, I Fight

But I keep trying. I keep pushing. Because somewhere deep down, I still believe in the power of honest connection. Of unfiltered vulnerability. I believe that if even one person reads this and finally understands what it's like to fight this hard for a sliver of peace, then it’s worth it.

Because even in this body, I still have pride. I still have passion. I still want to live.

But I’m tired of doing it alone.