Two years and two months of navigating a life I never planned. This past week, I attended a VA luncheon in Detroit celebrating and preparing for the upcoming National Veterans Wheelchair Games. This July I will be participating/ competing for a week alongside other military veteran athletes like myself. I feel a quiet spark of excitement about it, even though it all feels deeply surreal. Some days, it feels like I am watching someone else’s life play out.

For those of you just joining our story—and I don’t say that lightly, because this journey has completely rewritten the lives of my entire family and so many of you who have held us up—here is where we have been, and where we are trying to go.

In April 2024, a weightlifting accident changed everything. Looking back at Year One, the word that defines it is hopeful. I survived against the odds. I fiercely believed I was going to get better. Ray and I were separated from our four children for seven months, living at and then near Shirley Ryan Ability Lab rehab center in Chicago while Ray took leave from his Army job.

Year Two brought us back together under one roof in Virginia, but the day-to-day was a whirlwind. Ray went back to work part-time and while my therapy continued in DC, the benefits we fought for just weren't coming through. We were surrounded by an amazing church and deeply loved, but we were drowning in the logistics of trying to figure out rides for the kids, managing my care, and desperately trying to keep the creeping fog of pain and depression at bay. I slept on a hospital bed in our living room. My parents drove down for a week every single month just to help us keep our heads above water.

In August 2025, we made the choice to move "home" to Michigan. Ray gave up his job security and promotion to take temporary orders with the Michigan National Guard so we could be here. God provided a rental house where we’ve spent the last year, but the transition hasn’t been easy. We recently found out that almost everything we own, which was sitting in storage, was severely ruined by rodents. Yet, in the middle of that heartbreak, the Michigan VA and my therapy team at University of M Michigan in Ann Arbor have been an absolute gift. I am currently being fitted for a specialized bike through the VA that I hope to ride by this fall.

While we still pray daily for miracles, we are learning what it means to recalibrate in this reality. To do that, we need a permanent place to call home. We initially hoped to build a house, but the mental capacity required to make decisions from scratch was simply too overwhelming. It takes every ounce of energy we have just to answer the small questions—like how much time it will take to get me ready and loaded into the van so we aren't late for the kids' school events.

Being in Michigan puts us closer to family and a smaller, gentler community. My childhood community and family have stepped in and taken the lead of parts of our lives because they knew we just couldn't carry it all. We needed that comfort so badly.

If I am being completely honest and vulnerable, I expected to have all my problems solved by now. I thought my recovery would still be on a steep upward trajectory. Instead, I struggle just to get out of bed and sit up. My medications cloud my mind, the side effects are heavy, and the pain is so constant and severe that I have to push through it just to focus on talking with my own children. I don't share this to complain. I suppose, in a way, it’s a gentle plea. Please keep praying for us. For me. It is all so much to process.

But we have found a hope. We found a house.

It already has the sidewalks I need, a garage for our van, and space for my therapy equipment. Most importantly, Ray and I could finally sleep in the same bedroom at night—something we haven't been able to do since the accident. There is room for our whole family to breathe, and space where, Lord willing, I might be able to work from a desk someday. It’s right in the school district where our kids have finally begun to thrive this year. It feels almost too good to be true.

Will you help us get there?

I keep rereading that question, wondering who has the courage to ask others to help them buy a home. We are facing a $124,000 gap between what we can afford with our loan and what this house costs. We are scared. This need is entirely over our heads. Frankly, all of this is scary, far beyond the financial piece. None of us are given a manual on how to handle tragedy and keep going.

My faith feels scattered right now. We deeply miss our church community in Virginia. I am different now, and our family is different. The familiar things that used to anchor our faith feel like they've slipped away. But then, a note will arrive in the mail, a random text will pop up on my phone. Someone is praying for me on the days I can't even find the words to focus. God’s faithfulness keeps showing up through your hands and your hearts.

We are constantly asking ourselves: How do we best use this life we have now? We haven't even found a predictable routine yet, so figuring out how to live "best" can feel so elusive. My thoughts are likely the same as yours: how do we do what is best for our children? I am having to learn entirely new ways of being useful and contributing to my family that have nothing to do with my physical body. Right now, my devotions are simple guided meditations and prayers written for those who live with chronic suffering.

I will keep reading, growing, learning, and leaning into the hard days, asking God to redeem every piece of this story.

Thank you for reading, for caring, for giving, and for praying. We are so incredibly humbled. 

PS, someone else is always blowdrying my hair while I look for houses online 😊. Just another way that people love and take care of me.