A Piece of the Trauma

A year ago today, I saw my life flash before my eyes. I almost died. What’s worse is that I had no control—only God had the final say.

It was a dark, rainy night, and my ex was driving. The roads felt heavy with danger, but we pressed on. Out of nowhere, a U-Haul truck darted into our path, heading straight for my side. I screamed his name in panic, a desperate plea. He said he saw it, but there wasn’t enough time to stop.

The truck hit my side full speed. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and I fought to gather what felt like my last breath. Before I could process it, we were hit head-on by an SUV. The force of that collision was a tidal wave that swept me into darkness.

I thought it was the end. My mind raced with a final prayer: God, please save my soul.

Moments later, I woke up—broken, battered, and confused, but alive. My left ankle was shattered, my right hip dislocated. Pain surged through me, both physical and emotional. I couldn’t walk, couldn’t move, couldn’t grasp how my life had shifted in an instant. I was wheelchair-bound for the next two months, forced to rebuild myself from the ground up.

Those months were agonizing. I had to learn to walk again, one delayed step at a time. But even harder than the physical pain were the nights spent with my thoughts—the weight of everything that had brought me to that moment. The accident forced me to face truths I hadn’t wanted to see. Every choice, every action that led me to that car, replayed in my mind like a haunting film.

But through the darkness, there was light. Thank you, God, for strength. Thank you for life. And thank you for my mom, who spent her last months on this Earth caring for me. She was my rock, my comfort, my strongest angel. Even in her own battle, she poured love and strength into me.

Today, a year later, I honor the trauma not for the pain it caused but for the lessons it left behind. I am here because of grace. The grace of God, the love of my mother, and the resilience I never knew I possessed.

Trauma doesn’t define us, but it shapes us. It breaks us open and makes room for new strength, new gratitude, and new purpose. As I take each step forward—steps I once thought I’d never take—I carry the scars of that night as a testament to survival, faith, and the power of a second chance. I am not a victim, I am a survivor.