We’re Healing, Babes.

Oof, do you ever wake up some mornings and just feel like you got hit by a car?

‘Cause samesies.

But maybe that’s because I did. Get hit by a car, that is. Kinda wild, right? Trust me, I don’t think there will ever come a day when I’m not in total shock. Definitely did NOT have that on my Bingo card for happening. Like, ever.

But it did. And I think I’m at the point mentally and physically (yer gurl is typing this with her right arm wut??!!!) that I can talk about it. Write about it. Start working through the trauma of what happened. I think at least for me, that’s the biggest first step towards healing.

The Accident

On October 1st while out on a morning run, a run that I’ve done a thousand times before, I was struck by a vehicle while crossing a small neighborhood intersection. I was almost in the middle of the road when a car driving directly towards me made a very fast right hand turn. Without slowing down, the car hit me on my right side. Maybe it was instinct, but I threw my right arm out, almost as if I was trying to stiff arm this very large vehicle moving towards me. My arm hit the car and I flew into the air, landed on the hood, and fell hard onto the pavement below me.

Lying on the road, completely in shock as to what had just happened, I opened my eyes and saw the car drive away.

Yep. The jerkface who just hit a human being (me) with their CAR (!!!) had the balls to just speed off. I don’t understand how they could do something like that. I don’t think I ever will. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was shock. Maybe it was just a complete and utter lack of human decency and compassion. Whatever it was, they fled the scene, leaving me in the middle of the street wondering what the heck just happened.

As I slowly gained consciousness back, and realized the brevity of the situation, I called Mike in tears. Thankfully I had my phone on me and was able to call for help.

“I just got hit by a car.”

The Aftermath

The next 8 hours were a blur—there was a slew of policemen asking questions and taking notes, an ambulance ride to the hospital where they took my vitals and stabilized my arm, head and neck as best they could, and an incredible medical team who immediately went to work treating my injuries.

The prognosis:

• A concussion.
• Four staples in my head.
• An elbow that had been shattered into pieces.
• Some gnarly cuts, gashes, scratches and bruises.
• And a very mentally shaken me.

I went home that afternoon in a daze.

I think anytime you go through a traumatic experience, your mind tries to immediately understand and process the situation. As your body physically starts to begin the healing process, your mind is left to pick up the pieces, to try and find the answers to the questions that are running through your head.

• How could this have happened?
• Is there something I could’ve done differently to prevent this horrible accident?
• Why didn’t that driver slow down when they saw me?
• Why did they just drive away?
• How am I gonna get through this?

A lot of unknowns, friends. A lot of feelings and emotions.

Healing Isn’t Linear

Healing is a very peculiar, funny and non-linear thing. It’s a very up-and-down, janky, rolly-polly thing.

It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, of thoughts, of progress and regression and progress again. I think the thing that has surprised me the most though throughout all of this is the giant wave of feelings I’ve felt over the last month or so.

Guilt and Shame

There was definitely a sense of guilt and self-blame at first. If only I ran a different route that morning, left earlier in the day, later. What if I hadn’t even gone for a run? This might not have ever happened.

But that’s just so silly. I know that now. This accident wasn’t my fault in the slightest. I was out doing something I love, something I have done a million times before. As a pedestrian who was following the rules of the road, who had the right of way, who was VERY much at a disadvantage against anything made out of metal and steel with four wheels, this was simply an unfortunate yet extremely terrible accident. I didn’t do anything wrong.

Despite not being at fault for what happened, I have recognized that healing from it IS my responsibility. Because if it isn’t, an unfair circumstance becomes an unlived life. And bleh, that just sounds awful and NOT what I ever plan on doing.

Fear, Anger, and Sadness

The second wave of emotions involved this sense of fear, anger, and sadness. I just couldn’t shake what had happened. Anytime I would close my eyes, I was right back there –the car, the accident, the pain coursing through every inch of my body. It was like watching a scary movie or reliving a nightmare on loop–you knew when the scary parts were gonna happen but you couldn’t do anything to stop them.

I was scared to leave the house. The sound of screeching tires, honking horns, and even being close to a car sent me into a fit of uncontrollable shaking and tears.

Anytime I’d look down and see the giant L-shaped scar on my arm, I was reminded of what had happened. Anytime I’d feel pain or discomfort, I’d get angry for what had happened, at the person who did this.

I would get extremely frustrated that I could no longer do things that once came so simple and without even thinking. Acts like simply brushing my teeth, using my computer mouse, putting on a shirt and eating now took concentrated effort, were painful, and sometimes weren’t even possible without the assistance from someone else. Talk about humbling.

Part of me felt like I lost myself, too. Running has always been my happy place, my outlet to destress and think. It’s my biggest passion. I feel like that was taken from me the moment that car struck. Physically I will soon be able to run again. But I think it’s going to take some time for me to work up to running outside again, being on the road, without fear of being hurt.

My sense of safety was compromised that day, stolen. That doesn’t just come back overnight.

I guess I just felt so powerless to my emotions, powerless to the situation, powerless in my own body.

There are moments when I still do.

But as the days go by, I’m slowly regaining some of the power back.

The Uncomfortableness of Asking For Help

The next wave of emotion came when I realized that, well shoot. This very independent, need-to-take-care-of-others gal all of a sudden was very much in need of some care herself. I’ve always had the hardest time asking for help, allowing others to provide that help. I never want to feel like I’m a burden (something we’re definitely working through in therapy lol). But I simply had no choice this time–I had to rely on the people in my life that I love and who love me, to help put me back on my feet again.

And goodness, I am BEYOND thankful and grateful for those beautiful souls in my life who were there when I needed them the most. My friends, my family, my coworkers, and especially my wonderful husband Mike.

I cannot even begin to express the overwhelming amount of gratitude, adoration, and love I have for this incredible man. In my scariest moments, in the moments when I felt like I couldn’t pick myself up, he was there to hold my hand, to wipe the tears from my face, and to tell me that everything was going to be okay.

Not only did Mike literally save my life, but he has also been there for me every step of the way as I slowly pick up the pieces, being the shoulder I figuratively and literally lean on as I ever so softly begin to heal my head and my heart.

From helping to wash my hair and making sure I eat, to getting me in and out of bed, making sure I’m comfortable and always making me ugly snort-laugh and smile like a total goober, Mike has been an absolute superhero. My rock. My steady ground and biggest supporter. On top of everything else that he is juggling right now (it’s A LOT), he has sacrificed so much in order to be right by my side through it all.

How in the heck did I get so lucky?!

Hope

I still have my hard days, moments when I struggle, times when I get a little sad. But for the most part, I am feeling so gosh darn hopeful. Hopeful that I will get through this, hopeful that I will regain the use of my arm again, hopeful that they will find out who was driving that car early that Sunday morning.

I have quite a ways to go until I get back to where I was before the accident, but I have also come a long ways from where I was after it. And that I have to celebrate. That, I have to be incredibly proud of.

Everyday We’re Getting a Little Stronger

I was a victim of a horrible accident.

But I’m also a survivor. I’m alive. I’m a badass!

I went though the most traumatic experience of my life and was able to walk away. That’s pretty dang incredible.

Despite feeling like a somewhat broken human right now, I’m also incredibly grateful. There no doubt was a guardian angel looking over me that day. And every day after.

This has been by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through. I am tested constantly on my will, on my strength, on my fortitude and hope. But we’re doing it. Little by little I’m getting there.

The scars will fade. My arm will regain its mobility and I’ll start to feel whole and safe again.

Until then, I will practice the utmost grace and patience, and lean on the people I love and who love me. I truly have the most amazing humans by my side.

And to the driver who hit me, I hope you find the power to forgive yourself (and find it in your heart to come forward and clear your conscience).

I’ll be back stronger than ever, fam (it’ll be with a bionic arm, but I’ll be back).

The Fog Will Lift

Anxiety is a weird thing, friends.

Honestly, life is a beautifully weird thing.

Since a very young age, I’ve struggled with feeling anxious, worried and at times, just so overwhelmed.

Maybe you can relate?

When I feel things, I feel them fully and without conviction. I not only carry the weight of my own heart, but I also carry that of others as well. When the ones I love are hurting, I hurt. When people around me are scared, sad and suffering, I feel that pain. And I try to do everything I can to make it better, to make them feel better. Sometimes at the detriment to my own mental health.

My wonderful and amazing boyfriend Mike told me that being an empath is one of my greatest attributes, and he’s absolutely right. It makes me who I am. In a world that can often be so cruel and hard, I remain soft, caring, kind, hopeful. And I honestly think that’s pretty incredible.

But friends, feeling all the things and trying to carry those burdens can also be one of my biggest downfalls.

You see, when you take on that much heaviness, it can start to wear on you. Two years ago I experienced my first panic attack. Multiple, actually. I had never felt so completely not in control of my own body before. It was terrifying. My heart was racing. Every breath I took felt like concrete coursing through my lungs. It was almost as if there was this dark and menacing cloud that I just couldn’t get out of.

The panic attacks haven’t been nearly as frequent as they once were, but I still have moments of doubt, of fear, of helplessness. I think that’s all part of being human.

May is #MentalHealthAwarenessMonth, an opportunity to truly bring to light the importance of looking after your head and your heart, and to have these sometimes difficult but open, honest and poignant dialogues and discourse about the struggles we all can face from time to time.

I have the most amazing life, and am blessed beyond measure for so many different reasons. But it’s important for me to be honest. And the truth is, I still struggle asking for help, and still feel bad anytime I feel bad.

That’s a funny concept with mental health.

It can sometimes appear to others that you’re living this perfect life, thriving – when in reality you’re struggling to keep your head above water. On the other hand, it can appear to people on the outside that you’re suffering – when actually you’re fighting and flourishing. It really can be both.

Despite it all, I love this big ole mess of a brain that I have. She is clever, she is funny, she is kind and positive and painfully empathetic. She doesn’t know a stranger, she loves anything and everything she comes across. She has felt a lot (thank goodness for writing 😅) but most importantly, she has fought. She has fought for who she knows she is. For the person she knows was handmade by the wittiest, most sovereign of artists. She has never given up. And deserves to remember those things. YOU deserve to remember those things. Even when your brain is convincing you of the opposite. In the deepest part of your spirit, you know who you REALLY are. Please keep showing up for them! For us! We are all worth that.

There will be days that are a little rockier, a little heavier, a little harder.

And on those days, I try to remind myself to simply: Try.

Try to breathe.

Try to be kind to myself.

Try to listen to my needs.

Try to write.

Try to move.

Try my best.

Try again.

Just, try.

So this is me trying.

Breathing, being, believing that just as it always has, the fog will lift. And whatever space you’re in right now, I hope you’ll keep trying too. Because this world needs both of us. All of us.

We can do this.

The fog will lift.

Let’s try together.

To Walk Without Fear

“Do you hear that on the wind?” she said. “It says I am so many mountains more than the way you made me feel.” — Atticus Poetry

It was a little after seven o’clock on an early spring evening. The air was crisp with just a touch of sweetness stemming from the trees that had only just begun to bloom. And the sun, which had just settled behind the mountains to the west, gave way to the most brilliant moon-lit sky.

It was one of those nights that just made you happy to be alive, happy to be in that moment.

I had just wrapped up work for the day and was making the long walk across the beautiful Regis University campus to my car, a routine I had grown to really look forward to. It was the perfect way to unwind after a long day; just me, my music, and my thoughts.

I never ever had any reason to feel uneasy or unsafe. This was something I had done every day for the past three years, after all. It was something that became second nature to me: walking past the big weeping willow tree, over the tiny footbridge, and past the baseball fields that were now fully animated with cracks of the bat and players anxiously awaiting the new season that lay before them.

It was because of this that I also didn’t think anything of it when a stranger stopped me halfway on the walk to my car to say hi.

This stranger, an older man in gray sweatpants and a blue baseball cap, was standing in front of that tiny footbridge next to his bicycle. He waved at me, smiled, and introduced himself as “Father Woody”, someone I had heard about in the short time I had been at Regis who headed up the community service and outreach projects here at the university. I was honestly honored to meet the man I had read so much about, the man who had done so much good for the members of the Regis and surrounding neighborhood communities.

As I approached the bridge, he smiled again, although this time it wasn’t as friendly as before. Stepping in my direct path, he held out his hand and said, “Now wait just a second, beautiful. You’re gonna have to give me a hug first if you want to cross this bridge.” I was a little weirded out for sure, but gave him the benefit of the doubt, laughing it off as a joke, a man just trying, albeit horribly, to be nice and funny to a young woman just trying to get home. He proceeded to move to the middle of the path, saying in a much firmer tone, “You must have not heard me correctly; you need to give me a hug.”

Do you ever get this uneasy, pit-in-your-stomach feeling?  A feeling that shoots a message to your brain that something just isn’t right?

What happened next was somewhat of a blur. The man grabbed my arm and dug his fingernails into my wrist with such speed and force that I was stunned. Maybe it was adrenaline, or fear, or a distinct feeling that I needed to get out of there and get out of there ASAP, but I pulled away and ran to my car, not without hearing him exclaim in a tone that still sends a shiver down my spine, “You just gave me a god damn woody!”

*It turns out that this man was not, in fact, Father Woody. He was a mentally-disturbed man who got his kicks off of sexually insulting and physically abusing young women. Of course, looking back on it now, I should’ve seen the signs that something wasn’t right. But hindsight is 20/20, so they say.

The weird thing was, I got home that night and really didn’t think it was that big of deal. I remember calling my sister and telling her what had happened, the shock and anger in her voice is still something I won’t ever forget.  It wasn’t until that very next morning when I saw the man again on campus, this time riding his bike through the first floor of my office, the look he gave me and the “Hey sweetheart” that escaped his voice that I realized what had happened to me was something much bigger.

I decided to come forward about what had happened, not for me, necessarily, but I had this distinct feeling that I wasn’t the only one this had happened to. Later that afternoon, I gave my statement to the Denver Police, recalling in detail, everything that took place the night before. Over the course of the next two weeks, over 30 other women reported having this man say and do crude and awful things to them around campus on multiple occasions. I wasn’t alone.

I never thought something like this would ever happen to me. And when it did, I didn’t want to admit that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as bulletproof as I thought. The strong, independent part of me wanted to brush what had happened under the rug. I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want sympathy. But when I started talking to others who had come forward after I did, thanking me for sharing my story, being brave, and giving them the courage to share theirs as well, I realized the undeniable power that is telling your truth.

Unfortunately the path to justice wasn’t a short one.

For six years, his case dragged out in the legal system. For six years, I felt this uneasiness, this fear, this constant need to look over my shoulder when I was alone. Being a victim of assault is a funny thing; for the most part, you’re okay; you’ve moved on with your life, you’re stronger than you were back then. But then something out of nowhere reminds you of the debilitating fear you felt, the vulnerability, the complete intrusion of your safety, and it sends you right back to that place.

For six years, I’ve had to appear in court, rehashing that night over and over again and to no avail. For six years, I wondered whether or not this man was out there somewhere, continuing to hurt other people. For six years, I questioned whether or not any progress would ever be made, if justice would happen.

But today, that all changed.

Earlier this morning I received a phone call from the Denver District Attorney’s Office letting me know that this thing that has weighed so heavily on my heart and life for the last six years was just brought to a close. The man who tried to steal my sense of security and safety away on that fateful night on campus six years ago, was finally prosecuted for his actions and was behind bars.

When I tell you the breath that I finally was able exhale, the weight that was lifted from my shoulders, and the range of emotions I felt after hearing the news.

Happy.

Relieved.

Proud.

Just so damn proud that I was brave enough to stand up for not only for myself, but for women everywhere who have ever had their safety compromised, who were disrespected, abused, and hurt.

What had happened to me over six years ago undercut confidence, stole time, and harmed my mental health to the extent it that it impacted my work, my relationships, my life in ways I didn’t even comprehend.

Today, I felt like I had won.

That I had taken the power back.

And that…is an incredible feeling.

To those reading this that have gone through something similar, who may feel like they can’t or shouldn’t tell anyone because of shame or guilt or the antiquated stigma that comes along with being a victim, I want to let those people know that you are not alone. And that I love you. And that I am here if you need to talk or a hug or need a cheerleader to stand by your side.

Don’t ever, EVER be ashamed or afraid to speak up, to share your experiences and take a stand for what is right. You never know who else you could be helping.

I hope one day we won’t have to have these difficult conversations. But until then, I urge you to keep talking and creating these important dialogues.

And to the amazing men out there who are champions, who are kind, and respectful, who are challenging the status quo and working to help educate and raise an even better generation (I’m fortunate to have so many in my life), I thank you.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

If you are experiencing abuse right now, or fear for your mental and physical safety, please don’t hesitate to reach out. There are so many people and organizations who want to see you happy, healthy, and safe.