I think of my thoughts. Yes, I wrote. I wrote about us — our experiences, our thoughts, and our fears. I was asked many times if I was okay. Were my thoughts so worrisome that I should be institutionalised?
The truth… the more I wrote, the more I realised that it is difficult to be in a state of euphoria all the time. I said we should stop, breathe, and think.
I stopped.
Boy, did I stop.
I hit a deep state of depression. I had my accident in October and my surgery in November. My pen dried up shortly after. It was not a conscious choice — I simply could not write.
I felt as if I would be unable to live up to my personal high standards. Was I right? I have no idea, and we never will.
But I climbed out of the depths.
I am still largely immobile, but this too will pass.
What a lesson in humility.
My attitude of gratitude has been tested. My knowledge of fine medical-aid detail has been honed through personal use. Rehabilitation is now a way of life, and pain a constant companion.
Perhaps writing is not about having answers, but about giving ourselves permission to feel, to pause, and to be honest. If nothing else, may we keep showing up — pen in hand, heart open — one day at a time.