Finding Courage in the Impossible
I once read a quote by Kara Thomas, “Hope is the most dangerous thing you can give to someone.” Those words have remained carved in my mind for years, rushing back to the moment I allowed myself to hope.
“Will she ever walk again?” My caregiver asked the physical therapist. I looked over at her, waiting for her answer with all the hope in the world. Is there a possibility? I asked myself. That’s when she looked at me and said, “You most likely won’t be able to walk again.” I felt everything inside me shatter, and I knew there was no putting it back together. My doctors had already begun to look the other way, so when she gave up, I knew it was over.
At the peak of the pandemic in 2020, the world went silent, and life paused for everyone. But the chaos that was erupting around the world was nothing compared to what was happening inside my body. I had constant, agonizing pain that clung to my spine like a python clinging and wrapping itself around its prey—immobilizing it. It robbed me of any movement, the ability to walk, and left me vulnerable and exposed. For two and a half years, I lived within this silence, and I realized that clinging to hope will either save me or break me. While everyone else began returning to their normal lives, time continued to stand still for me. And as the world continued to move on, I learned that it wasn’t just my body that needed healing—my spirit needed mending too.
In 2017, I became very sick and learned I have Lupus and Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS). It was uncontrolled for years, with many life-threatening hospital stays. They both affected my life tremendously until I was placed on medication that almost instantly gave me my life back. By May 2020, I was beginning to regain a sense of normalcy, unaware that a month later, my entire life would change and I’d be left immobilized.
As the months passed, my mental health began to decline tremendously. I went into every therapy appointment crying and feeling sorry for myself for those first two and a half years. My relationships with friends and family were falling apart, and I found myself often calling or texting the crisis line. The physical and emotional toll my body was enduring was no longer worth it to me. But these calls weren’t the only help I reached for. I relied heavily on my faith, and in those moments of despair, I’d pray for not only the strength to get me through the frightening moments, but also to keep fighting. Ultimately, reaching deep within myself and holding on to that bit of hope was what kept me going.
Around May of 2022, I began making small progress. With my physical therapist’s help, I was able to work my way to the edge of my bed—at first for twenty seconds, then a minute, an hour, and so on. But the moment she got me to stand, though it lasted mere seconds, was the when I realized this ridiculous hope I clung to was no longer dangerous. It became my lifeline instead. I could see my life again—cooking, exercising, dancing for hours, but most importantly, seeing my grandfather again. The man who raised me, who still recognized me despite his mind deteriorating quickly. It had been a year since I’d last seen him, and I finally believed I’d have the chance to see and hold him again before he declined, or worse.
A few months later, my phone rang.
“Mija, is Fernando with you? I need to know he’s next to you,” my mom’s voice cracked. “Mom? No! Tell me he’s okay! Is Papi Margarito okay?” I asked frantically. I knew. My heart knew. “No, mija. He had a stroke and didn’t make it,” she said.
He was gone… and he had died alone.
The world, the room, and my surroundings closed in on me, and I couldn’t breathe. Panic suddenly consumed my every thought. I needed to escape. I wanted to jump off my bed and run out of the front door, but I was trapped in this bed—the same one that had kept me a prisoner for years. All I could do was blindly claw at my bed sheets as wave after wave of panic, guilt, and emotions crashed over me. I wasn’t there to hold his hand, hug him, or thank him for stepping into the role of father when my real one disappeared. The grief was pure physical torture—a punishment for all my failures. I started yelling at my husband about how much I despised my body and everything it refused to do. I began scraping at my skin as if I could peel away the broken parts. As if doing so could somehow fix me. But through all the pain and grief I was feeling, I made a promise to my grandfather that I would be at his funeral no matter what it took to get there. I would be there for him, one last time.
By October 2022, I still couldn’t stand longer than a minute, let alone take more than one step. I relied on a donated Hoyer lift that my caregiver was able to secure for me. It was extremely humiliating, but it was the only way I could transfer into my wheelchair and into the car—the only way I could make it there.
The morning of the funeral brought on so many emotions. I was snapping at my caregiver and my husband. I became fixated on the flowers. They couldn’t forget the flowers; they had to make sure the flowers made it into the car. Papi Margarito would be so angry if I left his flowers, I kept telling myself. As if getting this one thing right would make up for the time I didn’t get to spend with him.
“Erica… breathe,” said Gabriela, my caregiver.
I looked up at her and then let my gaze drift through what used to be my dining room, now my makeshift hospital room. I studied each detail; everything was a reminder of who I used to be. The pictures of my old self lining the walls, the hutch to my right was cluttered with medical supplies. The dining table, which once held family dinners, now sat empty. Beside it, the large wall clock… tick, tick, tick, reminding me of the time I’d lost. The hallway on the left stretched endlessly away from me. The wall next to it held the car keys, mocking me with the freedom I no longer had. The dog leashes dangling next to the keys were a reminder that my dogs were still waiting for the adventures we could no longer have. The recliner to my left was only three steps away—a moat. Deep. Close. Yet untouchable. And behind me, the front door. The gateway to life outside was only eight steps away. Eight impossible steps.
I turned back to her when I suddenly felt an explosion in my chest, and a violent scream clawed its way out of my throat. I sobbed for what felt like an eternity until suddenly… crash! The vase holding my grandfather’s flowers hit the ground and shattered out of nowhere. Everything fell silent. The room, every person, my own mind. I knew my grandfather was here. Though I couldn’t see him, I could feel him pulling me out of the darkness I was spiraling into. Something had shifted inside me. It felt as if the strength he carried in life had become my own—a gift of fire, fight, and courage. From that moment on, I refused to let fear control me.
Weeks after the funeral, I began working harder than I ever had for my recovery. I forced my legs and body to move, even on the days I still believed they were broken. Physical therapy had stopped many months prior, but I made it my full-time job to continue my own recovery. My caregiver helped me exercise and pushed me when I needed motivation. My husband and my mom would help me balance as I practiced walking on my own. And when no one was around, I still forced myself to do what I could, alone but safely. My therapist, my dogs, and my books kept my spirits high whenever I felt myself slipping. One step became three, then ten, until I could cross my entire hallway, dining room, and living room.
I slowly began cooking again from my wheelchair and taught myself to transfer in and out of cars. I was a bit wobbly, but very determined. Eventually, I started walking without any assistance at home, which led to walking a mile or more outside. I re-enrolled in college and refused to put my dreams aside any longer.
Fast forward to the beginning of 2025, and I can walk again the way I did before my injury. I can exercise. And the best part? I can dance again. Not how I used to, but it still feels freeing. Despite all these improvements, I still experienced my fair share of falls. I still use my walker on bad days, but falling is no longer something I fear.
All my life, I’ve been told I’m strong, but what most people never knew is how much fear had crippled me. I feared the world, myself, and what I was capable of. This spinal injury that stole my mobility and the mental turmoil it put me through was, without a doubt, the absolute worst thing I’ve ever experienced. But surviving this injury, both physically and mentally, has taught me something I’ve always struggled to understand: strength isn’t defined by the moments that break you, but by the way you choose to rebuild yourself afterwards.
I now notice all the small things I took for granted, like walking to the mailbox, taking my dogs out, standing, and moving without a second thought. My injury was meant to confine me in the same way my mind had for many years, but in healing my body, I learned to heal my mind, and together they became a space for growth. There, I found a strength I never knew lived within me.
Maybe hope is dangerous, but only because it asks us to trust ourselves and reminds us we are capable of far more than we ever imagined.