Have you ever felt like your body is working against you, a source of frustration rather than a vessel of strength? It's a feeling many of us grapple with, especially when faced with unexpected challenges. But what if those very struggles are not roadblocks, but profound teachers? What my body taught me through thirteen surgeries and a coma wasn't about overcoming limitations, but about adapting to them and discovering a deeper, quieter resilience.
Born to Adapt
My life began with a significant medical reality: spina bifida. By the age of ten, doctors delivered news that felt like a life sentence – a surgery could change everything, and walking again was far from guaranteed. The room felt heavy, the words carefully chosen, the silence that followed pregnant with the possibility of paralysis. Before I truly understood what it meant, my body was already intimately familiar with hospital ceilings and the sterile scent of recovery rooms. By adulthood, the tally of surgeries would reach thirteen.
Born with VACTERL syndrome, my journey involved numerous interventions: kidney removal, bladder correction, open-heart surgery, and complex bowel procedures, including the use and repair of a colostomy bag. Yet, at ten years old, the dominant feeling wasn't fear of the future, but a visceral uncertainty about my own body in the present moment.
Four days after that pivotal surgery, I stood up. Alone in a cold hospital room, the only sensation was pain. But a deeper refusal to accept the doctors' grim prediction spurred me on. I pressed the call button, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and pushed myself up with my arms. My legs trembled, my balance faltered, but I stood. This happened three days in a row. On the third day, a nurse found me standing, and her immediate declaration – “I’m calling physical therapy. You are going to walk again.” – transformed the looming wheelchair from a symbol of defeat into a tool for recovery. That moment was the genesis of my relationship with resilience.
Finding Strength on the Court
Basketball became more than a sport; it was my dialogue with my physical self. Each dribble was a declaration of presence, every sprint a defiant act against predicted limitations. The basketball court didn't care about medical charts; it responded only to effort and heart. Through sheer repetition and a budding sense of discipline, I cultivated strength in the spaces where fear had once resided. I played through high school and into college, not because my body was untouched by hardship, but because it learned to adapt and persevere. This taught me that true strength isn't about never falling, but about the unwavering commitment to rise.
This hard-won equilibrium was shattered again. As a young adult, after twelve surgeries, scar tissue led to yet another. This time, complications and significant blood loss resulted in a coma. Waking up was like returning to a body that no longer felt entirely my own. Muscles that once responded instantly now felt distant, and the fundamental act of balancing had to be relearned from the ground up. It was a humbling, twice-over, process of teaching my body how to move.
A New Dialogue with My Body
The recovery was a stripping away of ego, a profound lesson in patience. There were days consumed by frustration, anger, and the gnawing desire for an easier path, especially when comparing myself to those whose lives weren't shadowed by constant medical intervention. But during this period of intense healing, something fundamental shifted within me. I found myself exhausted by the fight, ready to surrender the constant battle. A friend’s encouragement to explore healthier eating led me down a path of discovery: herbalism, holistic modalities, yoga, rebounding, and chiropractic care.
Crucially, my internal monologue changed. I stopped asking, “Why is my body like this?” and began to ask, “What is my body teaching me?” This question became the key to unlocking a new understanding.
It taught me that strength isn't always loud or dramatic. It’s often found in the quiet, consistent effort of showing up to physical therapy, even when progress feels glacial. It’s in the patient repetition of small movements until they become second nature again. It's in trusting your body, even when it feels unfamiliar or unpredictable. It revealed that healing is rarely a single, decisive moment; it's a thousand small, quiet decisions to keep trying, day after day.
Thirteen surgeries could have defined me, becoming the inescapable narrative of my life. Instead, they became my unconventional training ground. I learned that the body isn't fragile simply because it bears scars. Scars are not marks of weakness, but powerful evidence of repair, testaments to damage that has been overcome and healed. My body has been opened, stitched, sedated, and measured more times than I can count. It has endured judgment and doubt. Yet, it continues to move, to adapt, and to choose life. It has survived stillness, survived unconsciousness, and survived profound uncertainty.
My understanding of resilience evolved. It's no longer about pushing through pain at all costs. Now, I understand it means listening deeply, working with my body rather than fighting against it. This journey has taught me discipline, faith, and the undeniable possibility of rebuilding, even when starting over feels like the only option—twice.
If you find yourself in a season where your body feels more like a burden than a blessing, I hope you can offer it the same patience it has shown you. Look at your scars, whether physical or invisible, and see not weakness, but the undeniable proof of your survival. Sometimes, the greatest miracle isn't avoiding hardship, but discovering the profound strength found in adaptation. And often, the quietest, most powerful act of all is simply choosing to stand again.
