The Crash That Changed Everything
When Life Forced Me
to Slow Down
There's a moment when life stops you in your tracks. Not metaphorically. Literally.
For me, that moment was July 5, 2016. Just the day before, I ran a 5K with friends in Kennebunkport, Maine, before heading to our favorite beach to celebrate the holiday with family and friends. I was in the best shape I’d been in for years. I was working long days in a job I’d grown to love, constantly on the go. My life was full and fast. Twenty-four hours later, I couldn't lift my head off my shoulder.
When Everything Stopped
The drive home from Maine to Massachusetts should have been routine. . I'd done it hundreds of times. Traffic was typical for the day after a holiday. Stop and go, stop and go. Sun out, Jeep top down, music playing. Then… impact… a massive jolt on my rear passenger side. I was the first car hit in what would end up being a four-car pileup. Somehow, I maintained control of my Jeep, I never veered from the middle lane. I managed to get to the side of the road and that’s when I checked and found no visible injuries; just stiff and in disbelief. I called my dad to get me and left a message for my boss that I needed another day off.
The next morning, my world changed. My left ear was pinned to my shoulder. I couldn’t lift my head. My left arm was numb. Emergency room. No broken bones. Just “soft tissue damage.” A neck brace. A sling. Pain meds. Muscle relaxers. Everything I was — independent, capable, fast-moving — fell apart.
The Brutality of Recovery
I was out of work for thirteen weeks. Then thirteen more part-time. I spent more than six months regaining the ability to function at the simplest level. Physical and occupational therapy three times a week for 27 weeks plunged me into a reality I never gave much thought to… how many people live with chronic pain? According to the CDC, more than 1 in 5 U.S. adults live with chronic pain, and women are disproportionately affected. It was easy to feel isolated, but the sad truth is that too many of us knows what this feels like.
Those early days were brutal. I was heavily medicated and feeling completely alone. The hyper-independence I'd developed from adolescent trauma left me feeling like I couldn't ask for help. Simple things became mountains. Raising my hands to wash my hair. Getting in and out of bed. Walking upstairs without fear of falling. I shut down. The medications left me feeling foggy, detached. I slept constantly but never felt rested. I was functional but not living.
Physical therapy was excruciating. Muscle release work. Stretching to regain mobility. I stayed on that yellow resistance band for what felt like forever. If you've done PT, you know the colors indicate tension strength. Yellow is one of the easiest. I couldn't progress. Same with the therapy putty designed to help rebuild grip strength; so soft it barely resisted. I was trying to convince my mind and body to reconnect, trying to convince my hand and fingers to work properly.
The Milestones That Mattered
Recovery came in tiny victories. Moving from a hard neck brace to a soft one. In occupational therapy progressing from using tongs to pick up odd shaped foam blocks, to marbles, and then coins. Each progression felt monumental. Being cleared to drive again. Washing my hair. Putting on a bra by myself. Walking back into my office building for the first, even just to work for 4 hours.
I thought I was making real progress. But there was this one day in my kitchen when I grabbed a plate off the counter without a lot of thought. I saw my hand holding it and then watched it crash to the floor. That broken plate nearly broke me. I'd been celebrating these small wins, and suddenly I couldn't trust my own hand to hold something as simple as a dinner plate.
That's when I learned to track my progress differently. Pictures and journal entries gave me concrete evidence of healing; because day to day it was too easy to focus on the setbacks instead of the slow, steady climb forward. Healing doesn’t look like a straight line. It looks like the same task done a hundred times, slightly better. It looks like doing less, and realizing that’s still more than before. It looks like showing up again, even after a setback.
When Western Medicine Wasn't Enough
For four and a half years, I lived on prescription medications. A daily maxed out dosage of Gabapentin, not to mention the Flexeril and Percocet. Round after round of Prednisone tapers and direct spinal injections. And still, I didn’t feel like myself. My body was numb, my mind was dulled, and the pain remained.
Up until that point I had tried things like massage and chiropractic therapy. Each provided some temporary relief but not enough. That's when I started exploring what many call "alternative" therapies. Though really, these are centuries-old techniques that have been helping people heal long before modern western medicine existed. Things like meditation, reflexology, cupping, acupuncture, cranial sacral and qi work, tai chi, Chinese medicine and different supplements. No, these weren’t quick fixes. They were slow returns — to sensation, to trust, to myself.
These practices didn't just address my physical pain. They helped me reconnect with my body in ways that Western medicine simply didn’t. Over nine months with the support of my physician I weaned myself off every prescription medication. And in the process I began to learn how to manage pain through meditation, breathwork, and these traditional healing practices.
NOTE: This post shares my personal healing and recovery journey and is not intended as medical advice. Please consult with a qualified healthcare provider before making changes to your treatment or wellness plan.
The Closet I Didn’t Know I’d Opened
The accident forced stillness. And in that stillness, I realized how long I’d been surviving on momentum alone. Charging through trauma. Packing it away. Shoving it into the mental closet where I kept all the things I didn’t have time to deal with. But slowing down forced the door open.
The year after the crash, I entered a leadership program through work. I walked into that room with no idea it would change my life more than the crash itself. The program relied on reading, introspection, and deep human connection. During one session, I felt compelled to share something I'd never spoken about publicly; the childhood sexual assaults I'd survived.
Once I cracked open that closet in the back of my mind, pulled that particular box off the shelf and showed others what was inside, everything changed. I couldn’t unsee it. I was 40 years old and still living in survival mode. And I knew what got me to 40 would not get me to 80.
The Unexpected Gift
If someone had told me before the accident that slowing down could be healing, I wouldn't have believed them. I wasn't open to hearing that message. I had survived everything life threw at me by charging straight through it. By staying busy. By moving forward. By never stopping long enough to process what I'd endured. The accident took that choice away from me and in the forced stillness I learned a lot about myself. The biggest lesson was simple, the most important relationship I have is the one I have with myself. I never had a healthy relationship with myself but for the first time I saw the potential to change everything. But that’s not all. I also learned:
That I was teaching others how to treat me by what I tolerated. That I needed boundaries.
I learned that vulnerability takes courage. That asking for help is strength, not weakness.
That healing can’t happen when you’re moving too fast to notice what’s broken. That rest isn’t a reward. It’s a requirement.
That my body could heal in ways I never imagined when I gave it what it actually needed. That traditional therapies and Western medicine both have their place in recovery.
That setbacks don't erase progress. That progress isn't always visible day to day. That healing isn't linear.
I’m still healing. My left hand still doesn't have full feeling or dexterity. I still carry tension and rigidity in my body that I'm constantly working to release. But I've learned to trust my body differently. To listen to what it needs. To honor its limitations while pushing gently toward healing. The accident revealed something I might never have discovered otherwise: I had been afraid to truly live. Afraid to slow down. Afraid to feel. Afraid to heal. That crash forced me into stillness. Into myself. Into the deep work of transformation.
Your Own Crash
Maybe your crash wasn’t a car accident. Maybe it was a diagnosis. A betrayal. A layoff. A breakup. A death. A reckoning. Maybe you’re stuck in the yellow resistance band phase, wondering if you'll ever feel normal again. Or the broken plate moment and still discovering new layers of what needs attention. Or the maxed-out medication chapter just starting to realize that the way you've been surviving isn't sustainable for the life you want to build.
Here’s what helped me, that might help you.
Track your progress. Write it down. Photograph it. Revisit it when doubt creeps in.
Try what seems strange. You don’t have to believe in every method. Just stay curious.
Grieve what you lost. That version of you mattered too.
Accept that healing isn’t linear. And it doesn’t mean returning to who you were.
Let people help you. Especially when you don’t want to need it.
Redefine success. Sometimes success is putting on your bra by yourself.
Moving Forward
I'm not the same person who drove away from Kennebunkport on July 5th, 2016. That woman was strong, capable, and successful by every external measure. But she was also running from herself.
The woman I am today carries the scars of that accident. The lingering effects. The ongoing work of healing. But I also carry the wisdom that comes in knowing that the best version of me exists not despite my trauma, but because of how I chose to heal from it.
Your crash, whatever form it takes, doesn't have to be the end of your story. Know this… the crash that disrupts your life might be the thing that saves it.
