Fourteen years.
It’s strange even to write that number.
Fourteen years since the day that changed everything — the day my life was split into a “before” and an “after.”
Fourteen years since the moment I lost the use of my hands, my legs and almost the whole of my body….and unknowingly began to rebuild the use of my heart.
This day has always felt complicated. It’s full of emotions: grief, gratitude, confusion, pride. I call it Extra Time because that’s exactly what it is: a second chance, my rebirth, my reminder that even when life takes everything, it also somehow gives back more than you ever expected.
There’s a quote that says,
“Sometimes things happen before you are ready for them to happen.”
And that was me. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready to wake up one day and find that the world I knew no longer fit the same. But maybe the universe knew I was stronger than I thought. Maybe it knew I needed that “push” that painful, unexpected turn to find a new way forward.
The truth is, those early days were hell. I cried until I couldn’t breathe. I screamed at the world for being so cruel. Everything felt unfair, and I felt trapped in a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore.
But slowly, I learned.
I learned that nothing is permanent.
The pain softened. The grief didn’t disappear, but it changed shape. And somewhere along the way, I began to smile again, to feel moments of peace again, to live really live again.
And then, the most incredible thing happened.
I became a mum.
My little girl, she’s six now, my heartbeat outside my body. She’s loud, funny, and full of love, and she has this way of grounding me without even trying. She doesn’t see a wheelchair. She just sees Mummy. To her, I’m strong, capable, and safe.
She reminds me that while my life might look different, it’s still beautiful.
In fact, it’s more beautiful now than I ever imagined it could be.
There are days, of course, when I break.
Days when the smallest tasks feel like climbing mountains, when I ache for the old version of me who could run, dance, and move freely. But then I hear her laugh that pure, wild laugh and everything else fades. I remember that this is my life. My extra time. And it’s worth everything.
I’ve been pushed to my absolute limits, over and over, and somehow I’ve always found a way to come back.
Maybe not in the same form. Maybe not with the same energy. But still… I come back.
I can’t control what happened 14 years ago, and I can’t change the body I live in. But I can control how I meet each moment with love, gratitude, and stubborn hope.
I’ve got so much to be thankful for.
My daughter. My family. My friends. The lessons. The laughter that still finds its way in.
Even the tears remind me that I’m still alive, still feeling, still here.
Fourteen years on, I’m still learning, still growing, still surviving.
And that’s enough.
So today, I’ll take a deep breath.
I’ll remember the girl I was, honour the woman I’ve become, and hold space for the person I’m still becoming.
This is my extra time.
And sometimes, the life that breaks you wide open is the very one that sets you free.
