When the storm hits, I do not step back. I learn how to hold my ground.
How many times have I stood at the window watching a storm roll in?
The birds cling to branches with their tiny legs, fighting the wind like warriors in feathers. The trees bend, branches whipping, leaves flying, but they do not move. Their roots keep them anchored. They know where they stand.
Standing is not just physical. It is mental. It is fear mixed with trust. Balance mixed with confidence. It is visual and emotional at the same time.
Some days, I feel like that tree.
It does not matter my mood, my pain, my frustration. If I do not focus on where my foot lands, it will not be my pride that hits the ground. It will be my butt. And yes, that has happened more than once.
For a tree, weather is weather.
For me, weather is mood.
The first time I stood with my first prosthetic leg, I was a below knee amputee. I held the cold parallel bars, my palms sweating. The socket pressed hard against my limb. It was uncomfortable. Emotional. Exciting. Completely out of my comfort zone.
My brain was ready to walk. It remembered exactly how. The rest of my body looked at my brain and said: You sure about that?
It felt awkward, it hurt. I was lost in a world I had never had to think about before.
For over forty years, walking was automatic. One foot in front of the other. No strategy meeting required.
Now every step is a decision.
Did that stop me? No.
Did I quit? No. I took breaks. Big difference.
Did I lose faith? No.
Did I lose confidence that I would walk again? Not even close.
Most of my first attempts in life are not perfect. The chances of success right away were low. That day, I made about twenty steps.
Twenty.
I could have remembered only the number. Only twenty. I could have called it a failure.
Instead, I chose this: I walked.
Perspective builds the future. If you store only the falls, that is the story you will replay. I store the steps.
Years later, after my second amputation, I stopped counting steps. With all the ups and downs, I am walking. What I started noticing instead were the falls. About twenty five since 2024. Work. Grocery store. Home. Everywhere I go, there’s a tiny chance to see me on the floor.
One fall I will never forget happened on our front yard. I was helping my husband with yard work. He was in a tree cutting branches, watching me move them when I lost my balance. I landed on my butt, flipped backward, spun, and ended on my side laughing while Felix laughed like it was the best show of the year. That one deserved slow motion replay. We were only missing popcorn.
Staying positive is hard.
Oh hell yes.
Is it worth it?
Even more.
Your body learns before your brain believes it. Falling is part of the learning curve. It is not failure.
Failure would have been staying in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for a miracle I did not even believe in. Don’t get me wrong, I had those days too. Days when everything felt too heavy.
I woke up in a hospital bed missing a leg and gaining a fight I never asked for.
Accepting amputation. Grieving my old body. My independence. My autonomy. My bike. My old version of normal.
I needed time. I needed my husband. I needed support. I needed space to feel weak before I could feel strong.
I thought I was tougher at the beginning. I was not. And that did not break me. It grounded me.
The first real shift came when I saw my body healing. Stitches closing. Swelling going down. I started seeing flashes of myself walking again. Not perfectly. Not elegantly. Just walking.
That vision changed everything.
Sometimes healing begins the moment you can see yourself on the other side.
Standing became symbolic. Not just balance. Proof. I am still here. I am still capable.
Each painful step became a deposit in my success account. One more. And one more. The trauma was real, but surrender was never an option.
Then came the second amputation. Was it hard to accept? Yes and no.
Before I end up in OR, the clinic tried everything it was possible to make me comfortable. The pain was not going away. The only way forward was to remove what kept hurting below the knee and start again. This time with experience. This time knowing what the mountain looked like.
Starting over was not new anymore. It was familiar.
Since then, I have learned to walk six times. Different sockets. Different feet. Different knees. Learning again how to sit on the floor and stand back up. Every change feels like day one. Every round of adjustments is a learning curve. Nothing is automatic. Nothing is casual.
Was I able to do it? Yes.
Was it easy? Not even close.
Was it worth it? Absolutely.
Standing again is not about perfection. It is about repetition. Choosing to get back up when the wind pushes hard. It is about roots. About grit. About laughing when you fall and getting back to work.
A tree does not question the storm. It holds its ground.
And me?
Different sockets. Different knees. Same decision every time. I stand.
The storm will come.
And now, so will I.