How facing a major trauma during COVID-19 reset my entire world

When the Covid-19 pandemic hit, I was barely employed and in a place of searching, of gathering the pieces of my identity like shards of broken glass. 

My moods oscillated wildly from day to day - I was manic at times, feeling like Empress of the World in the AM, craving self-medication to escape the pain of rejection in the PM. A glance at my Google feed increased my anxiety; another Black death, more racist vitriol spewed.  I'd seek solace in outdoor time with my boys, aged nine and five. Then some Karen would hijack my high by being a damned Karen, bringing a growling Mama Bear to the fore when my young boys unwittingly became the target of fragility's foolishness. I hoped and prayed for a fabulous new job, thinking  that would somehow solve all these problems, or at least overshadow them and distract me from the inner work that drained my energy daily. I fumbled blindly for my reset button, feeling less and less optimistic about my personal journey as the world around me seemed to be joining my state of confusion rather than helping me to find my place in it. 

At home with time to spare, I decluttered physical spaces, hoping my efforts would magically replicate in my psyche too. At one point, I came across saved newspaper clippings reminding me of my earlier Black activism. There was a photo of me along with an interview on the cover of the Toronto Star from back in tenth grade. I was then president of our Black Heritage Club, and was demanding that Black history be included in school curriculum, rather than tokenized each February (my favourite [white] teacher, a critical role model, denounced me just after that – telling me to “stay out of politics” and “know my place”).  As I applied to countless corporate jobs in a numb haze, my authenticity was squelched in lack mentality and fear that being who I truly am, and my work as a professional coach and educator, would not feed my family. 

Then, on a bright and gorgeous Sunday evening in early June, the kind that gently stretched summer's kiss, I decided to take a quick mental break from the craziness of COVID and the trauma-inducing anti-Black news to nourish my soul and allow my mind to reach that coveted meditative state. I put on my helmet and well-worn riding gloves, waved farewell to my husband and sons playing basketball on our driveway and fired up my Ninja. The breeze was glorious as I hit the open road, reveling in the bliss of temporary respite. Out on my motorcycle I could always find my Zen, recalibrate weary nerves, see things more clearly. My very own, custom-built reset button.

Then, two hours Iater, I woke up in ICU. And I felt nothing at all.

Reality was fuzzy and undefined as I heard a voice say "You've been in a motorcycle accident and you are at St. Michael's Hospital. Your mom is on the phone and we are putting it to your ear." I felt the cool plastic at the side of my head and heard uncontrollable sobbing. I was quick to reassure her, "It's okay mom, I'm fine, I'll be fine." In my muddled mind, I wasn't at all sure of that. 

Slowly over time (a week in hospital followed by three in rehab), I came to discover the details of my accident. I had been t-boned by an elderly woman driving a Pontiac - I flew off my motorcycle upon impact and landed on the southeast corner of the intersection. The driver behind me called 911 and remained on the scene as the key witness. I was airlifted once stabilized on the stretcher. Apparently I spoke coherently through the entire event, though I remember nothing of it. The entire left side of my body was broken - from shoulder to foot. My right wrist was shattered and I had a concussion, significant internal and external injuries, and extensive bruising. The Story was plastered all over local news, repeating on CP24. It was one hot mess.

Reset

Coming out of the accident, I experienced an incredible shift in my physical self, and it pulled my psyche into the healing chaos. With so many parts of me immobile and in pain, I focused attention and energy on gratitude for the things that still worked. I spent time concentrating on each broken, bruised, and battered area, willing them to repair, to find some small measure of ease.

Presence.

In my body, in the moment, in my home, with my family, In my spirit. It was an uncomfortable, messy, traumatized, exhilarating presence borne of a shifted reality whose edges blurred with each slowly passing day within rehab walls. 

Truth.

Of purpose, of calling, of the dynamic interplay of strength and vulnerability that comprises my core. I finally knew that life is so much more than living. The pain, loneliness and confusion gave way to a revitalized sense of self, grounded empowerment, and profound clarity. I am still here. For a reason.

Faith.

In Higher Power, in humanity, in myself. I could now see that I was meant for more, so much more. The confines of hospital beds barricaded away from my family and friends felt like the sacred chamber in the Black Panther's subterranean temple. Within them, in tortured dreams, I found my way to my ancestors, to Home.

I always thought a reset meant an unplanned and annoying Return to Go (the Do Not Collect $200 kind). But after this near-fatal, highly-televised accident, I realize my reset brokered a birthing, a painfully exquisite explosion into a higher state of being. Healing of the highest order. The Divine could not have spared me to be other than who I am; therefore I am validated in my true self. I feel keenly the tumult of growing pains as my fighting spirit returns with brilliance: this phoenix is emerging from a formidable fire more resolute and enduring than ever before.

If gratitude brings greater abundance, and I have more to be grateful for than ever before - I step into divine richness with renewed humility and unwavering faith.

Priority:

Life. Lived incandescently, unapologetically and with infinite purpose.
Ashe!