Let me tell you, being asked about my profile photo is like being asked why pizza and pineapple exist together it’s complicated, oddly specific, and somehow always up for debate. First of all, yes, it’s AI-generated, and no, it’s not because I’m trying to catfish anyone or win the secret “Best Photo in the Metaverse” award. It’s derived directly from a description of me, my chair, and my loyal service dog. Before you ask, yes, my chair is a character all by itself. It squeaks occasionally, which I like to cuss out when I am trying to get through yet another door that is to tight yet labeled for the disabled button to open, it’s been a steadfast, even if unwelcome companion through thick and thin. My service dog, on the other hand, is the real MVP, though they have yet to master not wagging their tail directly into my cup. The thing I get asked about most is the wheelchair so this is mainly the story as to why I need this device. There will be a bit of repetition, it seems to be a fact with certain traumatic memories with me. So as it is part of me and my chaos why would I change it?

Now, before we delve too deep into the rabbit hole of why my photo is AI-generated and not a candid selfie, let’s just say this: the internet is a jungle. A jungle filled with trolls, judgmental glares, and people who find it necessary to voice their unfiltered thoughts, even when no one asked. I created this AI-generated image not out of vanity but as a shield. It’s my safe space, my digital armor, keeping me out of the fray of those who have a flair for drama or a penchant for unmasking their darker sides in public forums. I also prefer to avoid the exhausting societal game of “let’s judge everyone for literally everything.”

That being said, the AI photo isn’t wildly off from reality. I mean, there are small differences, of course. For example, my service dog doesn’t look as polished and regal in the photo as they do in real life. In reality, they’re a mix of majestic hero and a complete goofball who sometimes gets stuck chasing their own tail. And then there’s me, with my hair tied back in two braids a daily ritual I rarely deviate from.

Let’s talk about the braids for a second because, believe me, they’re not just a hairstyle; they’re a spiritual belief. Every morning, I brush out my hair, and while I braid it, I fill my head with good thoughts. Why? Because I’m First Nations, and for us, hair carries significant meaning. It’s like a living thread that ties us to our emotions, our intentions, and even the energy of the day to put it as simple as possible. Whatever thoughts I have while braiding are essentially trapped there until I undo them. And let me tell you, there’s no worse feeling than realizing halfway through the day that I accidentally braided in the memory of stubbing my toe on the coffee table. It’s a form of mindfulness, really one that keeps me grounded and connected. Plus, it just feels right, like putting on your favorite sweater or eating fries with extra salt.

I then shuffle around my home like a zombie. My service dog follows me closely, partly out of loyalty and partly because I might drop a cookie. I swear, they have an internal radar specifically tuned to falling snacks. My mornings are a balance of chaos and routine, with a sprinkle of comedy thanks to my four-legged sidekick.

Let’s circle back to that profile photo. It’s fascinating what people read into it. The truth is, the photo works because it conveys an essence of who I am while keeping that protective barrier intact. It’s not about deception; it’s about preservation. Trust me, when you’ve seen enough online squabbles escalate over the most trivial things like the correct order to eat a taco you learn to pick your battles. That and the topics I write about, well I know those memories of my past are dark and no one likes their horrid behavior to have a light shone on them. That and I can call more behaviours out when it comes to the delights of life. I write more on this in another post.

Let me take you back a few years, the highway accident that led to this chapter of my life still feels like it belongs in one of those “truth is stranger than fiction” novels. it’s the dead of winter, the thermometer mockingly reading minus fifty Celsius, and at these temperatures not even winter tires have grip. They are hard rubber just like summer tires would be. I am minding my own and driving to road conditions, happily parked behind a yellow bus. Avoid the idiots who insist on daring winter to remind them how to drive.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Growing up around grown men who treated rally racing in the Rockies as their personal winter pastime turned out to be a peculiar blessing. While I never sat behind the wheel of one of their rally cars, those endless hours of listening to their stories and strategies must have seeped into my subconscious. That knowledge, paired with my insistence on driving a manual transmission, became my saving grace. There’s something about the precision and control of a manual that gives you an edge in situations where every second counts and believe me, this was one of those situations.

Had I been driving an automatic, especially something heavy like the Buick Century I owned barely a month prior, I doubt I’d be here telling this story. The momentum on that icy stretch would’ve been unforgiving, likely flipping the car or sending me careening into an irreversible disaster. Luck, skill, or maybe just a touch of sheer stubbornness had my back that day. I walked away from the accident, my car bearing only minor cosmetic scars. At least, that’s what I thought, turns out the car did better then I did.

The real damage wasn’t visible right away. In the weeks that followed, the physical toll of that moment revealed itself in a cascade of unwelcome surprises. I had sustained a spinal injury that was degenerative in nature, a slow-burning reminder of that winter’s day. On top of that, I’d torn the labrum in both hips. Think of it as the rotator cuff of the hip, painful, limiting, and, frankly, just rude of my body to throw into the mix.

I am, navigating life with a balance of defiance and adaptability. I fall often, that’s just the reality of it, but I refuse to let that be the end of the story. When I’m in unfamiliar areas or know I’ll be walking for extended periods, I use the chair. It’s not a concession; it’s a necessity, a choice that spares me hours of agony and the risk of collapsing like a marionette with cut strings. Do I love it? No. But do I accept it? Absolutely. Because life, as unpredictable and challenging as it is, is still mine to live on my terms.

Doctors have repeatedly insisted that I would never walk again. Their predictions have proven wrong every time, and I don’t intend to let them be right if I can help it. Whether it’s sheer stubbornness or the healing power of the sweats I attend a traditional First Nations ceremony that seems to have slowed the degeneration and brought the pain to a more manageable level I continue defying medical expectations. Western medicine, imaging, and science all assert that walking should be impossible for me, yet I persist, walking whenever and wherever I am able. It feels like reclaiming a piece of my independence, no matter the odds.

Of course, there are limits I must acknowledge. Navigating unfamiliar areas or walking for extended periods, like taking my dog out for more than half an hour, necessitates the use of my wheelchair. It’s not defeat; it’s a calculated decision to save myself from hours of relentless pain and the risk of falling like a puppet with severed strings. Even nearly a decade later, I still drive the same trusty Honda Civic that carried me through that fateful winter day. Let’s give credit where it’s due; Honda designs the civic so that they are not just reliable but resilient when cared for properly.

The accident itself feels like a tale ripped from one of those “truth is stranger than fiction” novels. It was a hit-and-run involving a semi-truck during rush hour, in the dead of winter, with the thermometer mocking me at minus fifty Celsius. At those temperatures, not even winter tires provide grip; the hard rubber behaves more like slick summer tires on ice, leaving drivers with limited control. I was minding my own business, driving cautiously behind a yellow school bus to avoid the recklessness of others who seemed intent on daring winter to teach them a lesson. And then it happened. The before is branded in my mind and always will be.

The aftermath of the accident revealed a cascade of physical challenges that weren’t immediately visible. Weeks later, the toll became glaringly evident: I had sustained a degenerative spinal injury that acts as a slow-burning reminder of that winter’s day. On top of that, I’d torn the labrum in both hips essentially the rotator cuff of the hip a condition that’s both painfully limiting and, frankly, a rude twist of fate from my own body.

Life since then has been a balancing act of defiance and adaptability. Falling is an inevitable reality for me, but I refuse to let that be the defining feature of my story. When I know I’ll be walking for extended periods or exploring unfamiliar terrain, I use the chair. It’s not a concession but a necessity one that allows me to navigate the world on my terms without succumbing to hours of agony. I don’t love it, but I accept it. After all, acceptance isn’t about resignation; it’s about making peace with the tools that help you move forward.

The accident wasn’t just physically grueling it was emotionally scarring in ways I could never have anticipated. The hit-and-run occurred on a bustling highway during rush hour, not a quiet country road. How I didn’t collide with other vehicles or others didn’t crash into me remains a mystery. But what hurt most wasn’t the accident itself; it was the indifference of passing drivers. Not a single person stopped to help, even though the freezing temperatures posed severe risks to anyone stranded without heat. My car was trapped against guard wires, which left unique marks on the vehicle, and I didn’t dare turn the engine back on for fear of leaking fluids. Stepping out to assess the damage wasn’t an option either; I was physically trapped, shaking uncontrollably, and in shock.

Being autistic, with anxiety and PTSD layered onto the trauma, left me in a state of utter disarray. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t even string two coherent words together. Time became an abstract blur minutes felt like hours, and everything seemed amplified by the bitter cold, I do know it took far to long for me to get to that phone, I got lucky with no damage from the cold itself. Somehow, I managed to call 911 using the SOS feature on my iPhone, which turned out to be a lifesaving decision. The feature provided my location to emergency responders, sparing me the need for detailed explanations I couldn’t muster. And as if things couldn’t get worse, my airbags failed completely, leaving me utterly vulnerable.

Despite everything, I survived not just the accident but the aftermath that followed. The physical injuries continue to challenge me daily, but the emotional resilience I’ve developed keeps me moving forward. Every step I take, whether walking with determination or rolling in the chair, is a testament to my defiance, my refusal to let circumstances dictate the terms of my life. It’s not easy, and it’s certainly not the life I envisioned, but it’s mine to live and I’ll live it unapologetically.

So you see that photo embodies who I am, I do have dark hair, I do use a wheelchair and I do have a service dog that color. For an AI generated image it is pretty accurate I will give it that. I have no doubt I have repeated myself though in this writing, kinda happens with traumatic memories I have discovered in regards to myself. I am who I am, the pain I feel reminds me I am still alive, I am stubborn as hell and while they said I could never work again, well I found a way to contribute still to society in a meaningful way. I also have once again told the doctors where to take their “won’t walk again” line. Simply because how can we understand the body when we do not understand the brain which is what runs everything in the body! Every element in my profile photo represents me, just as every line of ink I have etched into my skin does. We are who we make ourselves and the rest of the world can like it or lump it.