There was a time when I believed that walking required two legs. That moving forward—literally and figuratively—demanded a body that worked the way most people’s did. But life has its own rhythm, and sometimes it teaches us that strength doesn’t always come from the expected places.
After the accident, the world shifted beneath me. Doctors told me I’d never walk again. That phrase hit like a hammer, shattering not just the bones, but also something deeper: my sense of independence, of purpose. Yet as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I realized something profound—my legs may be still, but my spirit wasn’t.
My arms became my champions. They lifted me from my bed to the chair. They learned to push, to pull, to balance, to carry. At first, their movements were awkward, clumsy even. But over time, they grew strong—stronger than I ever imagined. My hands grasped the wheels of my chair and taught me how to navigate a world built on assumptions. Each push forward became a step of its own kind.
My arms don’t just move me physically—they write, they hug, they create. They hold books, paintbrushes, tools. They hold other hands when needed. Through them, I found that movement doesn’t always mean walking—it can mean reaching, building, embracing.
In fact, my arms helped me find a new definition of walking. Walking is progress. Walking is intention. Walking is not just about feet meeting pavement, but about the will to keep going, to keep trying, to keep living.
I no longer mourn what I’ve lost. Instead, I celebrate what I’ve discovered: the resilience in muscles I once overlooked, and the clarity of mind that comes when your path is no longer taken for granted. Every ramp climbed, every door opened, every sidewalk navigated—I am walking.
So no, my legs do not carry me forward. But my two arms, filled with quiet strength and steady determination, walk for me. And with them, I go exactly where I need to be.
