How SCI Reshaped My Family

When I became a single parent to a newborn and an 11-year-old after my spinal cord injury, the future looked like a cloudy storm on the horizon. Dark and not knowing how bad it could be. My injury didn’t erase the love we had; it reframed how we show it, how we talk about needs, and how we weather storms. The unknowing was the hardest part for me, mentally and physically.

Before I was paralyzed, I was a very active parent, not missing an event, did all the “chores”, and was daring whenever my daughter asked me to do something that I normally wouldn’t have done on my own. After my injury, life did a total 180, with me now depending on others when I was the one people depended on. Hate is a strong word, but I hated that feeling.

My 11-year-old grew into a role that surprised us all: a co-navigator. She learned to verbalize not only her needs but also her worries about her brother and me. She went from never sweeping a floor or doing dishes to now doing these things. My daughter went from a peaceful night’s sleep to now being my legs at night, when her baby brother needed to be soothed back to sleep with the motion of walking. For me, that was worse than the injury itself. I never wanted to put my kids in an uncomfortable situation, or one made for an adult. But my daughter has overcome all obstacles that have been in her way. Next year, she will be leaving for college to start her pre-med journey, and once again, life will have to be reshaped.

My newborn introduced a different cadence. I learned to push my boundaries and not become a statistic. I also encouraged my older child by my actions that if mommy can do it, so can I. I learned that love is unconditional. My son didn’t see my disability; he saw me. Over the years, he has taught me how to be resilient and to be grateful for God’s grace and mercy.

Showing up means more than being physically present; it’s showing up with tenderness, consistency, and a sense of humor when nothing feels funny. My injury demanded that I redefine what “being there” looks like. Sometimes it meant going into the living room to sit with my kids during a movie. Sometimes it means always saying I love you.

Our home now operates on a shared belief of Philippians 4:13. We celebrate small victories, communicate more, a kind response after a rough afternoon, a moment of laughter after a meltdown—and life will give you lemons, but it’s up to you what kind of lemonade you make. As a parent, I’ve learned that doing, aka standing on business, well, in my case, sitting, is a lot better than saying. Actions speak louder than words" is my motto for my kids. Me showing them not to give up when life gets hard is a lot better than telling them.

I’ve learned to see strength not as a lack of hardship but the ability to adapt with honestly shared emotions. The injury did not steal our family; it redirected it toward more intentional care, clearer communication, and a steady, patient love that can hold up under pressure. We’ve learned to ask better questions: What do we need today? How can we support each other without losing our individuality? How do we remind ourselves that we matter, even when we are tired?

If you’re navigating a similar path, know this: the pain of a life-changing injury can deepen the emotional bonds that matter most. Our family didn’t become perfect, but we became more connected—the kind of connected that makes the hard days bearable and the good days something to treasure. We’ve always been close, but now it’s an appreciation that may not have been if my life hadn’t been almost taken.

To receive personalized support, reach out to ChristopherReeve.org/Ask or request a peer mentor at ChristopherReeve.org/Peer. 

Photo by Kenney Ellison.