I Am a Survivor: Continued

Our fearless Vice President Kevin—aka our Treasurer, Secretary, Sir Sec, and as we like to tease him, our Project Manager—took it upon himself to approach me on a topic I would have rather avoided at all costs.

On my healing journey, vulnerability has always been one of my biggest challenges. With the life I’ve lived and the cards I was dealt, every time I opened up, it seemed to be used against me in some way. The upside? I’ve learned to fully trust my intuition and my ability to recognize patterns. It only takes a short conversation for me to see someone’s intentions. That gift has made this path easier to maneuver. I’ve also learned that there is real power in vulnerability. That doesn’t make it any easier to practice—but here I go again.

I don’t know how else to do this except to lay it all out. Blah blah, yada yada, splat. Kevin and I were working on calendar edits, meeting agendas, and a whole list of other things when he decided it was time to have “the conversation.” Something he had been sitting on for a while—waiting for the right moment, and making sure he was right in his suspicions before bringing it up.

If you’ve been following these blogs, you know the struggles Chick has faced physically. I’ve touched on my own, but always in a matter-of-fact, technical way—emotionless and avoidant. That’s my pattern when I’m hiding. While everyone’s been watching Chick—because of her age—I thought I had been slipping under the radar. Turns out, I was wrong.

My Neck, My Pain

I have a reverse curve in my neck. Not straight. Not even neutral. It bows the other way. Built this way after multiple cases of whiplash. Never from car accidents—life just handed me a different kind of violence. I’ve mentioned it before, but not like I am now.

This condition has caused severe chronic pain throughout my life, stacked on top of other diagnoses—most of which have trauma at their root. There are days I can’t hold my head up without lying down, because it feels like my own skull is too heavy. Still, I strapped up my boots, pushed through, hid it all—especially from Chick, because I felt she was the priority.

During this time, I had been training in Krav Maga to prep for instructor courses. My goal was to be able to teach seminars on the road, so women and others wouldn’t end up like me. Then something got tweaked. Kevin saw my entire demeanor change.

A couple of days later, I went to my chiropractor. Deep down, I already knew what I was going to hear. And I was right. Out of his hands now. No more Krav Maga. Referral to a neurologist. I cried the entire drive home.

Here I was, training so I could empower others, and suddenly I couldn’t even take the class. My chiropractor refused to adjust me anymore because my case had moved into another category. I had to tell my instructor—the one who believed in me and my mission from day one—that I couldn’t continue. I was devastated. Two months to wait for a neurology appointment. MRI scheduled. By the time this is posted, it will already be done.

The Call-Out

Kevin’s approach? Flawlessly annoying. Nothing but harsh truth, delivered in a way that left me nowhere to run. My neck came up because Krav Maga is part of our nonprofit’s mission. Then he asked about my motorcycle skills. And then came the kicker: “Are your arms tingling? Going numb?”

I knew why he was asking. He knew the answer already—he’s ridden behind us, seen me on the bike. No point in lying.

I countered with: I’m taking care of it. I’ve done the research. Waiting on the MRI. Making plans to build my neck back up.

He countered harder: That’s all fine. But you’re doing this alone. It affects the team. How can you care for Chick on the road if you’re not taking care of yourself? How can we help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on? How can we hold you accountable to your own plans if you keep them to yourself?

Every word landed like a gut punch—but at the same time, it felt like my inner little girl was finally being cradled.

Why I Hide

Why do I feel like I have to carry this alone?

Short answer: trauma. Long answer: it’s never simple.

Every weakness I’ve ever shown has been used against me. Mom, father, sister, friends, lovers, spouses. I took beatings. Slammed into walls. Shaken violently. Punched. You learn fast: don’t show weakness. Don’t be vulnerable. Suck it up, princess. Strap on your boots. Carry on.

I loved working in manufacturing. Loved the sound of a ratchet, the camaraderie of the guys, the satisfaction of wrenching. Letting go of that world was harder than heartbreak. But my body couldn’t withstand it anymore. Standing on concrete floors only accelerated the degeneration in my discs. Did I push it anyway? Hell yes.

For years, I didn’t connect the dots between trauma and pain. Constantly rubbing my neck for weeks after each hit, not realizing it was lasting damage. Every headache. Every nap I needed just to get relief from carrying the weight of my head. None of it was random. It was the damage, stacking up.

And while I’ve worked hard not to hate my abusers—choosing to understand rather than drown in bitterness—there were days when the pain made me slip. On those days, hate crept in. And then I hated myself for feeling it.

No one in women’s coalitions ever warned us about this part—the lifelong physical damage abuse leaves behind. Or how C-PTSD can feed into fibromyalgia and chronic pain. This is why testimonies matter. But I can’t expect others to share theirs if I’m not willing to share mine.

What’s Next

If I want to accomplish this 50-state bike ride, I have to grow. I have to accept help. Break down the walls that once protected me but now hold me back. Remind myself: I am not in that life anymore. I am safe. I am free. I am unbound.

The truth? Behind closed doors, Chick helps me zip my chaps because of my neck. We carry each other.

The road ahead won’t be easy. Chick has her hip fusion recovery. I’ll face surgery. Then we’ll both dive into physical therapy, rebuild our strength, and push forward—just in time for the ride.

It will be hard. It will test us. But it will be worth it.

Because even as we work to help others heal, we keep healing each other. That’s the beauty of this team. That’s the gift of not having to do it alone anymore.