I was just nineteen when everything changed. One moment, I was crossing the street on my way to work—and the next, I was waking up in a hospital bed. I’d been hit by a car. The pain was unbearable, but nothing compared to the words that followed: “You may never walk again.”
My spine wasn’t completely severed, but the injury was serious. The doctors were honest—the chances of walking again were very low. As I tried to process the news, all I could think about was my father. I asked for him again and again, hoping he’d be there. But he didn’t show up for three days. When he did, he looked exhausted and distant. I’d seen that look before. And his words that day hurt more than the injury itself.
After hearing about my condition, he simply asked the doctor if I was over eighteen. When the answer was yes, he turned to him and said, “Then she’s not my responsibility anymore.” He glanced down at me with disappointment and left.
I was heartbroken—not because I couldn’t walk, but because I felt completely alone. But that wasn’t the end of my story. At the rehabilitation center, I met Carol Hanson, a physical therapist with a tough spirit and a kind heart. She didn’t treat me with pity—she challenged me, encouraged me, and pushed me further than I thought I could go. And then one day, I stood up. My legs trembled, but I took a step. It changed everything.
Still, when I was discharged, I had nowhere to go. No home. No family. No plan. While other patients left surrounded by loved ones, I stayed in my room, overwhelmed and unsure. That’s when Carol walked in and said, “Jenny, come live with me. Just until you’re back on your feet.”
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