When the transport team wheeled me out, I passed through the hospital lobby—a space full of people carrying balloons, flowers, gift bags. Love looked normal down here. It looked messy and loud and human.
I wondered what it would feel like to be loved without being evaluated.
Outside, sunlight hit my face. Cool air filled my nose. My lungs protested, but they also… worked.
I was still fragile.
Still healing.
But I was alive.
And now I was moving.
The rehabilitation facility was quieter than the hospital.
Less chaos. Less emergency. More routine.
Morning therapy.
Afternoon rest.
Breathing exercises that felt like climbing mountains one inch at a time.
The first time I stood with support bars, my legs shook so hard I thought I’d collapse. A therapist stood close, calm.
“You’re safe,” she said. “You can shake and still hold.”
It felt like a metaphor my whole body understood.
I shook.
But I held.
Ms. Laird visited every other day.
She didn’t overwhelm me with legal details, but she kept me updated in clean, honest language.
“Your parents’ petition is pending review,” she told me one day. “The hospital report is being taken seriously.”
One blink.
Yes.
“Do you want to provide a statement when you’re medically able?”
