When I Remembered I Could Fly

For the first time in many months, I find myself drawn to write. This isn’t a masterpiece or a polished story—just an observation, a moment that caught me off guard and asked to be captured.

The Line in the Sand

For those of you who are new here, I suffered a life-changing spinal cord injury in 2019. I had to learn to walk again from scratch and there will always be a clear line in the sand between the old me and the new me. The sixth anniversary is slowly drawing near, and today, something happened that brought a sudden, almost visceral flashback—a sharp reminder of how different life was before I broke my back.

Recovering from a spinal cord injury means finding your ‘new normal.’ I was incredibly lucky—and put in a huge amount of work—to walk again by rebuilding my core muscles from the ground up. I’m what’s sometimes called a ‘wonky walker.’ I use a stick, my balance is poor on one side, and my left foot never fully regained alignment. But all things considered, I live virtually pain-free, aside from the odd twinge or bout of sciatica.

And yet—walking is still effortful. That’s what triggered the flashback.

The Coffee Hut Realisation

I had just finished my Pilates class and was sipping a vanilla latte at the Coffee Bean Hut. When I got up to leave, I carried my cup and handbag—no stick—and made my way across the car park. Suddenly, I remembered. It wasn’t a memory, exactly, but a sensation: the ease of walking before my injury. That unconscious, unthinking movement. A long-lost feeling of simply skipping toward the car, without needing to plan each step or brace for the strain.

Now, every stride requires focus. One side feels heavier than the other. My thigh muscles tingle. My knees always seem moments away from giving out. My calves stretch with each step, and the injury site at T12 buzzes with strange activity. The only way I can describe my spine is that it feels like someone’s slotted an uncomfortable wire coat hanger through it.

Clipped Wings

If I were a bird, I wondered if this is what it would be like to have your wings clipped. Not grounded entirely—but changed. Altered. There are moments, like this one in the car park, when I’m suddenly struck by a memory that feels physical: Oh my god, I remember when I used to fly.

I didn’t even realise I’d forgotten the feeling—until it came rushing back. That unburdened, effortless movement. The lightness. The freedom of simply being in your body without thinking about it, without calculating every step.

The metaphorical clip—this invisible, persistent weight—feels so annoying at times. It’s not pain exactly, but presence. A constant awareness of what’s changed. I can still walk for up to an hour—even dance if I really want to. But I can’t bloody fly anymore. And today, I felt the absence of that flight deeply. Not with anger or bitterness—just a quiet, aching wish that someone would come along and take the metal clip out. Set me free, just for a moment.

Gratitude and Grief

I’m not a glass-half-empty kind of person. I’ve always focused on the positives—what I can do, not what I can’t. I’ve been deeply humbled and grateful for my recovery. But today, for whatever reason, I grieved for the old me. The one who didn’t need to grip a banister to climb stairs. Who could dart around, jump with excitement, jog through the park, shop for hours without scouting for the next bench.

And that’s okay, I think. To be grateful and grieving. To honour both.