Amberly
I am a thriver, not a survivor.
This is the story of how I got here, and why I give every bit of it away.
The 1%May 2010
They told me to let them take my leg. I said no.
I was riding my motorcycle when an SUV plowed into me. The impact threw me more than thirty feet. My leg was crushed. My femoral artery was severed. In the emergency room, my husband John, Johnny to me, caught one glimpse of my injuries and broke down. I remember calling out to him from across the room, begging him to be strong, because I needed to know he could take care of our girls if I did not make it.
Those were the last words I spoke before they placed me into a medically induced coma.
When I woke up, the doctors gave me a one percent chance of saving my leg. They urged me to amputate. I refused to give up hope. Thirty-four surgeries later, my surgeon, Dr. Wiss, cradled my leg in his hands like it was a masterpiece. Against every prediction, I got to keep it.
The part nobody warns you about
Saving my leg was not the hardest part. I was later diagnosed with CRPS, a debilitating neurological pain condition often referred to as the suicide disease. Chronic pain stole my identity. I lost my fitness business. I searched everywhere for relief. I tried everything, and I mean everything. There were days I did not want to be here anymore.
In 2016, I got sober. That was the day I stopped surviving my life and started deciding what to do with it.
Instead of letting pain define me, I began allowing purpose to lead me.
The turn
I am not walking. I am tap dancing.
One percent. I decided one percent was enough. Then I went to work.
I remembered something my grandfather had said: “You have a shovel in your hand. You can either lean on it and pray for a hole, or start digging.” Right then, I realized I had a choice: give in to the pain, or start digging and build something positive out of my circumstances.
I learned to pace myself. One night at dinner Johnny said, you really need to pace yourself, so I wrote PACER on a napkin and added the R. The doctors said I would never dance again. Resilience does not get rid of the pain. It gets me through it. That is the difference between surviving and thriving.
Thriver, not survivor
Long before the accident
Healing came before the comeback.
I learned resilience long before that day on the road. I overcame childhood sexual abuse. For many years I saw it only through the lens of pain, shame, and betrayal.
It took years of healing, faith, and recovery to reach a place of forgiveness. I would never call the abuse a gift, but I can see the gifts that came from the healing: compassion, empathy, and a deep dependence on God.
Our past may shape us, but it does not have to define us.
My why
Everything I fought for has a name.
John, my husband, Johnny to me, the former Lieutenant Commander who stood by my side through every surgery, refused to let anyone take my leg, never let me give up on myself, and loved me, and every one of my scars, until I learned to accept and love them too.
Savanna, my oldest daughter, who watched me endure surgery after surgery and was inspired to become a doctor. She graduated from Yale and chose a career in medicine, driven in part by the hope that one day no one will have to suffer from CRPS the way I have.
Ruby, my youngest daughter, a resilient equestrian who reminds me every day that grit and joy are not opposites. They grow side by side.
Nugget, our fur baby, who keeps joy in the house on the hardest days.
They are the reason I kept digging. And by the grace of God, I now get to share the lessons that transformed my life.
Pain to purpose to joy
Resilience is the vehicle. Joy is what makes it last.
Today I get to stand on stages around the world, host a podcast I love, and write the books I wish I had been handed. If you are in the middle of your own hard thing, I promise you are not alone.
Change is possible, hope is available, and the choice is yours.