And it’s the same way with faith and fear. Fear fills me with doubt and, well, more fear. But faith gives me hope and courage. And sometimes I have to feel the fear and do it anyway, while holding on to the faith that gives me the courage to fly.
So, when I get back from LA, I am at a crossroads. I now know what I want to do next with my life, but I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to do it. I have recently turned down the opportunity to go away to college, opting to continue to finish my degree online, and I’m not sure if I made the right choice.
It may sound silly, but part of me just wants to be a normal twenty-year-old, and I’d thought that going away to school would give me that. But something amazing and out of the ordinary always seems to get in the way. In high school it was winning a gold medal and breaking world records, after high school, it was the speaking tours and appearances, then it was Project Walk, and now it’s ESPN. Most kids my age go to school to set out a plan for their lives, but the crazy thing is, I already know the life path I want to set out on. It is beyond speaking and beyond swimming. I’m just not sure I know how to get things started.
Waiting.
Wishing.
Wanting.
Patience is not my thing.
It is a beautiful September morning, and I am sitting in the ESPN welcome center, looking over the full day of meetings planned out for me.
This is it.
This is when it will be decided.
Do I stay at ESPN?
Or go home and go back to the drawing board?
I have been so lost for so long, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I am found. For the first time since swimming was taken away from me, I am happy and excited about my future. I am no longer looking back at the pool, waiting and wishing things were different. I’m no longer waiting to see if the IPC will change its mind and give me a fair chance. Swimming and the IPC were in my rear window when I was in LA and holding that ESPN microphone. And today I’ll find out if I’ll be able to continue that passion and move forward.
This is it.
“You know I’d be straightforward with you if I thought you did an okay job in LA. I’d tell you to get an agent and go elsewhere and improve before you can get hired here.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“But that’s not the case here; you belong here. We want to offer you a job here at ESPN.”
“Are—are—are you serious?”
“Yes, I’d like to officially welcome you to ESPN.”
I had just come out of a pretty tough time. In my search to find new meaning, I forgot the values I’d held all my life. But getting a job offer at ESPN shortly after my twenty-first birthday and becoming one of the youngest on-air personalities ever hired? This whole experience reminded me of how God uses our setbacks as setups for greater comebacks. ESPN gave me a hand and helped me stand up, figuratively. Little did I know that it would also help me physically.
It is time to rise.
15
BACK ON MY FEET—LITERALLY
November 2015 to March 2016
Scars. I define a scar as a reminder—sometimes visible, sometimes not—of a struggle or moment when I was in pain. My journey left several wounds and created many scars, but most of my visible scars from various surgeries and procedures have healed. The scars on my stomach where my GJ tube once resided are hidden behind my clothes; the scars on my back from the inflammation caused by the TM are hidden as well. So, all of my scars are invisible—except for one.
My wheelchair.
When I got better and started to come back to life in 2010, I was told over and over, “You’ll never walk again. The damage to your spine is irreversible.” It’s true that the odds of walking after you’ve been paralyzed for more than two years are close to none. But two years into my journey, I was still in a vegetative state. So, I had actually been paralyzed for four years, reducing my chances of regaining function even further.
I thought I had accepted the fact that I couldn’t walk. I was grateful to be alive and somewhat “normal.” My wheelchair complicated things, but it never really stopped me. I had learned to be independent and had started to find my way when I turned seventeen. But I was not okay with being in a chair when I left the house. Strangers treated me weirdly, and kids at school were cruel. But when I was in the comfort of my home surrounded by my family and friends, I was fine.
However, over time I became less content with my situation. It was hard not walking when all I’d ever known was walking. I knew what freedom felt like, and I found myself longing for it more and more. Some mornings when I was still in the sleepy phase of waking up, I would slide my legs over the bed and start to stand. But, of course, I would crash to the ground, quickly waking up to my reality.
I began to realize that I was lying to myself that I was “okay” with being wheelchair bound. In all honesty, I hated it. It was the ultimate reminder of what had happened to me.
I could never get over the fact that I had literally defied every odd except one: walking. I had survived, I had come back at an incredibly fast rate, and I had begun to live again. I had a life and résumé of experiences and accomplishments beyond most people’s wildest dreams.
But I had never gotten back on my feet. My inability to conquer this hurdle haunted me every day that I got out of bed and had to sit in my wheelchair. My chair was my ultimate battle scar.
I tried to make the best of it with pimped-out wheelchairs, great parking, and hilarious moments with my family and friends. Some people feel extremely awkward around a person in a wheelchair. But my family, friends, and I have a sick sense of humor, so we got into some silly shenanigans.
William and Cameron had learned how to operate the wheelchair van and what to do if my feeding pump went off or malfunctioned. It wasn’t easy, but they stepped up and were there to help me. Being out in public was difficult at first, and the relentless stares and comments did not help my anxiety.
One day, William, Cameron, and I went out shopping. This was one of our first ventures out together. There was a woman who kept staring at me as I looked at the shirts on a store rack. I just wanted a little normalcy, but this woman was disrupting my plans.
I could tell she wanted to speak with me, but I refused eye contact. When I did look up, she was right there with this slightly crazy-looking smile. “Why are you in a wheelchair?” she asked me with a very childlike high-pitched voice. William and Cameron heard her, and I gave them the “play along eyes.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked confused and tilted her head. “The … the wheelchair you’re sitting in. What’s wrong with you?” That last part got me going.
“Wait, I’m in a wheelchair? No! This can’t be happening! William, Cameron, why didn’t you guys tell me?!”
William and Cameron rushed in and were quick to play along. “Why did you tell her!” William yelled at the woman, trying not to smile. Cameron grabbed my wheelchair and began to wheel me out of the store. “Great, this is just great. Thanks a lot.”
When the coast was clear, all three of us burst into tears of laughter. Moments like that made the wheelchair situation not so bad. It wasn’t ideal, but we made it fun and found humor because after all, if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.
Now, in retrospect, I realize that the woman most likely had never actually spoken to someone in a wheelchair or did not know how to approach the situation. Most people are pretty curious too. But for me it was so helpful to laugh.
• • •
But despite the “funny” moments and the cool wheelchairs, I am still unsettled. No matter what I do or achieve, I still go to bed and wake up to that one major odd that I cannot defy.
But who says you can’t do the impossible?
Impossible seems to be “my thing,” and who’s to say that I can’t define what’s possible? I remember the promise my parents made when I was first grappling with being wheelchair bound. They promised that they would spen
d their whole lives helping me get back everything that was taken away from me. At the time, they had no idea how that might come about, but they vowed to never stop searching for a cure or some way to get me back on my feet. None of us knew then that three years later we’d get our answer.
I can’t shake the nagging feeling that I need to explore my options for walking one day. That feeling just won’t leave me and often keeps me up at night.
I know it’s true that God often speaks the loudest in the darkest moments. But sometimes I’m so consumed by the dark that I can’t see the small light and the determined path He has put in front of me.
“What is it that you truly want, Victoria?”
I want to walk.
“Well then, let’s go for it.”
My mummy has always had this “anything’s possible” attitude. When I was little, my teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I proudly said, “Gold medalist.” The kids laughed; even the teacher tried to hide a snicker. But I kept those words on my poster anyway.
And when I brought that sparkly poster home and showed my mom, she proudly said, “You can be anything, my sweet girl. Go for it.” Mummy has always been my biggest cheerleader, and so I am not surprised that when I get the opportunity to learn how to walk—or at least attempt to walk—she jumped right on it.
The promise.
My mom and I had gone to the world-renowned paralysis recovery center, Project Walk, in San Diego, California, back in September through November 2013. But our time there was limited because our life and family are on the East Coast. As our last day approaches, the CEO of Project Walk meets with my mummy and me to help us think about next steps with my paralysis recovery. You have to be persistent. Otherwise, you can very quickly lose the progress.
The CEO explains to us that Project Walk is a franchise. And, he tells us, there are no franchises on the East Coast.
Mummy, you just found your calling.
Since my mom was a little girl, she has wanted to help people. And I know for a fact that I got that same passion from her. But she never quite found the right fit. When my brothers and I were younger, she stayed home to take care of us—years of that period were spent taking care of me. But as my brothers and I got older, she still had that nagging feeling of wanting to help others and make a difference. When we were in California, she and I talked often about how we could help others, but we’d always be stumped regarding what “we” could do.
But when we meet with Project Walk’s CEO and learn about the franchising, that is the moment Mummy and I know. This is our next step; this is what my mummy and I had been searching for.
So, on January 24, 2015—during one of the biggest snowstorms of the winter—Project Walk Boston opens its doors. It is, in many ways, my family’s gift not only to me but to others who have gone through challenges like we have. A place where families and people who have had such loss can heal and not feel alone.
The head trainer at our newly opened franchise is a veteran and has served as an army medic. John is tough, and he is strong, and he knows just how to push me.
“You’re a professional athlete, so I’m going to train you like one.”
I thought my training for swimming was hard, but it is nothing compared to this. Five days a week, five to six hours a day, I’m tested and pushed beyond my limits like never before. John is not kidding when he promises to train me like a professional athlete. John quickly learns how I operate and what makes me tick, and we both decide something very important and familiar …
Getting back on my feet is my next “gold medal.”
The next “impossible” to make “possible.”
“Are you in?”
“Yes. I want this more than anything.”
“All right, let’s get to work.”
And so it begins …
Relentlessly pursuing the impossible and looking every day for any sign of life in my legs is, at times, incredibly frustrating. Day in and day out, nothing—not even a twitch. I witness other clients of Project Walk seeing their muscles twitch, and mine show zero life. Finding the motivation to keep going is a full-time job. Looking past the odds and past the lack of life in my legs is challenging. Having a trainer like John—who knows how to channel that frustration—is key.
Keep going.
Don’t stop.
Never. Stop.
“Did you stop when you were fighting for your life?”
No.
“What about when you were training for London and when you won gold?”
No.
“So, why stop now?”
• • •
Finding the motivation to keep going was at times a feat in and of itself.
Keep going.
Don’t stop.
We athletes like to see results, normally right away. But anyone who truly has trained knows the frustration and that almost always the improvements are subtle and barely noticeable. But you know to stay the course no matter how hard and frustrating it is. But to achieve the “impossible” you must train as if NOTHING is impossible.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Over and over, pushing, moving, and praying that something will give. But doubt always seems to make its way in.
This has never been done before.
Am I crazy?
Is this really possible?
November 11, 2015. One twitch in my right leg, the first controlled muscle reaction in nearly ten years. That is all I need. That is the momentum.
As on the rest of the journey, it is the small victories that lead to the biggest achievements. This small and subtle twitch creates a momentum. And athletes love momentum.
You have one good game, one fast race, and that creates a confidence and drive unlike any other. You keep showing up because you see the progress you’ve made. You like the feeling of achievement and improvement. And you never stop there.
That twitch turns into an active quad muscle firing, which leads to a step, then another, and another. In March 2016, nearly ten years since becoming paralyzed, I am back on my feet as if nothing had ever been wrong. A step turned into a stair. That stair turned into a 27-inch box jump.
Of course, I couldn’t stop there: jumping (still can’t land though), biking, running, and a year almost to the day of returning to my feet, skiing in the Swiss Alps, each day continuing to defy the odds and continuing to train like I’d never trained before. Why did I train so hard? Because I know what it’s like to lose it all, I know what it’s like to fall down, and I’m never going back there and I’m never going to back down.
Never stop getting stronger and better.
Keep moving forward.
But like any major victory and any moment where you’ve “made it,” it’s come at a price. Blood, sweat, and tears go into every victory—big and small—and every “golden” moment. The second you raise the trophy or they put that medal around your neck and the anthem plays, you know it’s come at a price. Challenges occur, and sometimes you fall to depths that you never knew possible. But then with every fall, you have the chance to rise higher than ever and be better than you were before.
The question is: Will you rise?
Every difficulty, every challenge, every tear, it’s worth it.
Trust me.
Just go for it.
Be a living example of what is possible.
In our most difficult moments, we have two choices: we can cry, or we can try.
It’s easy to get frustrated and cry—we’re human and we all struggle with that. Crying releases emotion, and that, in turn, sometimes makes you feel better. It’s cathartic and healing. So, some crying is okay—even good.
But it’s not okay to keep crying and stop trying. I think of it like a gladiator who has been wounded in the battle. He’s hurting, but he still stands and tries to put one foot in front of the other. I was wounded like that gladiator, but I am trying to stand and put one foot in front of the other. With tear
s and sweat, hope and optimism, I am amazed at what my body is capable of.
Don’t stop.
Keep training.
Because in truth, I’ll have to train each and every day for the rest of my life. Every day, I have to “trick” my body and remind it that it is not paralyzed. And if I don’t train or if I get tired, my legs don’t function as well, and my muscles don’t fire as quickly. My neurological system is constantly trying to repair itself. When I encounter any type of stressor or sickness, the function in my legs is the first to go. There are days, in fact, when my legs simply don’t work, and I just have to work a little harder to get them to function properly. I have never publicly spoken about that.
The nerve damage will never go away, and I still cannot feel my legs. I’ve worked hard to hide my injury, but no matter how far I run, I’ll never be able to run away from the damage that was done all those years ago—and that’s okay.
Initially though, this is a tough pill to swallow—especially since that damage could have been avoided. But I choose not to go down the path of “what if,” because if I do, bitterness and regret will poison me for the rest of my life.
I’d rather deal with nerve pain and damage and lack of feeling in my legs and feet than go back to a wheelchair or worse—a vegetative state.
Never stop getting stronger and better.
Keep moving forward.
And as much as I know what it’s like to lose it all, I also know what it’s like to gain it all back—plus more. Falling down has been a common theme in my journey, but so has standing back up—both literally and figuratively.
Fall down ten times, but I will stand up the eleventh time.
With each time you fall, you have the chance to stand tall.
I’m reminded of that price every day.
As amazing and wonderful as it was to win that medal, winning the gold is not my “golden” moment. Medals and trophies and accolades are incredible, but, ultimately, they are material things. They do not define who I am. What truly defines me—and all of us—is how we overcome our challenges and how we live our lives in spite of the obstacles that come our way. What’s truly important is what we learn on the inside and how we grow from our experiences.
Locked In: The Will to Survive and the Resolve to Live Page 14
