It’s been a dramatic tally of days and hours since I started my whirlwind situationship with a spinal cord injury and let me tell you… the only thing that’s gotten easier is laughing at the chaos. Because honestly? There is just so. much. shit and in this case, a lot less ghosting!
Let’s break it down, shall we?
Oh, and did I mention I started my day by shitting my pants? Just hours before flying interstate to give a keynote on how people perceive disability.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been rolling through this life for nearly 16 years. And every few months, I hear the greatest hits on repeat:
“You’re such an inspiration.”
“You must be so proud!”
And my personal favourite: “How do you do it all?”
Well… I still don’t have an answer for that last one but yes, I’m proud. And yes, I’ve achieved a lot. I’m also completely, utterly, unapologetically fucking exhausted.
See, when I had my accident, I was just shy of 21. That magical age when your biggest worry should be whether you’ve got enough money for petrol and if that random one-night stand left you with more than just a story for the group chat. (Shoutout to the cute guy from Camp Quality, you were a delight, and I’m weirdly glad I got that moment in before I became paralysed.)
When I became a quadriplegic, I knew things would change. What I didn’t expect was that once I clawed my way through five years of grief, identity crisis, settling for shit relationships, unfriending flaky people who only invited me out if they needed inspo for their assignment… I’d finally get my groove back.
And when I did? I went full main character energy.
I stopped waiting for a “happy ending” and started building my own plot twist, one wheelchair wheel squeak at a time.
Sure, it’s messy. Sure, it’s tiring. Sure, sometimes I just want to scream into a pillow made of government paperwork and NDIS admin.
But I’m here. And I’m not just surviving—I’m rewriting the rules, giggling at the chaos, and proving you can shit your pants and still show up like the badass legend you are.
(With a spare pair of pants in the boot, obviously. Don’t be a rookie.)
I’m living, not because I have to, but because I bloody want to.
Between the soiled PJs, the flat tyres, and the emotionally constipated exes, I want to lay my head on the pillow each night knowing I gave the day everything I had.
Although now that I think about it, that might actually be why I’m so tired…
Or maybe it’s my ADHD brain that insists on keeping me awake wondering whether I replied to that text from three days ago, or brainstorming what new project I can launch next.
(And yes—on this particular occasion, it was a blog called “Everyone Shits Their Pants.” You’re welcome.)
Now, if you’re asking, “why a blog?” Well, that’s one question I can answer without spiralling into an existential crisis.
Because I. LOVE. CARRIE. BRADSHAW.
And to clarify I don’t just love her. I love the fantasy.
The whole New York apartment, chain-smoking in knickers, typing out soul revelations with fabulous hair? ICONIC. (Minus the darts. Those days are done for me.)
Fun fact: Carrie was 38 in the final episode of Sex and the City, and I’m 36 as I write this—so I guess I’m firmly in my Aiden era.
And unlike Carrie, I’ve made enough crap choices to know I am absolutely not choosing BIG. If you know, you know.
Also: I have stood on Carrie’s actual stoop… with one of said bad choices in tow (a boy, not a man).
So yes, I’m manifesting a do-over. Next time, I’m bringing my own Aiden but in this season his name is Benny, and there are some solid boundaries.
Anyway—I digress.
I’m writing this blog because I miss writing.
Because sometimes I don’t want to film a video or slap on makeup or think too hard about content.
I just want to let the words spill out, raw, real, a little chaotic, kind of like me.
And no, I’m not journaling anymore. I KNOW it’s good for you. Blah blah blah.
So is matcha, apparently, but you don’t see me ditching my Grande Salted Caramel Latte with oat milk (two pumps, not three—less sweat, more flavour).
In case you were wondering what to shout me after reading this blog, that’s the order. And no, I’m not switching to grassy pond water. Let me live.
No amount of strawberry syrup is going to make matcha taste good.
Let’s be honest, it’s just a grass-flavoured milkshake pretending to be a personality trait.
But really, I don’t want to journal every day like you’re supposed to, because I’m tired.
I don’t need another task on the never-ending self-care to-do list.
I want to write when I feel inspired.
Or when I’m deep in one of those overstimulated hibernation phases—where I can’t deal with people, but will happily watch three hours of YouTubers romanticising their morning routines while selling me crafts I’ll never open and puzzles that look peaceful but feel like punishment.
(No shade though—respect to the content creator kings and queens! That stuff’s hard work.)
Also, let’s be real: I’m writing a blog because despite my best efforts, I cannot summon the brain juice, time, or attention span to write a full-blown book.
And apparently, when you’ve lived through some wild shit and have something to say, the logical next step is “write a memoir.”
Well, here’s my plot twist: it’s going to be a blog instead.
Quick, dirty, cathartic. Much like my mid-2000s dating history.
And in classic “this is my life” fashion, the very moment I cracked open my laptop and started typing again just happened to be exactly two months before I return to the place where my whole life flipped on its head…
…And, a few hours earlier, I shit my pants.
The timing? Impeccable. The symbolism? Chef’s kiss!
