12 years ago, I woke up in the worst pain of my life. I had been asleep in the passenger seat of the car and now, I found myself unable to speak. My body was in agony, and I could barely comprehend what was happening.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” I murmured, trying to get words out. My voice wouldn’t cooperate. My ex-husband stood over me, terror in his eyes.
“My neck… my back… it hurts, it hurts!” I finally managed to say as I squirmed in the seat, every movement sending sharp waves of pain through my body.
“Don’t move!” he shouted, panic lacing his voice. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself more! The ambulance is on its way!”
When the paramedics arrived, they carefully placed me on a stretcher and rushed me to the hospital. There, I was diagnosed with a broken neck. Since the hospital didn’t have an intensive care unit, I had to be life-flighted to another hospital. The drive was too long, and I was in critical condition.
In addition to the broken neck, I had internal bleeding in my liver, a broken sternum, fractures in my lower back, and a broken rib. At the second hospital, a neurosurgeon told me I was lucky to be alive. He explained that the way my C-2 vertebra had fractured, it had gone away from my spinal cord. If it had gone the other way, I would have been paralyzed for life.
I didn’t feel lucky, though. There I was, sitting in a halo brace, immobilized and in excruciating pain that even narcotics couldn’t numb. The worst part wasn’t even the physical pain—it was the gut feeling I had ignored that night. I knew we weren’t meant to get in the car and drive, but I let my ex-husband assure me that he wasn’t tired and could drive through the night. The urgency was to get to California to see my dad, who was also in the hospital.
Now, I sat in a hospital in Wyoming, unable to see my father, who had fallen into a coma and was on life support. Desperate to see him, I demanded to be discharged from the hospital so I could fly to California. When I finally arrived, the doctors had already determined he was brain-dead. I had to make the heart-wrenching decision to take him off life support.
The pain of that moment still haunts me to this day. It wasn’t just the physical trauma of the accident—it was the overwhelming guilt and helplessness of being stuck in that hospital bed, unable to reach my father in his final moments. Even after I was discharged, the journey to California felt like a race against time, but time had already slipped through my fingers.
Standing at his bedside, seeing the machines keeping him alive, I knew I had no other choice but to let him go. I signed the papers, made the calls, and went through the motions, but I was numb inside. The weight of the decision crushed me, and I couldn’t help but think—if only I had listened to my gut that night. If only we hadn’t gotten in the car. Maybe I could have been there sooner. Maybe I could have said goodbye. Maybe I wouldn’t have to live with this heavy sense of “what if” hanging over my head.
After my father’s passing, I found myself grappling with two immense losses—the loss of my father and the loss of a version of myself I would never get back. The accident left me broken physically, but it was the emotional toll that would take years to heal. I had to relearn how to trust my instincts again, how to listen to that inner voice, and how to forgive myself for the things I couldn’t control.
But here’s what I’ve come to realize: ignoring our intuition often leads to deeper pain than we anticipate. We may think we’re being practical or rational, but that small voice inside knows more than we give it credit for. Had I listened to mine, maybe things would have turned out differently, or maybe not. But the lesson for me is clear—trust that voice. It knows the way, even when the path ahead is uncertain.
As I reflect on this, I want to share this lesson with others, especially women who have been conditioned to second-guess themselves, to ignore that gut feeling in favor of pleasing others, or to rush ahead out of fear or urgency. Your intuition is your guide, and you have every right to honor it, even when it goes against what others want or expect from you. Don’t wait until tragedy strikes to learn that hard lesson, like I did.
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Together, we create a safe space for healing, sharing, and honoring our inner wisdom.
Aloha, Mamaste.