Lucky and sucky

Cinnamon everywhere

When I was a kid, a boy named Tommy told me girls couldn’t throw straight. In response, I threw a rock from across the street and hit him square between the eyes. The moment it happened, I was horrified by what I had done—and terrified of what he might do to me. I ran home and skipped school the next day, feigning sickness. My mom didn’t question it. We watched movies all day and she made me cinnamon toast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

When I finally felt ready to face Tommy, I returned to school. He never mentioned the rock, and my mom never brought up my fake sick day.

Every so often, when life, friends, or school became too much, my mom would let me take another "sick day." She’d make endless cinnamon toast, give me space to breathe, and when I was ready, she’d send me back out into the world—no questions asked.

Seven weeks ago, I was in a car crash. The first week was a whirlwind of shock, adrenaline, pain, and a relentless urge to keep saying how lucky I was that it wasn’t worse. I was SO POSITIVE! IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH WORSE! I AM SO LUCKY!

My physical therapist warned me that the full extent of my injuries would become clear over time, as everything settled. She was right. There’s a list of things that aren’t working quite right—some are improving, some are not.

I was right, I am so lucky… and, it is sucky. I am making room for both now.

One of the most persistent issues is my voice. One of my vocal cords isn’t working properly, so they aren’t touching. It is a combination of the nerve injury/ numbness on my left side and muscle strain from the whiplash. At its best, my voice is now quiet and raspy, some days, it’s barely audible. I have very little control over tone. I can only speak in what would kindly be called a confidential volume. Not a whisper, but close.

I’ve always used my voice—for work, for connection, for story. An anecdote here, an interruption there, sarcasm, compliments, phones, zooms, keynotes, leading, and laughing. Now, I ration it carefully. I speak less, realizing how much talking is just wasted words. I save it for my family and friends, though even then, people often can’t understand me. They ask me to repeat myself, and sometimes it doesn’t feel worth the effort. I sound annoyed, but I am just straining. Other times, they ask “What?” and immediately realize they understood me the first time. I wonder about my own habits of lazy listening, interrupting, and oversensitivity to tone.

I’ve learned a lot about listening—and about listeners, good and bad. I’ve realized that being heard isn’t just about words; it’s about feeling held. Hear me to hold me. Grace is the name of the game on all sides.

Still, I can’t seem to shake the denial. I keep thinking I’m ready to reenter the world, to reengage. But every time I try, I’m hit with the sharp reminder that this is real. It isn’t a day of playing hooky and cinnamon toast. The injuries are still here, I can’t just decide they’re over. The hope is still for a full recovery but nothing is guaranteed. The timeline is unclear—just like my voice.

All I can do is wait, and now that my head is clearing, write. Everything takes so much longer than normal. I rest, recover, and remind myself that pausing isn’t the end. I watch the world outside. I sit close to those I love and love them extra for listening so carefully. I write to capture my inner voice which still has so much to say. I wish my mom was here.

Time.

Slow healing.

Acceptance.

Quiet.

Sit so close.

Cinnamon everywhere.

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(This is one piece in a series about recovering from my car accident. It is was more than I could express in one piece. More to come.)

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