On November 9, 2025, my life changed in an instant.
While petting my bull, Killian—my 2,000-pound animal whom I had raised and trusted—I unintentionally triggered a flight-or-fight response. What followed was not malice, but instinct. Killian reacted the only way an animal of his size and strength can when he perceives a threat.
He struck first, throwing me violently to my right. Then, to extinguish what he believed was danger, he sat on me—pinning my body beneath his massive weight while nosing me with his head. I couldn’t escape. I couldn’t breathe.
The damage was severe: eight broken ribs—five on the right, three on the left—a fractured sternum and scapula, and a punctured lung. I spent two nights in the ICU before being discharged with a familiar reassurance: “These will heal in six to eight weeks.”
But healing is never that simple.
Pain doesn’t follow a timeline. Breathing deeply still hurts. Movement reminds me daily of what my body endured. Recovery is not linear—it is patient, frustrating, and humbling.
And yet, even in the midst of this, the future remains on my calendar.
Tahoe 200. June 2026.
The question looms constantly: Will I be ready?
On December 29th, I began my comeback—not dramatically, not boldly, but carefully. Ten days later, I ran two miles. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t easy. It was honest. Every step carried discomfort, every breath required intention. The pain is still real, and training ahead will be hard—harder than anything I’ve done before.
But this is familiar territory.
Endurance is not about ignoring pain; it’s about learning how to move forward alongside it. Readiness is not certainty—it’s commitment. I don’t know exactly how this journey will unfold, but I know this: I will show up, I will do the work, and I will respect the process.
This comeback isn’t about proving toughness. It’s about resilience, patience, and trust—in my body, in time, and in myself.
And one step at a time, I’m moving forward.
Join me and start your journey.