“The more we value things outside our control, the less control we have.” —Epictetus

The sun was just beginning to rise in the cloudless sky, and from my position seventy feet up on the steel, I was privy to a breathtaking view of it. The jobsite below me was alive with tradesmen operating loud, heavy machinery and shouting back and forth. Feet planted firmly on the I beam, tied off to the iron with my fall arrest harness, I took a moment to breathe in the exquisite sensation of freedom and enjoy the adrenaline rush that my position, so near the sky, often gifted me.

Finally, I sank into a seated position and manipulated my welding stinger to secure a steel frame into place. The world was immediately dark under my welding hood save for the bright flash of light produced by the electrode when I struck the steel. The sense of control and power that welding afforded me was another aspect of my trade that I loved. Playing with fire could be dangerous, and working with it took real skill. Finishing up my weld, I stood again and enjoyed the breeze that swept my ponytail up, the sun on my face and nothing but blue sky above me. I was on top of the world; I was flying.

I spent the better part of my adult life as a single mom, raising my daughter on my own and making a good life for us via the trade I loved.

Then, I slid into the wrong passenger seat and with the crunch of a cervical vertebrae, that life was over. At thirty-two years old, I’d been given the diagnosis of permanent paralysis from the chest down. My wings were clipped.

Early morning light spilled through the vertical blinds of the hospital room window. I turned my head to rest my gaze on my arm lying on the starched pillowcase. Without consciously thinking about it, my mind gave it the memo to move. My stubborn fingers remained at rest, arm refusing to acquiesce an inch.

The able and agile body that had enjoyed such incredible autonomy now laid supine and sedentary. The feet that flew across the steel could no longer carry me across the room. The loss was palpable; this body felt foreign to me.

I lost control of my bowels and bladder with the injury, too. The shame overwhelmed me. I’d have made a self-deprecating comment to the aide emptying my catheter bag, but the ventilator had taken my voice from me, too. I closed my eyes against all of it. At least I could control what I saw.

As the long and lingering days full of suffering and fear slowly passed, my brother read to me the wisdom of the ancient Greco-Roman Stoics. I clung to the words, desperate for some semblance of peace. Marcus Aurelius encouraged me to look deep within and find my strength, to accept what was outside my control, to challenge myself to stay busy at worthy work, and to stay in the present. If I didn’t take the Stoics up on the challenges and decide to press on, I realized, my alternatives may include losing myself entirely to a state of depression and self-pity. The philosophy offered real, tangible tools for changing one’s perspective; I grasped at them for help, welding them to my heart, and they didn’t disappoint.

Accepting my fate was the first step. Acknowledging the dichotomy of control was absolutely the catalyst in cultivating peace again. Learning to let go is tough, though. I sure had a strong grip on the past considering I didn’t have any use of my hands.

I wanted to make it. So much of what was familiar about living life was now outside of it. I needed to find a new sense of purpose, autonomy, and ambition. I would fly again, somehow, in some capacity.

In the weeks that followed my spinal cord injury, I was weaned off the ventilator and my speech was returned to me. I soon relocated to a world-class rehabilitation center for people with spinal cord injuries. There, I learned to operate a power wheelchair with my head. After two months lying flat on my back, the autonomy I gained when whipping through the orange cone maze set up by occupational therapy was like flying down a desert highway with a warm breeze in my hair. But real flight was brought back into my limited world via the technology that allowed me to type with my mouth, and to research and network. Participating in advocacy for my disabled community gives me a lot of validation and satisfaction.

Three months after becoming paralyzed, I moved home with my brother and daughter. I was elated. I was frightened. Every day, I reminded myself of the dichotomy of control.

Much of my life now involves waiting for others to help me with myriad tasks like removing a pesky strand of hair from my mouth or bending my painfully locked elbows. But pushing my personal care attendants to work faster only pushes them away. I am learning a new kind of patience from the Stoics. I lean into music and aromatherapy, sit with my anxiety, and try to find some peace.

Still, living in a body I lack control of feels frightening at times. Depending on other people to meet my physiological needs is scary. Multiple times I’ve been put in a position where those obligated and paid to care for me treated me with neglect instead. Caregivers don’t show up for shifts and leave me hanging, or they perform my care inadequately, causing stress and bodily harm.

I use my voice to speak about the issues that affect my demographic on any soapbox that provides me the opportunity. I take agency over my emotions. I choose my thoughts. I can change my perspectives and views. I might not be flying across the steel with a breeze in my hair, but in taking control internally, and paying the knowledge of that technique forward, I realize that my mind is given the opportunity of autonomy and adventure that my body once enjoyed. I may have lost control of that body, but I did not lose control of my mind, and in healing it with Stoic philosophy, I am realizing that minds can fly, too.