March 30, 2022—my life changed forever. Everything I once was began to shift. My inner world fractured, and it felt as though the forces meant to support me had quietly fallen away.

What began as a sprained ankle became the worst pain imaginable. I wouldn’t learn until much later that this pain had a name.

It felt like a vice clamping down, barbed wire wrapped tight, electric shocks shooting through my leg as if a fire had been lit inside it. My skin burned red yet felt icy to the touch—so sensitive that even a gentle breeze could bring me to tears.

Complex Regional Pain Syndrome is considered one of the most painful diseases in the world. Yet few people know of it unless it has touched someone they love. There is no cure, limited relief, and very little hospitals can offer.

When you’re diagnosed with a debilitating disease, you quickly learn how fragile and insufficient our medical system can be. For two and a half years, I begged and pleaded for amputation. Without enough documented proof that it would help, I was left to endure relentless agony. I spent those years researching, reaching out, and advocating—learning everything I could about CRPS and amputation—because this felt like my only chance at survival. Not just living without pain, but truly living again.

I became a shell of who I once was. I was bedbound, unable to walk, barely able to care for myself. There were moments when I lost myself entirely—my sense of self, my mind. I was alive, but I wasn’t living. I thank my partner every day for refusing to let me disappear, for holding me here when I couldn’t hold myself, and for pushing me toward life when I had nothing left to give.

After years of research, years of fighting, and convincing seven surgeons that this was the right—and only—path forward, I underwent amputation on May 29, 2025. Three years and two months later, I was finally in remission. A new body. A new beginning. And a whole new healing journey ahead.

The first time I floated post-op was life-changing. Earplugs in, lights off, I was ready to meet my new body. I eased myself into the water, closed the door, and began a body scan. My head felt calm. My shoulders softened. My back held no tension.

And then I realized—there was no pain in my lower half.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, there was no ache, no twitch, no pull, no sharp reminder of suffering. I lay there floating and cried. Overwhelmed by the absence of pain. Neither my body nor I remembered what this felt like—this ease, this stillness, this peace.

Floating felt like being held without pain.

The water supported my body gently, asking nothing of me. No bracing, no waiting for the next surge—just stillness. For the first time in years, my nervous system softened. The noise of pain disappeared.

It was peace made physical.
A quiet moment where my body and I could finally rest together.