I was told I was lucky—to have doctors, support, care. But it never felt like luck.
I hated the wheelchair. The stares. The silence that filled my home, reminding me of all I’d lost.
When someone first suggested a service dog, I dismissed it. What could a dog possibly do?
Then I met Axel. A quiet, focused German Shepherd with patient eyes. He didn’t try to fix me. He just waited—like he knew I needed time.
Slowly, we trained. He learned to pick things up, guide my chair, help me stand. But the biggest thing he did? He helped me believe in forward motion again.
Last week at the park, a kid pointed at Axel and asked, “Is that your hero?”
It caught me off guard. Me, a hero? I still struggled daily. But that word stuck with me. Maybe heroes aren’t fearless—maybe they just keep going.
So I went back to the park. This time with purpose. I rolled toward the basketball court—my old turf—music playing, Axel beside me. I wasn’t just surviving anymore.
I was showing up.
