When the doctor said I’d never walk again, I didn’t cry. I just nodded. What I lost wasn’t just movement—it was the life I knew.
At first, I refused help. Simple things—cooking, showering, even picking up a spoon—felt impossible. Then Saara arrived. She wasn’t warm or gentle, just firm and present. I disliked her at first, but slowly, her dry humor and quiet persistence chipped away at my walls.
One day, I broke down, yelling at her to leave. She didn’t. She sat in the kitchen until I was ready. For the first time, I didn’t feel abandoned.
Saara pushed me. She forced me to see beyond my grief, wheeled me outside, handed me a camera, and said, “You see differently now—use it.” Photography became my new way of moving. Through the lens, I found freedom, and eventually, purpose.
When my photos were displayed in a gallery, I realized I wasn’t just surviving—I was creating again.
Over time, Saara became more than a caregiver. She was the one who stayed, who believed I was worth saving until I believed it too.
I lost my legs, but I found strength—and I found Saara. Healing wasn’t about walking again. It was about learning to live again.
