Never Lose Hope: A Letter to My Future Self in the Midst of Loss

With Each Sunrise there is Hope!

Some losses are loud—shattering like glass across a tile floor. Others are quieter, a slow unraveling of the life you hoped you’d get back. I’ve just been told that the surgery that could have helped relieve my debilitating back pain—my chance at more independence, more ease—is no longer an option. The risks outweigh the hope. And I find myself grieving not only what is, but what will never be.

In this piece, I share how I’m navigating this heartbreak—not with perfect positivity, but with raw honesty and the intentional practice of returning to hope. Again and again.

The Moment the News Landed

When the words “too high risk” came, they didn’t just close a medical conversation — they rewrote my vision for the future. I sat in a chair with tears rolling down my face, unable to stop them. I reached out to my friends and family, especially my dear friend Tracy, who stayed with me on FaceTime for four hours, helping me hold onto something solid. Later, I spent hours more on FaceTime with my mom, just trying to process the weight of what I’d heard.

The Weight and the Whiplash

The loss is real, and it’s heavy. It’s not just the end of a surgery option — it’s the end of a vision I’d been holding for my future. I feel the grief in waves, sharp and unrelenting, ping-ponging between despair and determination. Some moments I ache so much for what’s slipping away that I feel sorry for myself — and then, almost in the same breath, I’m back to thinking about my future goals.

I remind myself of all I have: a community that lifts me up, the privilege of having an arsenal of adaptive tools that let me still create and contribute — even from a reclined position. My Apple Vision Pro lets me design, write, and connect when my body can’t hold me upright. I have so much that others don’t, and I know I can’t stay in grief forever when these tools give me a way forward.

But that doesn’t erase the truth: the loss is profound. The finality of this decision sits heavy in my chest. I can’t fix the damage. I can’t stop the decline. And no amount of gratitude negates the mourning I feel for the life I thought I’d get back.

A Past Chapter, A Different Battle

I’ve been here before — in 2019, when neck surgery came with the terrifying possibility that I might not survive, or that I’d spend my life on a ventilator. Back then, there was still a path forward: we could stop the worsening pain and correct the damage. This time, there is no such option. There’s only the knowledge that things will get worse, with no cure and no way to truly stop the decline. I may not yet be as debilitated as I was before, but I will be soon.

A Message to My Future Self

Never lose hope. The strength is within you. It may be buried deeply, but it’s there. Even in the darkest of moments, remember that you have always found a way to the light — to meaning, to purpose — through sharing your story.

Each trial may feel harder than the last, but you will find joy in a new purpose, even if it looks different from what you once imagined. Do not measure your life by what others can do or say, but by the lives you can touch.

I hope you never lose your desire to help others, your love of life and community, or your humor — the tool that binds you to friends and family. Picture yourself climbing a mountain, sometimes falling, always rising — even in your wheelchair — because that is who you are.

Holding Onto Purpose

While my days of leading campouts and running hands-on scouting programs may be over, my role as a contributor is far from done. I can still help shape special events, advise troops, and create frameworks that allow others to make magic happen.

My next chapter is about expanding the Vicktorious Circle Community — growing our creative art circles, co-working spaces, writing circles, mindfulness programs, and adaptive yoga offerings. I want to open the doors wider, inviting more people in, and sharing our collective stories on social media so others know this safe, supportive community exists.

Closing Reflection

I want my future self — and anyone reading this — to remember: It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to feel the weight of loss. But do not get lost in the tunnel of despair. Even when the path changes, the journey still holds meaning. And even when the mountain feels insurmountable, you can still climb — sometimes with wheels instead of boots — and still reach the view.

💌 If you’d like to connect with a community that understands this journey, join the

Circle Community — and let’s keep finding purpose, hope, and connection together.

📖 You can also join me on Instagram @Vicktorious_npo for more reflections, updates, and behind-the-scenes moments from this journey.