When the doctor said, “You’ll never walk again,” I didn’t cry. I just nodded. What I grieved wasn’t just movement—it was the life I thought I’d lost. At first, I refused help. But every spoon dropped, every shower struggled through reminded me: I couldn’t do this alone. Then came Saara. Sharp, no-nonsense, not what I expected in a caregiver. At first, I disliked her. Then she made me laugh. Then she stayed when I told her to go.
She pushed me harder than anyone: “If you can’t walk, teach your hands to do what your legs can’t.” One day, she wheeled me outside for the first time in months. “See? The world’s still moving. You can move with it—just differently.” That night, I slept without tears.
Weeks later, she gave me a camera. “Your eyes see differently now. Use them.” Photography became my legs. Through that lens, I traveled again. I submitted my photos to a gallery—Saara insisted—and when I rolled into a room full of people admiring my work, I realized I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was creating.
Years passed. Saara became more than a caregiver—she became my anchor. When I asked why she never left, she said, “Because I saw someone worth saving. And I knew, one day, you’d see it too.”
I lost my legs, but I found my strength. And I found Saara. In the end, it wasn’t about walking again—it was about learning how to live again.
