On a Friday afternoon Feb, 9th at 3:20 pm my world was tilted on it's axis. It was the kind of afternoon that usually blurred into the next. But this one wouldn't.
I was hit straight on my back by a car, a jolt that threw me from my bike and sent my breath catching in my throat. The searing pain was a white noise drowning out everything else. All I could think of was faces - my children, my grandchildren - their smiles fading into a terrifying void. My body being dragged across the pavement into ongoing traffic, the first set of wheels went over me then the second. Silence on the outside screaming on the inside.
Panic clawed at me. Would this be it? Would I never see my grandchildren's laughter again? My son's faces as they grew into the great young men they were becoming.
Tears welled up, blurring the scene before me. A choked plea escaped my lips, a desperate prayer to a God , please don't let my family have another loss. I had lost my husband in May 2014 and I couldn't imagine them going through this again. I have more to give, more to do but please let me live so that I can pray for my children and grandchildren, my great passion in life is to pray every day for them. Back then, as a they needed prayer more than ever, I did not want to leave a gaping hole. Now, the need for it was a physical ache but I couldn't think. My left side of my body screaming in pain, my body started shaking uncontrollably.
But then, a miracle. Two women materialized, angels in the asphalt. One held my head, the other my feet, their presence grounding me.
My mind was a whirlwind, phone numbers slipping through my grasp. All I could remember was Taylor's, and with shaking hands, they called my oldest son.
The location of the accident? A stroke of impossible luck. Right by a fire station. Another miracle.
The fear that had gripped me started to loosen its hold. Maybe, just maybe, I would get another chance. Another chance to see those faces, to feel their love.
My bike was in 17 pieces, the tops of my shoes were gone and my helmet was hit on the back, top and front.
The news about my children tore at me. One son, celebrating his anniversary in New York with his wife, had to cut their trip short. The fear in their voices was a fresh wound.
The aftermath was a blur of medical procedures. My body was a canvas of road rash, a testament to the asphalt's brutal kiss. My beloved Garmin, a constant companion on rides, lay shattered – a casualty of the impact. Even my trusty phone, holding a back-up recording of the accident, bore the scars of the ordeal. My cycling shoes, stripped bare by the scraping, lay like fallen soldiers.
The doctor's words the next morning hit me like a second collision. Alive, yes, but by a thread. My helmet, a dented warrior dented in three place, had undoubtedly shielded my head from an unthinkable fate. The irony was cruel – I had no concussion, but a new specter loomed: cancer. The word hung heavy in the air, a monstrous shadow amidst the relief of survival.
A primal fear choked me. My husband, taken by cancer just three years ago, was a fresh wound. This couldn't happen again.
But amidst the storm, a strange calm settled. In my mind, facing cancer was a mere inconvenience compared to the brush with death I'd just experienced. If this was the path laid before me, I would walk it with a strength I didn't know I possessed. Tears streamed down my face as my children left. A desperate prayer escaped my lips, a plea for fortitude in the face of the unknown. "Lord," I whispered, "give me the strength to face whatever comes next."
The fire captain's words were a balm – a miracle of survival, not a single broken bone. The police officer, her voice laced with awe, told me I was one of only two survivors of such an accident in 25 years. "You were very lucky," she said.
Lucky. I could barely walk, but I was alive. And in that moment, with this story etched in my fingertips, the depth of that blessing washed over me.
Embrace Gratitude
The pain was a constant companion, but with each sunrise, the will to overcome it grew stronger. My doctor declared me cancer-free, I think they made a mistake but non-the less, a miracle on top of survival. Yet, a new battle raged within – the invisible scars of PTSD.
Retraining on a spin bike was a small victory, but the thought of getting back on the road sent shivers down my spine. The first time I clipped in, my legs trembled because as I clipped in, the memory of the accident a vivid echo in my mind. But I had to do this, for myself, for my children and grandchildren.
My cycling friends, angels in cycling gear, became my support system. Their cheers were a melody that drowned out the voice of fear, each pedal stroke a testament to their unwavering support. I met a fellow warrior on the road, a man missing a leg, yet riding with a smile. His story fueled my determination.
The engagement ride of one of my cycling friends– my ultimate goal – became a reality. I was the last one, but every groan of protest from my body was a badge of honor. I had conquered fear, one pedal stroke at a time.
The Amtrak 100 tested my limits, leaving me battered but unbowed. A subsequent 65-mile ride pushed me a bit too far, forcing a temporary break. Yet, I see myself as a victor, not a victim. I could have been that woman, and the simple act of breathing is a gift I cherish every single day.
~Michelle
Hi! I Am Michelle Hensley
I went from pastor's wife to widow, to the #1 mobile gift wrapping business owner & full time entrepreneur.
I have spent the last 10 years learning about finance, grief, life and becoming the best I can be in my personal growth & professional entrepreneur journey, despite many setbacks and personal fear.
Now I'm focused on empowering other women who are navigating similar life transitions to start their own entrepreneurial journey. If you want to launch your own business, grow your brand, and create a secure future, in a life you love, then I'm here to help you.