Know When to Fold ‘Em … or Maybe Not?

I wasn’t interested in creating a blog section at all. I’d done it before but stopped because it felt too preachy, like I was trying to force some kind of optimism. I felt like I had to keep up a strong front for people who were counting on me to fully recover. So I played into toxic positivity while secretly hating what my life had become.

But I realized this is what makes me an artist. The ability to recognize my humanness and convey it in a way that’s chaotic, confusing, vulnerable, and courageous.

While social media is cool for creating and sharing your thoughts in whatever medium, I found myself hiding this part of me. Afraid I had nothing to say unless it was about being positive. Thankful just to be alive. Convincing people that yes, I’m disabled, but I’m strong. And if I can do it, you can too!

yeah, no.

Let’s cut out the fluff and really show what that looks like.

So if you made it this far in the post, this is the part where I tell you who I am.

My name is Glenny, and I’m from Miami. In November 2010, while I was studying Business Administration at Florida A&M, I planned to visit my family for Thanksgiving break. A couple of other students and I were riding together when we got into a car accident. While we all survived, some of our lives would never be the same.

For me, I severely injured my head, neck, and spine. I’m medically classified as a quadriplegic, a type of disability that immobilizes all four of your limbs. I can’t move anything below my breast. For context, I can’t bathe myself, feed myself, dress myself, or scratch my nose. I can’t walk. I can’t run. I can’t wiggle my toes. I can’t ball my fist. I can’t feel when someone touches me. I can still feel body temperature and pain in my bones when it’s cold or random, and when my stomach hurts. But everything I used to feel, I no longer can.

You can imagine how that affects me mentally.

Before my accident, I was an athlete. I played both competitively and just for fun. I was a point guard. I started at the YMCA when I was about twelve years old and kept playing all the way through high school. I wanted to play overseas, but I never really put myself out there to get noticed by recruiters. I still played whenever I could because it provided a space where I could just be, and it helped me to make friends. As an only child, that mattered.

Imagine being 18, just doing what 18-year-olds do. Then everything shifts, and suddenly it feels like your entire life’s purpose was thrown off course. Or maybe you’re right where you’re supposed to be, but at 18 that kind of wisdom doesn’t register. I can’t speak for everyone, but for me, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

I didn’t know who or what I was meant to be.

I spent most of this journey traumatized and avoidant.

I felt stuck. I felt hopeless.

My life was new and different. I was young. And it honestly felt like I lost everything.

It wasn’t until I took painting seriously in 2014. Maybe even 2013, but my memory escapes me sometimes.

I came across an amputee, missing both arms, painting with his feet on YouTube, and I just knew I had to create too. Thinking back, I probably could have gotten further in my art career if I had been more open and consistent with physical and occupational therapy. But even in the sessions I did attend, and on days that weren’t always dark and gloomy, I was able to strengthen and stabilize my neck muscles, and discovered that I could use my mouth to text, type, paint, play card games, and do other things that eventually helped me become more self-sufficient. That didn’t include talking to the therapist assigned to my case, though. Remember when I said you can imagine how this affected me mentally? The emotions I felt were too heavy to carry, and it made it hard to be vulnerable. I just wasn’t ready to face my reality and accept it just yet.

And the irony of all of this is that years later, I graduated with my B.A. in Psychology. That’s when I realized that whatever happened to me was bigger than I could fully understand at the time.

I’m not here to share a sob story.

I’m not here so you can feel bad for me or tell me how strong I am.

This is a real life experience from someone who had been dealt these cards.

I wasn’t prepared. But are we ever?

I didn’t know how to carry this or if I could even carry it. Sometimes I still don’t.

And even though that’s the beauty of life, it’s not always beautiful. Or fair.

I guess it’s how you recover from the lessons and experiences that shift your perspective.

With time, you start to accept it for what it is.

You release yourself from it.

You find the courage not to let it define you or let others define you either.

It’s ugly. It lingers. It disrupts.

And then one day, you realize you don’t have to keep trying to make sense of it.

It’s part of you, but it’s not supposed to stop you from becoming who you’re meant to be because of it.

Even though my basketball days are over, I haven’t lost the spirit of what they provided for me. A space to just be, to move, to focus, and to connect with others in a way that felt freeing. Though I sometimes regret not embracing the journey sooner, I’m grateful I pushed hard enough to find that spark again through art.

So this is who I am. This is what I do. And this is why I’m here today.

I spent a lot of time wondering why I was dealt these cards at such a pivotal time in my life. I didn’t realize I was being shaped for something bigger. Limitations and all, I became one of many shedding light on what most people choose not to see.