Life often teaches us that planning is futile. Some believe they have life meticulously mapped out, but the reality is that too many variables are beyond our control, and things rarely go as planned. As a 19-year-old who had just moved to California and was living away from her parents, attending university, and working full-time, I never considered the possibility of living with a disability. But there I was, lying in the ICU, paralyzed.
On February 28, 2009, I was driving my 1997 Ford Thunderbird to a friend's house just across the neighborhood. It had just started pouring rain, and the slick roads made driving hazardous. My car hydroplaned, and in my panic I mistakenly hit the gas instead of the brakes. The car crashed through a family's home, striking a support beam in the dining room. The impact caused a section of the second floor to collapse, crushing me and my car. After several hours and with the use of the 'jaws of life,' I was finally extracted from the wreckage and airlifted to Stanford University Hospital. I lied in the ICU with a crushed spine, a collapsed lung, and multiple broken bones. I was on life support for several weeks, uncertain if I would survive each passing night. When my condition stabilized, I was given devastating news: I had sustained a cervical 4th/5th spinal cord injury, leaving me a quadriplegic, paralyzed from the shoulders down. The doctors told me I'd never recover from it. I didn't know how I was supposed to live this new life, and honestly, I didn't want to.
For months and years afterward, I struggled to accept my new reality. I obsessed over rehabilitation and recovery, believing that if something didn't contribute to my recovery, it wasn't worth doing. I couldn't come to terms with my body's transformation. I'd gone from being an active teenager to being fully dependent on others for basic tasks like eating and dressing. Progress was slow, and I felt like nothing I did was ever enough. Happiness seemed impossible in a body that didn't move as it once had. Amidst this struggle, I started taking yoga lessons to maintain flexibility, strengthen my breathing, and practice mindfulness. My yoga teacher's persistent emphasis on being present and finding gratitude initially felt obnoxious, but it would later have a profound impact on my life.
In a society where disability is often viewed as a tragedy, I slowly began to celebrate small victories. Every flicker of a muscle, every small task I could accomplish on my own became worthy of acknowledgement and pride. This shift in mindset didn't happen overnight. It's been a continuous practice to be present in each moment, to be grateful for small wins, and to find joy even on the toughest days.
Fast-forward a few years – I'd regained enough confidence to face my own reflection and appear in photographs. I resolved to live as independently as possible, which led me to make the bold decision to move to Tokyo on my own. It felt like a natural choice, as my mother is Japanese and Japan's healthcare system covers full-time caregivers. I didn't know where the move would lead me, but I knew I wouldn't let my disability be an excuse to stop living. Adjusting to life in Japan wasn't easy. The stigma surrounding disability there was even harsher than in the U.S., and many people assumed I'd return home within months. But six months after moving, I landed my first job at a top financial firm as a Learning and Development analyst. Outside of work, I engaged in public speaking to advocate for disability rights and resiliency, and I had the honor of performing in "Undesirable Elements," a production by Tony Award-winning director Ping Chong.
A lot has changed since then. I've joined a new company, gotten married, bought a home, and moved back to the U.S. I now live in Phoenix, Arizona with my husband and our sweet Golden Retriever, Jasper. In our free time, we work on home improvement projects, search for accessible trails to explore with Jasper, and try out new recipes together.
Nearly 16 years after my injury, I'm still working toward physical recovery and striving for independence. But unlike before, recovery is now just one of my many goals. The obsession is gone.
People often ask me, "How do you stay so positive?" The simple answer is: I don't. Life is hard. If you're looking for a way to feel positive all the time, you're setting yourself up for disappointment. I've learned to let myself feel sad, angry, or frustrated. I've learned to own this human experience, which is anything but easy. The key is to pick yourself back up and keep moving forward, even if it's just a little at a time. Because if you do nothing, nothing changes. It's up to you. When I'm feeling stuck, I ask myself, "What can I do to get closer to where I want to be?" Then I do it, and I try to enjoy the journey along the way.
About the author
Julia has lived with a C4-C5 spinal cord injury since she was 19. She spent several years living and working independently in Tokyo, where she not only built a successful career, but also met her husband. Now based in Phoenix, Arizona, Julia works full-time in the financial industry, balancing her professional life with her passions. In her free time, she loves playing the piano, drawing, reading, and exploring accessible trails. Her story is one of perserverance, independence, and deep appreciation for life's many possibilities.
Julia's ride is a QUICKIE QS5 X.
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