10/21/2025
Not Everything We Think We’ve Lost Is Truly Gone
For a long time, I believed my days in the mountains were over.
If you live with a neuromuscular disease like Charcot-Marie-Tooth (CMT), you know that slow erosion of identity all too well. The hobbies, the passions, the parts of you that once defined who you were—bit by bit, they fade. The body starts whispering, “You can’t anymore.” Eventually, that whisper becomes a voice you believe.
Hiking, time in nature, climbing—those things used to be part of my DNA. They gave me a sense of freedom, capability, and connection to the world that I thought I’d never feel again. I had accepted that chapter as closed.
But life has a funny way of surprising you—especially when you stay open to the right people, the right timing, and the right reasons.
Recently, I had the opportunity to go on an elk hunt with my son. Even writing that feels surreal. I wasn’t sure my body could handle it. The terrain, the balance, the shaking—it all felt impossible. But with the help of two incredible guides through Heroes Rising, the impossible became possible.
These men opened their home, their trucks, their gear, and their time. They didn’t just take me hunting—they reminded me of who I still am underneath the pain, fatigue, and tremors.
We hiked into the White Mountains, where every step hurt and every ounce of progress felt borrowed. Yet somehow, with support, faith, and a lot of grit, I found myself steady behind the rifle, staring across a canyon at an elk 700 yards away.
When that shot hit, it wasn’t just an elk that went down—it was every doubt I’d carried about who I could still be.
My son stood beside me through it all. He didn’t just witness a successful hunt—he watched his dad reclaim something that CMT had taken. He watched me move through fear, pain, and limitation. He saw that just because something feels gone doesn’t mean it’s lost forever.
That was the real trophy.
And truthfully, the story didn’t start or end on the mountain. It began with people like The Fountains, who made sure we had what we needed before we ever set out. It began with a community that refused to let disability define the limits of possibility.
Posttraumatic Growth doesn’t happen because life gets easier—it happens because we learn to see differently. We stop defining ourselves by what’s been taken and start finding strength in what remains.
CMT has stripped away a lot: balance, stability, independence, and ease. But it’s also given me something deeper—a greater appreciation for connection, for resilience, and for the moments when the universe reminds me that I’m still capable of more than I believe.
That hunt wasn’t just about getting an elk. It was about reclaiming a piece of myself. It was a reminder that loss doesn’t always mean the end. Sometimes it’s just the start of a new way forward.
If you’re living with CMT—or facing any challenge that makes you feel like life has taken too much—remember this: not everything we think we’ve lost is truly gone.
Sometimes those pieces of ourselves are just waiting for the right people, the right place, and the right moment to come back to life.
And when they do, it’s not just about recovery—it’s about rediscovery.
