It was a blistering August morning, one of those days where the sun presses heavily against the horizon, heralding an unyielding heat that would surely stretch into the afternoon. The minutes were slipping away, I took in a deep breath, turned to my wife, and said, “I love you. I’m heading to the canyon.”
Riding had always been my freedom. The rhythm of the pavement, the surge of the engine beneath me, and the unrestrained speed became more than motion—it was life itself, my sanctuary.
Outside, my new Ducati V4 waited, sleek and commanding. This was no ordinary motorcycle; it was an extension of freedom, precision, and control. As I climbed on, the engine’s growl filled the air, sparking a familiar thrill. With a twist of the throttle, I disappeared into the day’s promise.
But I never made it to the canyon.
The accident is erased from my memory. I’ve been told I collided with a car on Timpanogos Highway, the impact catastrophic. My back shattered in five places, my hip and leg damaged, and my shoulders destroyed. A traumatic brain injury clouded my thoughts, leaving the life I once knew irretrievably altered.
When I woke in the hospital, My mind struggled to comprehend what had happened. Yet, in the haze, the first face I saw wasn’t a doctor or my wife—it was my dear friend, Roger Jacobsen. His presence was vivid, a source of love and steadiness. Roger, who had always been there for me, now stood as a beacon, even though I knew, deep down, he wasn’t supposed to be.
Months later, Roger passed unexpectedly, leaving a void that couldn’t be filled. But in that moment, his presence was a gift—a reminder of love and connect that endures, even in our darkest hours.
The next face I saw was my wife’s. Her red-rimmed eyes and quiet strength told a story of profound courage and character. She had braced herself for the possibility of a future without me, yet there she stood, holding the shattered pieces of my life with unyielding love.
In those moments of brokenness—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—something within me shifted. For the first time, I felt the enormity of love, not as an abstract idea but as a force that reached through the despair and touched the essence of who I was. That love became my foundation, prompting a question I didn’t yet dared to ask: Why had I survived? What could my life mean now?
The accident stripped away everything I thought defined me. What remained was love, pure and unyielding. It was this love that rebuilt me, not just in body but in spirit, revealing a purpose I had never imagined.
For years, I had felt unworthy—unlovable, even. But now I see that even in our most broken states, hope remains. Healing is possible. Love is all around us. And it is this love, I believe, that holds the power to change everything.