When You Lose Your Life—Twice

Living with electromagnetic hypersensitivity (EHS) doesn’t just affect your body.
It takes your life.

For a long time, EHS stripped away my ability to socialize, to move freely in the world without fear. It narrowed my life to what was safe rather than what was meaningful. And anyone who lives with EHS knows this truth: safety becomes the currency of survival. Without it, there is no freedom.

And then, slowly—almost unbelievably, I started to get better.

As my nervous system stabilized, I found things I could do safely. Things that brought joy back into my body. Riding horses. Playing pickleball. Being outside. Moving again. Laughing again.

For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was just surviving; I felt like I was living.

I built my life around that hard-won freedom.
I planned to ride three days a week.
Play pickleball three days a week.
And devote myself to the work I love through Safe Kids Strong Moms—advocacy, education, purpose.

Everything aligned around what was finally possible.

And then the unthinkable happened.

In early February 2026, on the exact day I was supposed to sign the lease on a horse, he fell. I was thrown over his head and landed hard on my side. I broke five ribs. My collarbone. My leg was severely bruised.

I survived.

And in that instant, it felt like I lost my life all over again.

Horses weren’t just a hobby for me. They were healing. Being around them regulated my nervous system, eased my EHS symptoms, and restored a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in years. Horses gave me freedom in a body that had learned fear.

And suddenly, that was gone.

What people often don’t understand about EHS is that finding something safe to do is everything. When your world has shrunk, when your choices are dictated by exposure and risk, discovering an activity that brings joy and safety is life-saving.

So when that thing is taken away—
The grief is profound.

It’s not just disappointment.
It’s not just sadness.
It’s fear.
It’s a loss.
It’s the terrifying question: What’s left for me now?

Right now, I don’t have the answer.

I don’t yet know what will replace horses in my life. I don’t know what form my next sense of meaning will take. And I won’t pretend that I do.

But I do believe this:
If everything happens for a reason, then there is a reason for this too—even if I can’t see it yet.

Hope doesn’t always arrive as certainty.
Sometimes it arrives as willingness.

Willingness to heal.
Willingness to grieve.
Willingness to trust that life is not finished with you—even when it feels unbearably small again.

If you live with EHS and you’ve lost your freedom, your safety, or something that finally made life feel possible again, I want you to know this:

You are not weak for grieving.
You are not failing because you’re afraid.
And you are not alone.

The loss is real.
The fear is real.
And still, so is the possibility that something meaningful remains ahead, waiting to be revealed.

I don’t know what that is yet. For now, that’s the only truth I can hold. But I’m still here.
And for now, that has to be enough.