Moving is Living

I know I’ve been more political than usual on social media lately—and that’s not something I typically do. So today, I wanted to take a step back and share something different. Something more personal. Something rooted in my own lived experience.

This is a writing I call Moving Is Living. It reflects my journey since losing my sight in Baghdad in 2008. It’s about resilience, growth, and what it truly means to move forward—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I hope that by reading this, you take a moment to reflect on your own life, your own obstacles, and your own path forward. Because even in the darkest moments, there is a way to keep going.

Moving Is Living

I lost my sight in Baghdad, Iraq, in May 2008 while serving as a personal security specialist for a general officer. I woke up in a hospital bed at Walter Reed. Everything had changed. Just days earlier, I was leading soldiers on missions—making split-second decisions, protecting lives under pressure. Now I lay still, broken, and uncertain of what would come next.

What began to pull me forward were the visits from other blind veterans. They sat beside me, shared their stories, and helped me see that life without sight was still a life worth living. Their words lit a spark. I realized I couldn’t stay stuck in that bed—I had to move. I had to rebuild.

At first, I focused on my body: getting stronger, learning how to function again. But as I took those early steps, it became clear that movement wasn’t just physical—it was mental, emotional, and personal. Moving forward in any form gave me purpose.

That decision—to move—set me on a new path. I ventured into the world, traveled across unfamiliar terrain, and connected with people from every walk of life. I adapted. I learned. I trusted.

One of my first challenges was climbing Ixtaccíhuatl, a volcano in Mexico. I was surrounded by blind teenagers from North America—fresh out of a war zone, unsure of who I was becoming. The ascent was frigid, relentless, and steep. I didn’t realize it was Veterans Day until strangers on the trail began thanking me for my service. I was exhausted, still learning to manage the realities of blindness, but those words carried weight. I thought of my friend, Staff Sergeant Victor Cota, who died beside me in Iraq. In that moment, I made a quiet promise: to live fully—not just for myself, but for those who never came home.

That climb led to many more—in the Himalayas, the Andes, the Alps, the Rockies. In Nepal’s Khumbu Valley, I met Sherpa guides whose views on disability reflected their environments. Some, having never left the valley, viewed my blindness as a limitation. Others, shaped by international experience, saw me differently. They treated me with respect, shared their knowledge freely, and encouraged me to keep pushing forward. Those moments reminded me that perspective changes with exposure—and that we all grow by learning from one another.

Along the way, I learned to trust—not just those guiding me on a trail, but the people who stood by me during the hard moments. Early on, I hated how dependent I felt. I wanted to do everything myself. But I came to understand that asking for help doesn’t weaken us—it strengthens us. Trust became essential to my growth. I leaned on those who challenged me, mentored me, and helped me find my footing again.

Out of that experience came a personal mantra: Moving is living.

It’s not just about climbing a mountain or walking across a room. It’s about choosing forward momentum—especially when everything inside you wants to stop. Movement restored my agency. It taught me how to navigate a world I could no longer see. It reminded me that any progress, no matter how slow or imperfect, still moves you closer to something better.

Now, as I reflect, I think about the choices I made, the mindset I developed, and the lessons I continue to learn. And I think about how I can share what I’ve gained.

Because I don’t want to simply inspire people for a moment. I want to empower meaningful reflection and long-term resilience.

I want people to ask themselves:

Who am I when everything changes?
How do I respond to adversity?
Where do I want to go from here?

The truth is, growth doesn’t happen in comfort. It happens in challenge. Strength is built in struggle—through persistence, through failure, through the resolve to keep trying. No matter what you’ve faced, I believe you can rebuild.

Even in the darkest moments, there’s a way forward. And when you choose to move—you choose to live.

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