20 years ago this week I woke up to a nightmare. Amidst the whirlwind of chaotic memories from those early days and weeks after the snow skiing accident that left me paralyzed from the neck down, I can vividly recall the terrible sense that all of my lifelong dreams were disappearing as quickly as I could think them up. Traveling the world. Dancing at my wedding. Becoming a father. You name it. It was an identity crisis of epic proportions, a deep and dark hole from which I could see no means of escape.

I’ve written about the anniversary multiple times as the years have melted by, and my relationship with it has changed, probably because I have evolved along the way. While I’ve never regarded the arrival of the day in a negative light, I’ve always tried to look at it as an opportunity to reflect. I’ve gone from adding up the breathes and heartbeats it took to survive, to counting my blessings for having made it so far.

Part of it is one of those inevitable functions of time; how memories, even unfathomably painful ones, tend to fade with each successive lap around the sun. But there’s another reason that I get to look at it differently, and that is because I am continuously walking the path between that pivotal day and my present life in my work with The Here and Now Project.

Nearly every day, I get emails, phone calls, and care basket requests from newly injured individuals or their family members that have found themselves in that same dark hole my family and I did all those years ago. When those opportunities present themselves, I don’t take them lightly, because they remind me of this parable from an old episode of The West Wing that I put up on my office wall.

I know first hand the delirium brought on as teams of doctors invade your room with SWAT-like efficiency, spouting indiscernible medical jargon in hushed tones like they are speaking in tongues. I remember well-meaning occupational and physical therapists doing their best to impart vital life skills and practices, but not having the mental bandwidth to take it all in because my brain was still frantically probing for its lost connections to my limbs.

I can speak directly to the terrors of those early days and the mental, emotional, and spiritual aspects of newly injured life, including the thousands of hours I lost trying to will, pray, and beg my arms and legs back into cooperation. And then I can show them pictures of my beautiful wife and daughter. I can tell them that I have lived every one of those dreams I though I’d lost 20 years ago, and then some.

And while I don’t go so far as to say I know exactly what steps each person needs to take to find their way back out, I can still offer my experience, strength, and hope, and let them know that they are not alone in their struggles. Not everyone I visit is ready, and I don’t blame them. I sure as shit wasn’t ready myself when a peer mentor came knocking at my door while I was in rehab. Thankfully, they kept shining their own lights until I could begin to find my way.

And here we are, a full two decades later, and it feels utterly surreal to be so far removed from those emotions. I’ve said many times over the last few years that most days I forget I am even paralyzed. Between the round-the-clock work of growing a scrappy nonprofit and helping my wife corral a human hurricane of energetic emotion and frenetic fun that is a three-year-old little girl, life is that good.

To all those who were there from the get-go and the ones who jumped down in the various holes on my behalf, I can’t thank you enough.