I’m approaching my disability half-life.

Not in the “half-life” sense of nuclear physics and atomic decay — although yes, we are all slowly in the process of decay. But rather, the point where I will cross over to having spent more time in my life on wheels than not.

This March I will celebrate the 20th anniversary of the car accident that left me paralyzed from the chest down. And according to my calculation of how long I spent not paralyzed (20 years, four months, 24 days and eight hours), I will cross the half-life point July 31 at 7:30 a.m. Mountain time.

Now, I’m sure I am not the only one who has gone through these sorts of fun ritualistic ruminations. But I’m still figuring out what significance I want to assign to it. Should I consider it the point at which I’m, like, “officially” disabled? I mean, it shows I’ve made the 100% commitment, guys. None of this trying-it-on-for-size shit, I’m in this for LIFE!

There is great importance to the rituals of markers like a half-life and engaging in whatever internal or external activity feels appropriate to commemorate the event that fundamentally changed a life, catalyzed transformation and initiated rebirth.

I also enjoy the mental exercise of memory recall around the past. What are the small details I still can activate in my sense memory? What it felt like to rub my freshly shaved legs against each other. The burn of a hamstring squat at soccer practice. The feel of the first time my hair was washed in the hospital. The difficulty of the early “endurance runs” pushing my chair. The intensity of the emotional tsunami that enveloped me for the initial months and years.

It’s akin to when I’m performing as an actor, and I situate my consciousness into my character’s, challenging my brain to upend its current reality and connect with moments from another time and place.

There can be delight in the exploration of “what was,” “what if,” and “what could have been.” It’s what has given us artistic masterpieces of imagination … everything from Our Town to superhero comics to Groundhog Day (which, yes, is a masterpiece).

But I do say, “caution, self.” Because in looking back to an era that was, there is always the risk of crossing over the threshold — where a mental exercise rooted in cognitive pliability devolves into a psychological rabbit hole.

I have to be careful of slipping from a place of fond recollection or introspective curiosity into the perils of unhealthy comparison, where the lens of loss takes over. It is easy for the Deficit Trolls to sneak in and vomit their negativity all over my mental exercise. They stab their knives of vindictiveness into my heartstrings, and weave my memory into a cloak that makes me feel bad. They shriek laments of what my life is now. They open their tarpots and paint an unrealistically beautiful picture of life without SCI, while simultaneously slopping it all over my list of physical, psychological and emotional accomplishments of the last 20 years.

Yah, F-U little trolls.

I have to maintain a clear sense of the purpose of the ritual … that looking back is not to lament or judge. Rather, to recount the moments of pain, struggle, growth, difficulty, sadness, triumph — all in appreciation of what has been built, here and now.

We need to do this to remind ourselves of the shitstorm — sometimes literal — that we made it through and the fortresses we’ve become. And I don’t care who you are reading this or whether it’s been 20 years for you, or three months. You’ve done it, baby, something incredible that no one can ever take away from you.

So, I will propose a new “what if.” What if we dare to believe that exactly how we are, right now in this moment, is the only possible version of a human being that we could ever possibly have been? And the best? What if, in looking back, it is only to celebrate the countless moments and experiences that did exactly what they were supposed to do in making us into the complex human that we are in this instant?

Everything we have lived — survived — is ours. No more lamenting the building blocks of our personal humanity. Instead, celebrate. Give credit. Honor yourself.

Perhaps you, too, remember the fire department pulling you from a mashed-up car, and the lonely nights amongst your thoughts with the background din of a heart monitor, or the long, arduous process of emerging and navigating the world with a completely novel identity.

Perhaps you, too, have …

Fallen in love and had your heart broken.

Exploded with laughter beside soul mates and strangers.

Visited unforgettable places from underground golf courses in Denver to karaoke bars in Japan and desert oases in Dubai.

Written a play, directed a film, painted an art piece or crafted a song.

Been drunk, dropped, drenched, dressed, drawn, drugged, and in drag.

Learned that failure doesn’t ruin the rest of your life, and often makes it better.

Wondered at times “how will I ever survive this,” and then you did.

Grown closer to family and friends, and apart from others.

Become an insider in a club of wheelers who, regardless of personal familiarity, get you.

Been challenged to grow, expand, and lead, and also to pull back and let go.

For the sake of the ritual, I will tell you that these last 20 years have been filled with so much. Triumphs. Failures. The best of times, the worst of times. All the things that make for a complete life.

I’ve gotten up each day and lived.

And so have you.

And that’s what I plan to continue doing.

And so will you.

Because after all, if you’re reading this, you ain’t dead yet. So anything is possible.

One more “what if”: What if we challenge ourselves to celebrate every piece of that past in order to guide us forward for the hours, days, years we still have to fill?

There are still chapters waiting to be filled with adventures, micro and macro. No need to wait until July 31, 2022, at 7:30 a.m. Mountain time. Because if we haven’t learned anything else from navigating life on wheels, we know that things can change in an instant. Life is precious … and short.

We all choose how we are going to live our lives. As much as sometimes people try to take that power from us, it’s ours. If we’re living backward rather than forward, pining for what was or trying to get back to some rose-colored idea of what we remember, or dwelling in the troll tar-muck of what is no longer, we’re missing the possibilities that remain right in front of us.

Let’s celebrate the past for what it is and get on with it. Time’s a’tickin.