On my list of accomplishments, reading a novel for two hours before going to sleep is probably not going to be the one that cements my legacy as an inspiring, brave — dare I say — heroic quad in the eyes of the masses. In fact, if I were to brag about doing so to someone who doesn’t understand what disabled life is like, there’s a good chance it would re-enforce common stereotypes that we all live sad, lonely lives.

Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have even deemed it an accomplishment prior to going through the medical rollercoaster that defined my last two years. But after weeks and months of being too exhausted, too uncomfortable or simply too busy tending to things that had to get done, the feeling of satisfaction that I drew from being able to not worry about any of that and lose myself in a sci-fi dystopia feels eminently brag-worthy.

At some point it hit me that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d managed to keep my eyes open and my brain focused on what I was reading for more than hour or so. I smiled. It may not have been the light at the end of the tunnel I was looking for, but it was the light I desperately needed: a sign that all the battles I’d been fighting on the health and personal fronts were actually paying off.

My work inbox was empty. My calendar, shockingly clear of doctor appointments. I’d had a lovely dinner with a friend earlier and even watched the latest episode of The Last of Us. My to-do list still had plenty to take on, but nothing that would keep me awake.

This is what a healthy balance feels like, I thought. It is possible!

I realized that in the past year I had spent more nights in a hospital than I did anywhere else outside my home. I had to cancel the two trips I’d planned at the last minute. Most nights, I wrapped up work late and had no desire to do anything but veg out to some mindless streaming garbage. I’d adapted and developed a routine that worked for me, but it was far from fulfilling.

At some point that routine begins to feel like a new reality, and I distinctly remember worrying that this was it: After 25 years with a SCI, at age 42, I’d started down the hill. I’m experienced enough to know there will be more tough stretches, but the relief of experiencing an upswing has been invaluable mentally.

The days feel longer. Work is more enjoyable. Everything seems better.

Will it last? Damned, if I know. I’m not naïve enough to think I’ve solved SCI’s hardest problems and cleared the way for 25 more years of smooth rolling, but I’ve progressed from a really rough spot to a better place. Sure, I’d done it before — many times in fact — but when you are wheels deep in the shit, it can be hard to remember previous successes: Everything seems shitty.

So for now, I’m living it up. Dinners, lunches, hangouts, vacations, road trips — you name it. I’m having a good time just thinking about fun things to do. I’m in the middle of two books, I’ve got a Lego set ready to build, and I don’t look like a sleep-deprived zombie when I wake up. So, yeah, I am celebrating reading peacefully before I go to bed, and I hope it inspires some of you to strive for something similar.