I like it here. 

I’m not doing anything big, just staring across a carpet of blue flowers, but it feels meaningful. They stretch to the tree line in the distance and smell like spring to me. A breeze kicked up a few minutes ago, causing the flowers to dance. I think they’re celebrating being alive again. I can’t help but sway my shoulders with them. 

Of course, perennials never really die in winter. Something’s brewing underneath the snow, stirring in their roots, promising to return, even though we can’t see it. Kind of like me. I just rose from a four-year winter of sorts. I probably looked dead on the outside—even felt dead at times—but something was still percolating inside. Something stubborn and brave that wanted to live again. 

I know you’re awake in there, Ian. I smile, glancing at the opening to the tent. My boyfriend’s playing possum to give me some alone time. He knows I need it to prepare for what we’re doing today. 

It’s weird that I still don’t remember the blast. I guess I thought that memory would surface later, but it hasn’t so far. Maybe it’s for the best. One moment, my legs and lungs burned as I drew closer and closer to the finish line, and then nothing. I woke up in the hospital. My parents were there, eyes puffy and faces pale. Mom told me everything was fine, but her eyes were the saddest I’d ever seen. 

And you know what’s crazy ironic? I was killing it in the marathon, blowing away my previous best, and that’s what hurt me. If I’d been slower, I’d have been safe. It still doesn’t make sense—why things like that happen to innocent people. I’ve learned that some things just don’t have explanations. 

I guess that’s why I spend so much time in nature now. It makes sense. I know what to expect from it. Sure, bad things happen. Predators hunt. Storms destroy. It can be cruel, yet it makes sense. But that day in Boston? There’s no way it will ever make sense. 

I’m mostly okay now. Loud noises still trigger me. If I hear fireworks, I’ll jump out of my skin. My body must remember the explosion, even though my mind can’t. As I said before, it’s probably for the best. 

Loss has a way of teaching you things, though. I appreciate the small things now. Success doesn’t mean what it used to. It's no longer about run times or awards. Some days, it just means I’m able to put one foot in front of the other. Or maybe make it through the day without crying. Little things like that carry weight now. 

And here he is—Ian. Oh my goodness, he just crawled out of the tent and is swinging both my artificial legs around like they’re batons he’s twirling in a parade. This boy makes me laugh all the time–genuine belly laughs that hurt. A good kind of pain. 

“Morning, Sunshine!” he says, voice cheery as usual. “Ready for a hike?” 

My smile comes so easily with him. “Ready, Honey. Just enjoying the sunrise.” 

It is beautiful and makes me feel like the world isn’t so broken after all. The sun beams at us over the mountain, promising us a bright day and giving me courage. Today will be my first attempt at hiking with my prosthetics. I’m nervous, but I do the self-talk thing. If I fall, I’ll get back up again. No matter how many times, I’ll always get back up!

If Ian’s nervous, it doesn’t show. With one of his sexy signature winks, he playfully tosses me my right leg, which I thankfully catch, followed by the left. It’s as natural as handing me my shoes. 

That’s just one of the things I love about Ian—my leg situation is no biggie to him. There’s no pity. I’m nothing he feels he needs to fix. He sees me as a whole woman. I see me as a whole woman. 

And so here we are in a sea of dancing blue petals. After I fasten the legs, I accept his sweetly offered hand and take a step forward.

Not just into the flowers.

But into the sunlight.

Into a new, meaningful life.