Becky Curran

Movement is not optional for me. It is survival.

Even a few days in bed sets me back.
My body stiffens. My strength fades. Independence slips.

I also live with a suprapubic catheter, which means a simple UTI can quickly become a kidney infection and another hospital stay.

During a recent stay, after three days in bed, I asked to get up.

There were safety concerns. I understood that. But I also know my body.

I offered a solution I rely on every day: a step stool I bring with me wherever I go.

Still, I had to fight to be heard.

Eventually, someone listened. We walked the unit.
A small moment. Everything to me.

The next day, I had to fight all over again.

Today, I was told it was assumed I can’t walk because my profile notes a spinal cord injury. And yet, I’ve completed two one-mile races and a 5K. Assumptions like that don’t just miss the mark, they limit what’s possible.

Time meant for healing went toward proving I know my own body.

This is the part people do not see.

Patients are not just receiving care. We are fighting to be believed.

Safety matters.
But without listening, it becomes a barrier.

I will keep speaking up.
Because no one should have to fight this hard to heal.

And until listening becomes standard, patients like me will keep paying the price.

Mother’s Day is a perfect example of how one day can hold both sadness and joy.

I honor my mother, an incredible human being who I am grateful to still celebrate with. And I honor the role I carry as a mother to my son, Jackson, who is not here with me.

“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; all that we love deeply becomes a part of us.”~Helen Keller

Both truths live side by side.

Today, I am deeply thankful for the love and support that surrounds me. And to all moms, whatever this day holds for you, joy, grief, longing, or something in between, I wish you grace.

I will always be Jackson’s mother.