Bully Pulpit: Paradox


It’s gratifying that Richard G. Tedeschi and Lawrence G. Calhoun, researchers in psychology at the University of North Carolina in Charlotte, recognize what most people do not. In their 2004 study on posttraumatic growth, they write: “Where people are more limited in what choices they have in life, such as becoming reliant on a wheelchair for mobility, there may be a willingness to explore opportunities never before considered. … At a time when one is vulnerable as never before, there is a sense of strength. Out of spiritual doubt there can emerge a deeper faith.”

Of course, positive growth doesn’t happen automatically. Paradoxically, the most significant growth often arises from the most formidable struggle. For some of us, it’s as if we must go through hell in order to emerge into light.

The theory of posttraumatic growth, like many psychological models, has broadened since its inception. Its widening net now includes people who have experienced life-shaking traumatic events that have left no physical mark. But many of us must deal with our physical disabilities every day of our lives, visible or not. In other words, the remaking of our lives never ends.

And how can we ever forget our beginnings? My first day back in college following my plane crash, wheeling across campus for the first time, I saw a pretty sorority girl I had met and dated several months before — during my nondisabled days. As she approached, I tried to make eye contact, but she refused to look at me. It was a slight I would have to get used to, and it hurt deeply. There was no room for wheelchair users in her little black book.

Day by day the insults mounted: Certain classes were off-limits because they were inaccessible. Professors secluded themselves at the top of stairs. Complications from UTIs and pressure sores came out of nowhere. Feelings of grief and sadness hardened into bitterness. Drinking and drug use escalated. Jobs disappeared. Relationships withered. A sense of desperation gave way to profound depression. Five full years after becoming paralyzed I found myself in a hopeless pit, no future in sight. At 25 I had reached an unfathomable dead end.

Then, at the lowest point of my life, a door opened and I embarked on a new journey, one that continues to this day. I had never been more pathetic, weaker, more hopeless or helpless than in that moment. Stripped of all ego, pride, and ambition for the first time, I was now ready to reach out to God.

Faith does not spring from a vacuum. Nor is it a sign of strength or wisdom. For many of us, faith grows out of desperation, and when it appears, we are surprised. Like a seed hidden in soil, it lies dormant through the darkest winter, until one day spring arrives, light and warmth penetrate the soil, and the tiny seed sprouts, revealing unforeseen potential. And then growth begins.

I keep writing about this moment because it is a turning point in my life. It represents not only strength growing from weakness, but also the grandest paradox of all: life springing from death.


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