There are seasons in life when the storm appears determined to outlast us.
The sky remains dark. The waves continue to rise. Every time we believe we have found a safe passage, another current carries us somewhere we never intended to go.
That is where I have been for quite some time.
My abilities remain very limited. Pain continues to shape my days, often deciding what I can accomplish before I have had the chance to decide for myself. There are many things I once did without thought that now require planning, patience and more strength than others may ever see.
Still, there has been some good news.
In October, I have an appointment with a neuromuscular neurologist. I am trying not to place the entire weight of my hope upon one appointment, but I cannot deny what it represents: another opportunity to be heard, another chance to find answers, and perhaps another step toward recovery.
Sometimes hope does not arrive like sunlight breaking across the whole horizon. Sometimes it is only the faint glow of a lighthouse in the distance—small, steady and enough to help us choose our next direction.
Preparing for that appointment may come with a difficult cost. I may need to forgo my nerve blocks for several weeks so they do not interfere with any necessary imaging or investigation. That means allowing myself to feel pain that treatment has helped quiet. It is not something I welcome, but it is a decision I am considering carefully with the larger journey in mind.
It has been nearly a year since one particular region was examined through imaging. If new testing is needed, I do not want anything to hinder it. I need answers. I need a clear understanding of what is happening inside my body. Most of all, I need a real opportunity to work toward recovery rather than remaining anchored indefinitely in uncertainty.
While waiting, I have been taking a difficult but honest inventory of what I can still do.
The answer is not as much as I would like—but it is not nothing.
Remote work appears to fit within the abilities and limitations my doctors have identified. Beginning again in a different kind of work is intimidating. I spent so many years in one field that the thought of entering another can feel like sailing beyond the edge of every map I have trusted.
Prospective employers may look at my changing path and wonder whether I belong there. I may have to explain why I am learning now, why my experience looks different from that of other applicants, or why the work I can offer must be performed from home.
But I have to try.
I want a future in which I am contributing. I want meaningful work, independence and the dignity of knowing that I am building something with the abilities I still possess. I do not know whether I will ever be able to return to the work I once performed. Rather than remain trapped within that question, I have begun preparing for the possibilities that remain.
I have been learning new languages. It is challenging, and progress does not always come quickly, but I am enjoying the journey. Every new word feels like another mark added to an unfinished chart. Multilingual ability may strengthen my prospects, particularly in remote work, but it has also given me something more personal: proof that my mind can still travel, discover and grow even when my body cannot carry me as freely as it once did.
I have also been upgrading my professional skills. I have learned more about the Jane App and Slack—a platform that feels wonderfully familiar after using Discord. I am exploring other customer relationship management systems and building the administrative and digital skills that may help me compete in a changing job market.
These may seem like small accomplishments from the shore.
From where I stand, they are provisions for a voyage.
In The Crimson Legacy, danger does not always announce itself with cannon fire. Sometimes it gathers offshore beneath dark sails, like the ships that once loomed near Jasper’s Refuge. The threat is felt before it fully arrives. Those watching from land must decide whether to surrender to fear or prepare their harbour for what may come.
Life has felt that way lately.
There are forces beyond my control pressing against the shoreline: pain, uncertainty, financial strain, unanswered questions and decisions made by people who may never understand the full cost of them. At times, the sky has been so dark that I have struggled to see where any light could possibly remain.
Yet a darkened horizon is not the same as the end of the world.
A storm can obscure the stars without destroying them.
I cannot command the sea to become calm. I cannot force every door to open, every person to understand, or every medical answer to arrive when I need it. What I can do is work with the pieces still within my reach.
I can learn.
I can write.
I can strengthen the skills I already possess and build new ones beside them.
I can search for work that respects what my body can presently manage.
I can continue asking for answers.
I can chart another course.
This is my new quest: to find independence despite an injury that has changed my life and created disability in ways I am still learning to navigate. It is not the journey I would have chosen, but it is the one before me. I can remain stranded beside the wreckage of what used to be, or I can begin building with the materials the tide has left behind.
So I am building.
Some days, all I can place is a single block. Some days, I must rest before I can place another. Progress may be slow, uneven and invisible to those who measure worth only through speed or productivity.
But it is still progress.
I am worth the effort required to create another future—even when others fail to recognize that worth. My value did not disappear when my abilities changed. It is not determined by a case file, a job title, a medical report or another person’s willingness to see me clearly.
The storm has taken much from me, but it has not taken everything.
Somewhere beyond these dark waters, there is still a shore I have not reached. There is still meaningful work to be done, knowledge to gather and a life capable of holding purpose.
For now, I will keep learning. I will keep writing. I will follow every honest light I can find and leave a few lights behind for others navigating storms of their own.
I may not yet know where this course will carry me.
But my hands are still upon the wheel.
And I am still moving forward.
Fair winds, my Lovlies.
Always,
Ambrose Fider