I hate lemons, but damn this lemonade is good

“How is paraplegia taking you?” That’s what I asked my fellow paraplegic, Nawa.
“It sucks big time,” he said.

And I laughed. Then I asked, “Can we bitch about it a little?”
Because sometimes, bitching helps. Complaining helps. Saying it out loud helps. And so we bitched — about bodies that don’t listen, about exhaustion, about things we’ve lost and things we never signed up for. Somehow, our bitching wandered into dreams. And what we dream about is something I still can’t fully explain.

Nawa dreams that he walks. Mind you, Nawa has been a wheelchair user for almost as long as I’ve been alive. In his dreams, he’s on his feet. Running. Moving. Free.

In mine? I don’t. So naturally, we argued about it. He said maybe I don’t dream about walking because I didn’t enjoy it enough. I laughed — because oh man, he couldn’t be more wrong.

Lucy Mueni, standing using a walking frame. In her mind, she believes this is just a phase… It will pass

After my first paralysis (you can read that story in earlier blogs), I did everything I could to stay on my feet. I chose hydrology because it kept me walking — mapping, site visits, moving from place to place. Even when I felt my legs slowly giving up on me, I pushed harder. I went on hikes. I explored. I misbehaved a little. I used every single chance I had to walk, adventure, and live loudly.

Maybe — just maybe — some part of me knew. Instincts, innit?

Nawa still believes in miracles. Even after all these years, he says maybe one day it could happen. And I tell him I stopped hoping for that kind of miracle a long time ago. He asked me why.

Just before surgery, hope was everything. I prayed. I begged. I expected to wake up running. I had sports shoes and tights ready — ready — for the moment I’d stand up and prove everyone wrong.

But the thing about putting all your hope in one outcome is this: when it doesn’t happen, it breaks you. I went to prayer sessions where I was told I’d walk again. I believed them. When it didn’t happen, I hated everything — God, myself, my body, my legs. I locked myself in rooms and cried. I wished I’d never been born. I resented these beautiful, God-given legs that no longer did what I needed them to do.

And then — slowly — things changed.

I met a doctor. A real one. One who didn’t sell miracles but gave me truth. He explained paraplegia, spinal cord injuries, bodies and adaptations — calmly, honestly, respectfully. He showed me that life didn’t end with walking. He gave me power through understanding.

Then I met friends — the kind who stay. The kind who love you loudly and quietly. Who made me love my legs a little more every day. Who gave me space to be angry, to experiment, to fail, to try again. Who loved me without conditions or pity.

A photo collage of friends who held me down.

Only today did I realise — that was my becoming.

Then I met her.

A picture of Catherine engaged in a banter. Catherine showed me what it means to live, to thrive and to enjoy the lemonade.

A wheelchair user who looked like she had it figured out. She lived. She laughed. She worked hard. She mothered hard. She existed fully. She showed me that this wasn’t the end — it was just a different beginning. That paraplegia could be kick-ass. That a wheelchair could be sexy as fuck — but only if the person sitting in it had made peace with themselves.

And one day, I woke up! Not walking, but awake.
And I told Nawa something that surprised even me: If I woke up walking today, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.
Because look at me.
I’m happy.
I’m living.
I’m sexy.
I’m beautiful — in this four-wheeler.

Life gave me lemons. And I hate lemons. But I’ve grown to love the lemonade I’ve made. Some days it’s bitter — backaches, accidents, fatigue, sores, barriers. All of it.
But most days?
It’s fucking sweet.
I’ve grown to love the flavour. The way it sits on my tongue. And honestly? I don’t think I could live without it.
Because what’s life without a little flavour, huh?