When Progress Meets a Setback: What Dallas Taught Me About My Body

There’s something about travel that makes you feel like maybe you’re stepping into a new version of yourself. That’s what Dallas, TX felt like. My husband and I were heading there to celebrate our wedding anniversary—a weekend getaway in a city we’d never really explored, just the two of us. I was feeling good. Stronger than I had in months. I wasn’t using my wheelchair at home anymore. I’d started weaning off my walker indoors. I genuinely thought I was ready.

We had planned to bring the walker—just in case—but halfway into our drive, we realized it was still in our other vehicle. By then it was too late to turn around. I didn’t feel like I had many options. So I decided I’d make it work by using my husband as a walking aid, leaning on him when needed and sitting down at every opportunity.

I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was trying to be realistic.

The Crash Came Fast

That first day in Dallas actually started off well. We did a few things—nothing too intense—but enough to feel like we were out and celebrating. I used my husband for physical support and he helped in every way he could, even going to get the car and picking me up at entrances so I didn’t have to walk far.

I wasn’t really tuned in to how my body was handling it. I was focused on being present, enjoying the time with him, soaking in a new place we both genuinely loved. But somewhere in the middle of that joy, the crash snuck in.

We had just sat down for dinner when I started to feel really sick. The kind of sick where your body makes the decisions for you. We had to get our food to go and head straight back to the hotel. That was the end of our evening.

All the symptoms I thought I had left behind came back like a wave. That familiar kind of sickness—the gut-deep kind that forces you to the bathroom floor and strips away every illusion that you’ve outrun this thing. I spent the rest of the night nauseous, depleted, and disappointed.

The Illusion of Doing Better

Back home, in my routine, I’d started to feel more normal. And maybe that’s what made me believe I could handle this. The structure I’d built was working. I was walking around my house more freely, taking care of small tasks, feeling hopeful. But healing within your safe space doesn’t always mean you're ready for the outside world.

And I think that’s the part that caught me off guard—not realizing how much my stability depended on routine. I believed I had reached a new stage in recovery… but it turns out I had simply built a rhythm that supported me. Take me out of that rhythm, and my body started to fall apart.

It’s humbling, but also deeply informative.

Shifting the Weekend, Not the Worth

Rest isn’t just for the aftermath. Sometimes, it’s the bridge between survival and collapse.

After that first night, we adjusted. We slowed everything down. I used wheelchairs at places that offered them, stayed hydrated, took breaks constantly, and let go of the pressure to “make the most” of the trip.

And you know what? It was still wonderful.

It wasn’t about hitting every attraction. It wasn’t about pushing through to prove something. It was about being there—together—and honoring my limits while still finding joy in the experience.

A few months ago, even a slow-paced trip like this wouldn’t have been possible. And while part of me mourned what I couldn’t do, another part stood in awe of what I could.

Grace Over Guilt

There’s a quiet kind of courage in admitting that you need to change your plans. It’s not loud or dramatic—it’s the kind of courage that shows up in quiet hotel rooms when you realize your body just can’t do what you hoped it could. When you swallow your pride, tuck away the itinerary, and say, “Okay, let’s do this differently.” There’s vulnerability in that moment. And strength, too.

Because admitting that your body has drawn a line—and choosing to honor it—isn’t easy. Especially when everything in you wanted to push through. Especially when you're standing in the middle of something you were excited about. It can feel like you're letting someone down. Like you're letting yourself down.

It’s easy to fall into guilt when your body derails something special. To feel like you’ve ruined a moment that mattered. But guilt doesn’t belong here. Grace does.

Grace says: you’re still allowed to enjoy what you can do.

Grace says: needing help doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

Grace says: slowing down doesn’t erase the joy.

Grace says: this trip was still beautiful, still meaningful, still worth it.

Grace doesn’t deny that things were hard. It just reminds you that hard moments don’t cancel out the good ones. That support doesn’t diminish your strength. And that adjusting your plans to meet your body where it’s at isn’t giving up—it’s growing wiser.

It’s not always easy to believe that. But this weekend helped me practice it.

The Takeaway I Didn’t Expect

I’ve always been someone who pushes through. Who tries to look okay, even when I’m not. But this trip reminded me that honoring my limits isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom. That listening to my body doesn’t mean I’ve failed; it means I’m learning to care for myself in a deeper way.

It’s easy to fall into old habits—to keep moving just so it looks like I’m doing better. But hiding my limits never made them go away. All it did was make the crash hit harder. And honestly? I’m done pretending. I’d rather move honestly, with compassion, than chase some image of “normal” that doesn’t fit my reality anymore.

Healing, I’m realizing, is less about pushing and more about partnering—with my body, my needs, my truth. It’s about knowing when to pause, when to ask for help, and when to pivot with gentleness instead of shame. I didn’t power through this trip like a hero. I navigated it—with care, with grace, with more self-awareness than I had before.

And I’m proud of that.

What I Want You to Know