So, I had a wicked scooter accident last Wednesday.

I already shared some of the aftermath on Facebook and Bluesky — you know, the blood, the bruises, the slow-sip soup life (though let’s be honest, I’ve always been an obsessive soup sipper even at the best of times). But I realized I never actually told the whole story. And honestly, this one begs to be told.

It was just a regular, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky, dry summer day — a little too hot maybe (29°C and no breeze), a little lazy — like slushies in the park. I wasn’t speeding. I wasn’t pulling stunts. But I was riding on a sidewalk still scattered with that gritty leftover winter sand — the super-fine kind the city mixes with salt to make ice less slippery. Now, in early summer, it just lurks there like a murderous little trap. (The ER nurse even said the city used to send sweepers out for that stuff. Since they stopped? Accidents like mine have skyrocketed.)

That nasty-ass sand was spread across those sleek, too-smooth cement sidewalk tiles, and I was going just a little too slow to pull out of the skid when my front tire hit it.

And down I went. Fast. Hard. No time to catch myself.

I fell straight forward, my full weight slamming into my right cheekbone and jaw. The scooter flew off sideways, and I landed face-first, sliding across the cement. I felt my jaw pop — an awful, terrifyingly wrong sensation — followed by a rush of cold spreading through my face and neck, like someone had cracked open a coolant hose. The sound? Absolutely grotesque. Like something inside me just gave way.

The palms were ripped clean out of my thick riding gloves — but they did their job. My hands were okay. Just bruised today, but it could’ve been a lot worse.

My lip felt detached, numb — like it wasn’t even part of my face anymore. Thankfully, it’s just scraped up real bad. I heard and felt my sunglasses snap in half against the pavement — and my flesh. Then came the blood. So. Much. Blood. Like someone had opened a faucet inside my face. I lifted my head, and it was just pouring. Raining. Everywhere.

Two days later, I passed the spot on the bus and could still see the wide, dark stain where my blood had pooled as I waited for help.

A man in a passing car stopped to help, but he looked completely panicked — sweet, but totally overwhelmed.

That’s when he showed up.

A motorcycle rider, seemingly conjured out of nowhere, like he’d been dropped into the moment by some higher force with a degree in Compassionate Chaos Management. Average height, slim build, silver hair tucked into a small, tidy ponytail poking out from under his helmet, blue jeans — a nondescript kinda guy... unless, y'know, your life kinda depends on him.

He jumped off his bike — a Triumph, I remember the logo so clearly — took in the scene with one glance (scooter, blood, stunned face), pulled off his helmet, and sprang into action. He grabbed a road kit, handed me paper towels, and gave calm, practiced instructions like he’d done this a dozen times before.

“Press that on your face — there, don’t move. What’s your name? Do you know where you are? Did you hit your head? Just breathe. Help is coming.”

Then he turned to the older man and barked, “Did you call 911?” which finally shook the guy into gear.

“I’m calling now!” he said, and the biker nodded.

“Ma’am,” he said gently, “can I straddle behind you to stabilize you?”

Obviously, I said yes. But consent does matter — even in crisis. He supported me from behind, keeping me upright and still until the ambulance arrived.

I was trying to call Drew, but I could barely speak. I just kept repeating into my slippery, blood-slicked phone:

“It hurts… I’m hurt… hospital… ambulance…”
Like a scratched record.

The biker told the EMTs his name was Darren.

And my heart paused.

“That was my brother’s name,” I told him, through tears and blood.

Somehow, that made me feel safe. Like maybe he’d been sent. Like the universe gave me one soft place to land that day.

Darren helped the EMTs load my scooter into the ambulance and explained everything to Drew, because I just couldn’t. Then he vanished, as suddenly as he’d appeared.

I’m beyond grateful for his calm, capable presence.

Thank you, Darren with the Triumph.
You were exactly who I needed in that moment.
You’ll probably never see this, but may the Gods ever smile upon you.
May you have clear skies, safe travels, and smooth roads for the rest of your ride.

---

I know it probably sounds strange — “just a scooter accident,” right? But it didn’t feel ordinary. Something about that moment felt… otherworldly. Like I’d slipped dimensions for a breath.

There was a second — just one suspended blink — where I raised my head, saw the blood, and felt nothing.

No sound in my ears.
No heartbeat thudding.
No fear.

Just cold. And calm.

And in that heartbeat of nothingness, I felt like something deep inside me had been… changed. Severed. Released. Or maybe… reset.

Afterward, of course, I spiraled down a rabbit hole of witchy correspondences — because of course I did. Turns out it was a Wednesday (hello, Mercury energy: communication, movement, messages) and a New Moon (transformation, new beginnings, clean slates). If you’re into that sort of thing — which, hi, I absolutely am — then you know that’s a potent cocktail for cosmic upheaval.

I don’t know if I rattled something loose in my brain that day...
Or knocked something back into place.

But ever since, I’ve had this strange, unnerving sense of calm.
Acceptance.

Not resignation. Not defeat.
Just... clarity.

Like I walked away from a version of me who didn’t.

---

So here I am.
Stitches in my cheek.
A fractured — but not separated — jaw (no dislocation after all, thank the Gods). We thought it would need surgery, but blessedly, it won’t.
Squishy meals. Ice packs.
And some very witchy introspection.

Now what?

I don’t know.
But I’m still here.
Still writing.
Still healing.

And for today, that’s enough.