A bus accident took my left leg below the knee when my daughter was barely two. For the first year afterward, I mostly stayed indoors — not because anyone told me to, but because I couldn’t picture what my life was supposed to look like anymore.
A physiotherapist at my rehabilitation clinic noticed I still had a badminton racquet leaning in the corner of my hospital room, a habit from my college days, and asked if I wanted to try hitting a shuttle again, just for movement, nothing serious. I said yes mostly to make her stop asking. Three months later I was training twice a week. A year after that, I was competing at a state-level para tournament with a prosthetic I was still learning to trust.
I represented the country at a national para-badminton championship last year and made it to the semi-finals. My daughter, seven now, has watched every match from the sidelines. She doesn’t remember a version of her mother who wasn’t doing this, and some days, that matters to me more than any medal does.
Leave Your Footprint
"I lived this." "I relate." "My father was exactly like this." Say what this stirred in you.
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