Turning Wreckage Into Wisdom

”Re-enacting” my motorcycle accident

The year was 1989, and I was a junior at a Christian International boarding school in Taiwan. Our school sat in the country, surrounded by rice paddies, the air thick with dampness and the sound of cicadas. One night, crossing the dark street in front of the school with a friend, my world went from ordinary to chaotic in an instant.

One moment I was walking; the next, I was opening my eyes after blacking out on the rough pavement on the opposite side of the road. I had been hit by a motorcycle and launched about 20 feet. All I could see was a car driving toward me with extremely bright headlights, and I screamed—a primal, terrifying sound. Thankfully, it was one of the school missionaries bravely blocking traffic, but in my dazed state, all I felt was the impending doom of another collision. Looking up, I saw the man who had hit me with his motorcycle. He had been wearing glasses, but they had shattered after the crash and the glass was completely embedded into his face, blood dripping down on me. He was speaking Mandarin and asking if I was okay.

The Shock of the Aftermath

Everything after the initial impact was a blur—almost certainly a concussion—but back then, especially overseas, the immediate concern wasn't "don't move her." I was quickly picked up and moved to the school nurse's station while the adults figured out what to do.

After some discussion, the adults decided that the next stop was to take me to the Veterans Hospital in the city, which was, to put it mildly, jarring. I remember being wheeled on a gurney next to a man who was completely unclothed, a highly anxious and uncomfortable moment for a teenager. Then came the room—possibly an operating room—that was clearly not cleaned from the previous patient. Blood was in small pools all over the floor. The worst part was the cleaning of my right leg, which had sustained most of the damage: gravel and rock embedded deep into the road rash. The scrubbing and picking of the stones was excruciating. I tried to do it myself, desperate for some control over the pain, but they quickly took over, knowing it would take all day if left to my shaky hands.

They put my right leg in a cast for popped ligaments in my knee. No scans, no planned physical therapy, just a cast—something I now know was far from the best treatment. It wasn’t until later on into adulthood, that an MRI of my brain showed that I had suffered a traumatic brain injury.

I returned to my dormitory with a massive black eye, with cuts and scrapes all over my body.

Years later, I found out that the school staff had contacted my parents about the motorcycle accident. However, the crisis was deliberately defused; they were assured I was "perfectly fine," and that there was absolutely no need for them to leave home and to check up on me. Hearing this years later felt like a devastating second accident. It was a crushing confirmation that in that moment of acute vulnerability, my immediate physical and emotional needs were deemed unimportant and utterly disposable. The people I trusted to care for me had instead chosen convenience and minimized my distress, cementing my belief that if I wanted my needs met, I couldn't rely on anyone else to validate or prioritize them.

An Unexpected Act of Contrition

A few days later, the man who hit me with his motorcycle came to the school. He was terrified—a local who had hit an American student—and he arrived with flowers, candies, and money to pay for my care. He was genuinely sweet, but clearly horrified. I felt a strange pity for him, too, because he was injured himself. It was all a terrifying mess for both of us. He kept coming back, bearing gifts, worried about retaliation and I kept assuring him that I didn't blame him and that he needed to take care of his own health needs.

When Control is Taken Away

My leg in a cast meant I was sidelined from my beloved musical group, the Kings Players. Our Christmas break trip to perform in Okinawa, Japan was canceled for me—too much walking on hills, they said. I was devastated. The adults assured me I'd have the opportunity the following year.

But the next year, I didn't make the group. Two teachers, who weren't fans of mine, essentially wrote a character assassination, declaring my character "not up to par."

As a teenager, emotions can make everything feel life altering. For me at that time in my life, music was a lifeline of sorts and to be told that I couldn't go on the trip that we had looked forward to all year, felt like a profound devastation and wounding. I had spent so much energy trying to be the best and look the best. And then, something completely out of my control—the motorcycle accident—prevented me from doing what I loved and, worse, became the catalyst for a process where adults with too much power judged and excluded me.

The True Takeaway: Reclaiming Power

It took time, but the most profound lesson I’ve taken from all of it is this: I did nothing wrong in any of those moments.

We have no control over the people who hurt us, whether physically, emotionally, or verbally. The collision wasn't my fault, nor was the unhygienic hospital or the cruel character judgment. What we do have control over is our response to that hurt. Do we carry it as a weight of bitterness and anger, or do we turn that hurt into a way to take our power back?

For me, reclaiming my power has meant dedicating myself to lifelong growth and healing. It’s about being a student of myself, growing the parts that need development, and healing the old wounds. It has led me to a calling as a mental health therapist and educator, creating space for others to do their own deep work. More importantly, it is about sitting beside people who are healing from their own long-incurred wounds, and simply being a witness to their transformation as we collaborate together to find a new path forward to healing. Listening to their hard stories has, in turn, been incredibly healing for me.

Through my own healing work, I have realized that the motorcycle accident and the subsequent rejection didn't destroy my life; they redirected it. They stripped away the illusion of control and showed me where my true strength lies: not in being the "best," but in being resilient, compassionate, and focused on genuine healing and change.

©Lisa King, MS, LPC