Most of you probably know me, or at least know of me. My name is Taylor, and I already hate myself a little for doing this—dark humor and self-deprecation are how I cope.

Before becoming disabled in May of 2022, I was on track to become a director at a large bank. I was financially stable, living alone, and fiercely independent.

In May 2022, I underwent open surgery for a thoracic aortic aneurysm. I was informed there was a 10% chance of temporary or permanent paralysis, which I acknowledged and accepted.

Unfortunately, that outcome became my reality. I was left paralyzed from the waist down and am now a full-time wheelchair user. While I’m in what I can only describe as “the best of the worst-case scenarios,” I still cannot stand or walk independently. The surgery itself was extremely invasive, and the complications that followed set me back significantly. I didn’t feel even partially healed until nearly a year later, and I continue healing every day—physically and emotionally. I may never fully heal from being paraplegic, and accepting that has been one of the hardest parts of this journey.

I believe deeply in living life and finding joy where I can. I want to be here. But it often feels like my life has been one long series of battles, one after another. Like that movie.

For context, I paid into long-term disability through my previous employer for ten years. I was paid that back for 2 years, which ended on November 1, 2024. While on disability, I went back to school and became a licensed nail technician. I worked in several shops, but without consistent walk-in traffic, it wasn’t financially sustainable. I managed because I had some income and savings at the time.

Beginning around February 2025, I applied for countless jobs—easily close to 300 at this point. I finally secured a temporary position on May 1, 2025, with the University of Tennessee’s Haslam College of Business. Unfortunately, that role ended in November 2025, due to circumstances outside of my control. Had I been able to continue in that position, I would not be where I am today.

The current job market is brutal, and employers have the luxury of being extremely selective. Despite a strong résumé, I’ve experienced what is likely a mix of overt and subtle ableism. Once employers realize I am a full-time wheelchair user, opportunities often disappear. It’s frustrating, but it’s the reality.

I want to work. I do not want to rely on SSDI. I am capable, motivated, and fiercely independent. I’ve done everything I can to stay afloat—side gigs, part-time work, hustling however possible. At this point, I am maxed out on loans, credit cards, and every other option available to me.

In November 2024—the same month my disability payments ended, I took on financial responsibilities that should not have fallen on me, often at great personal cost. I don’t regret caring for the people I did, but the financial impact has been severe.

I’ve never struggled to find work before. I’ve always been self-sufficient. So being in this position has been incredibly humbling and painful. Many of you have supported me—not just financially, but through food, job leads, encouragement, and kindness. That community support has meant more than I can express. And it’s often strangers or acquaintances who show up the most.

This is not about blame or shame. The reality is that I currently have no financial safety net. I’ve gone above and beyond to keep things afloat, but I can no longer do it alone.

I need an accessible vehicle to get to work and to function day-to-day. To get my car back, I owe Honda $2,300 by February 9. In addition, I owe approximately $800 in rent, $300 to KUB, $200 to Verizon, and at least $200 to my current employer for space rental. Plus, groceries and all the other tidbits. Altogether, I’m facing roughly $4,000–$5,000 in urgent expenses.

I’ve filed for SSI, which can take 60–90 days, and I’m currently in the early stages of that process. SSDI can take years and is often denied initially. Because I am working part-time, SSI is my only viable option—but it still doesn’t solve the immediate crisis. I cannot afford to simply wait and hope.

I’ve exhausted every option I know.

Asking for help like this is incredibly uncomfortable for me, but I don’t have another choice. The idea of losing my home, my car, or my power—especially as a full-time wheelchair user in winter—is terrifying. This is the reality I’m facing right now. Specifically, the idea of being homeless as a disabled person is probably the scariest thing that I have ever had to think of, and I’ve never had to think of it until now.

I know everyone is stretched thin. I know the economy is rough and the world feels like it’s on fire. All I’m asking is for this to be shared as widely as possible, so I have a chance to catch up, keep my vehicle, maintain housing, and stay afloat.

I’m going to attempt to start to become some sort of social media influencer showing my day-to-day life as a disabled person. I have no idea if this will be lucrative or bring in any income but again, I am trying to do everything I can just to make a buck or two here and there. And I am always open to any and every suggestion. And trust me when I say all of the resources in our community I have tapped out.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for listening. And thank you—truly—to everyone who has supported me in any way, ever.

— Taylor