Body
My name is Viraj, and I am a 28-year-old individual from India living in the Netherlands. I was born in Jalgaon, India, where I pursued a degree in Mechanical Engineering. To further my expertise, I moved to the Netherlands to complete a master's degree in technology management. Over the past five years, the Netherlands has become my professional and personal home, shaping my career and global outlook. As I navigate life at 28, trying to figure out what I truly want, I've realized that life already had a plan written for me, and here I am, narrating my story to you all.
Many people say life changes in a second, but you never believe it—until it happens to you. For me, that moment came on April 27, 2023, when my life split into a before and after. What was supposed to be a simple family road trip in India became a turning point I could never have imagined. One second, I was behind the wheel, and the next, my car slammed into the divider, flipping over several times. The world blurred into chaos. Within a few minutes, my parents and I were in a hospital bed—and life as I knew it had shattered.
The accident
The accident left both my parents and me with spinal cord injuries. Each of us sustained a different degree of damage, but I was told that my injury—complete SCI at levels C5-C7—meant I would never walk again, and even my hands were non-functional. My fingers had no tactile sensation or any feeling. I still remember the moment the doctors broke the news: it was as if the ground beneath me disappeared. I stared at the ceiling, numb, realizing everything was slipping away—my freedom, my movement, and the life I had built.
But the hardest part was knowing I wasn't the only one suffering. My parents were in the same hospital: my father was fully dependent on a ventilator, and my mother was bedridden with her injuries. Moreover, there was nothing I could do to help them. Lying there, unable to lift a finger, I felt completely powerless—for myself, for them, and for the life I had lost in a heartbeat.
At times, I would stare at the ceiling, wondering how we got here. How did one second on the road turn into a lifetime of struggle? I wanted to scream, to cry, to give up—but life doesn't let you stop. Even when everything falls apart, it demands that you keep moving forward.
After extensive surgeries and six weeks in the ICU due to respiratory issues, I began physiotherapy in India. At first, it felt like a joke. I couldn't even lift an empty cup, and my hands refused to cooperate. However, the therapists urged me to keep trying. They gave me "child-like" exercises—picking up objects, trying to hold cups, and moving small items on a board. These were tasks I had never thought about before the accident. Now, they were mountains I had to climb.
Going home
After six weeks of rehabilitation in Mumbai, I had to make the most difficult decision of my life: to return to the Netherlands alone for further treatment. My parents, still bedridden and needing constant care, couldn't come with me. My father remained on the ventilator, and though he couldn't speak, his eyes said everything—his pain, his love, and his silent encouragement for me to move forward. Leaving them behind broke me in ways I can't describe. The guilt of leaving them in their most vulnerable state gnawed at me. However, deep down, I knew I had to go—for my treatment.
Returning to the Netherlands felt like being dropped into a new world where I had to learn to live in a body that no longer listened to me. I spent a month in the hospital waiting for a spot at the Rehabilitation Centre. During that time, I experienced something that most people take for granted: my first bath in three months. It may sound small and trivial, but in that moment, it felt like reclaiming a part of myself that I had thought was lost forever.
Living alone without my family was terrifying. I missed my parents every day, especially my father. Even though he couldn't talk, we found ways to communicate together. Each phone call ended with his smile on the screen, giving me a reason to keep pushing forward. My mother's prayers strengthened me, and my friends became my lifeline. They visited me every week, creating a schedule to make sure I was never alone for long. Their presence reminded me I wasn't facing this battle alone, even in the darkest times.
Rehabilitation
I spent five months at the Rehabilitation Centre, where my therapists tailored a program to help me rebuild a life of independence. They gave me a motorized wheelchair that allowed me to move around on my own, a gesture that brought back a sense of normalcy. Wearing my clothes instead of hospital gowns felt like a triumph—one of many small but meaningful moments of progress. My therapists didn't sugarcoat the reality I faced. They told me I would never walk again. At first, this truth shattered me.
Nevertheless, gradually, I shifted my focus to what I could do. Doing physiotherapy, occupational therapy, and psychological sessions for 5-6 hours a day made slow progress. I learned how to transfer, control bowel movements, and gain upper body strength—though my fingers still did not move. Every day was a new struggle, with the hope that one day, at least one of my fingers would show some movement, but it hasn't happened to this day.
One of my biggest goals during rehabilitation was to return to work. As a working professional, I spent much time on the computer but could no longer move my fingers. My occupational therapist provided me with splints, and I practiced typing every day—two hours a day, just to send a single email. The day I typed my first email to my sister, I cried. It wasn't much—just a tiny message—but it felt like the first step toward reclaiming myself. From that moment on, I knew I could fight my way back. My therapists also encouraged me to try activities like swimming, tricycle riding, and table tennis, using special equipment designed for my abilities. These small victories reminded me that life still had joy to offer, even if it looked different now.
Independent living
The rehabilitation centre felt like a second home. Yet, the real challenge came when I had to leave and start living on my own. Adjusting to life with a spinal cord injury was daunting, but I found help through a facility in the Netherlands called Housing. They provided a unique service that gave me independence and support—an intercom I could use anytime I needed assistance, with someone arriving within ten minutes. Though I live alone, knowing help is just a call away has made a difference. Having such a facility feels like a boon in situations like this. I am thankful to everyone who helps me live life daily, even though my body does not work below my chest. I am able to live a life close to normal because of the facilities provided in the Netherlands.
Returning to India
In January 2024, I flew to India with my sister to visit my parents. It was my first flight on a wheelchair, and the journey was both exhausting and emotional. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next—shortly after I arrived, my father passed away. Losing him was like losing a part of my soul. Even though he had been on a ventilator for months, his presence remained my strength. He never once complained about his condition. Whenever we talked, even though on a screen, he would smile, reminding me to keep going. His silent courage will stay with me forever. Whatever I do today and in the future will all be dedicated to him.
Back to work
Returning to the Netherlands after his passing was one of the hardest things I've ever done. However, I knew I had to keep moving—for him, my family, and myself. I also found purpose in my work. Nine months after the accident, in March 2024, I returned to my job. My employer and colleagues went above and beyond to support me, ensuring my workspace was accessible and my transition back to work was smooth. Being able to work again gave me a sense of normalcy, though I still missed sharing my day-to-day activities with my father. It made me feel like me again. The public transportation system in the Netherlands, with its incredible accessibility, allowed me to move freely and independently—freedoms I thought I had lost forever.
Looking ahead
I have been living alone since December 2023 with a spinal cord injury. It has been over a year, but this journey has taught me invaluable lessons. I've learned to thank God for each new day, no matter how hard it might seem. I've realized that life doesn't stop for anyone—we must adapt, keep moving, and focus on the positives. I've come to understand the irreplaceable value of family, friends, and all the caretakers. Their love and support have been my pillars of strength, carrying me through the darkest moments and helping me see the light on the other side.
Every day, I continue to challenge myself. My next goal is to drive again—another step toward reclaiming the life I want to live. While my body may not function as it once did, I've discovered new ways to navigate the world, find meaning in each moment, and be full of happiness.