Lorie Tensen

On August 15, 1979, when I was 13 years old, I was in a traumatic accident: my arm was pulled through a meat grinder at my family's grocery store. I'd like you to take a moment and picture yourself when you were 13: were you socially awkward? Shy?, Just entering puberty and trying to figure out how to adjust to the changes in your body? Were you busy flitting from crush to crush during the hazy days of summer? I was. And then, in an instant, I was literally shredded into hamburger.

Ruined. Ugly. I was a monster with a fake plastic arm dangling from what was left of my lower right arm. And I just knew there was no other 13 year old in the world who looked as horrid as me No other brown girl living in an all white family and all white community with a fake arm having to deal with countless people asking questions I wasn't emotionally prepared to answer. My parents loved me, but they were as traumatized as I was. We were small town folks and therapy was never an option.

I felt alone in my trauma. Devastated at 13. And that feeling of being alone in my trauma lasted until I was in my late 30s. It took a full decade more - after 6 years of therapy and antidepressants - before I fully faced my traumatic experience and realized I had value. That my value did not lie in my physical appearance, but in the content of my character and heart.

I know that it was my course in life to go on a 40-year journey of healing. But I can't help wondering what if...? What would life have looked like for me if I hadn't felt so darned alone?

Words of encouragement from someone who had walked a few miles in shoes similar to mine. A mentor who could tell me that while life would indeed be different and sometimes difficult for me, I would be okay - I would get through it. A community who could understand the agony of phantom pains, the sinking feeling and awkward silence that follows after a curious person blurts out: "what happened to your arm" and all eyes turn towards you. The indescribable anger when someone tells your story without your permission. When it's your pain, your trauma. And they blithely make it their own. A community of understanding and support.

And it isn't just about creating a community of support for those who've experienced trauma: how about the newbie at work who is trying to learn the ropes. College students learning how to navigate the big stuff: life away from home, time management, loneliness. Women over 50 struggling to feel relevant after their nests empty, divorce, making friends after focusing their time and energy on family, menopause, deaths of a spouse or parent. Men who feel like the forgotten and irrelevant parent after divorce. People of color who historically eschew seeking therapy for any reason. No one truly wants to be alone. And it's a relief, quite frankly, when you find your tribe.

Look at me: I survived. I am a warrior, a lioness and I am blessed to have an amazing support system. When I look in the mirror, I see a beautiful woman who's worked hard to find her place in this world. I'm happy - I'm that person who wakes up in the morning thrilled to have been blessed with another day to enjoy simply existing. This arm is no longer an ugly extension of what is left of my lower right arm. Now I view my arm as something beautiful: a combination of cutting edge blue-tooth technology and amazing German engineering. I am a walking work of art! And I am...The Bionic Therapist.