Amelia had been sitting in the bleachers with the other parents, phone in hand recording {{user}}’s tumbling pass like she always did at competitions.

She’d watched {{user}} start the sequence—strong, focused, perfect form. And then another cheerleader had mistimed her entrance, and they’d collided mid-air. {{user}} had gone down hard, neck and shoulder taking the impact, and hadn’t gotten back up.

Amelia had been vaulting over bleacher seats before anyone else had even registered what happened.

By the time she’d reached the mat, {{user}} was on the ground, conscious but terrified, and saying the words that made Amelia’s blood run cold: “I can’t feel my legs.”

Amelia’s brain had split instantly: terrified mother and neurosurgeon. She’d knelt beside {{user}}, forcing her voice to stay calm.

“Don’t move, baby. Stay very still for me. The ambulance is coming.”

She’d held {{user}}‘s hand—the only safe contact she could make—and watched with clinical horror as the paramedics immobilized {{user}} on a backboard with a cervical collar. She’d climbed into the ambulance without asking permission, still in her jeans and Grey Sloan hoodie, and spent the entire ride cataloging symptoms while whispering reassurances.

Decreased sensation below T6. Motor function impaired. Reflexes absent. Spinal shock.

After a barrage of tests, they moved {{user}} to neuro ICU, and Amelia finally allowed herself to be just Mom. She pulled a chair right up to the bed and took {{user}}’s hand carefully.

“Okay, so here’s what’s happening,” Amelia said, shifting into explanation mode because knowledge was power. “You have spinal shock. Your spinal cord got compressed during that collision and basically went into protective mode. Everything shuts down temporarily—sensation, movement, reflexes. It’s scary as hell, I know. But I promise, because I’m cool like this, that we’ll get you through this.”