Nik Stojanovic

The early morning quiet is broken only by the clinking of breakfast dishes. I roll into the kitchen, my wheelchair maneuvering smoothly over the floor. My mother and sister, Ana, are already at the table, chatting softly.

Five years ago, during a hike in the Slovenian Alps with them, a thunderstorm turned our day upside down. I remember trying to catch up with them as the storm hit, but then everything went dark. Struck by lightning, I lost consciousness and my heart stopped briefly. Ana, a trained nurse, managed to revive me, though the damage was severe.

Since then, I’ve been in a wheelchair. At 36, I still grapple with the uncertainty of whether I’ll walk again. Yet, each day, I work diligently on my physical therapy. Progress is slow but steady, and my family’s support is unwavering. Our home has been adapted for my needs, and my workshop, though now more focused on smaller projects, remains a source of solace.

Today, I’m crafting a wooden frame for a photo from before the accident. The feel of the wood under my hands is a comfort. It’s a small reminder of my craft and the life I’m working to rebuild.

Ljubljana’s summer streets are lively, and I navigate them with practiced ease. The old town’s charm is as delightful as ever, even if the cobblestones are a bit tricky.

Ana and I are heading to Tivoli Park today, a ritual we cherish. She packs a picnic and we find a peaceful spot under the trees. We talk, laugh, and enjoy the fresh air. Her optimism fuels my own belief in recovery.

Evenings are my time for reflection. I sit by the window, watching the city lights flicker against the darkening sky. Each small victory brings me closer to my goal.

As I drift off to sleep, I dream of the mountains with a renewed sense of purpose. The Julian Alps took much from me but gave me a new perspective. One day, I hope to stand at that peak again. Until then, I carve my path forward, one wooden piece at a time.