Living alongside a double amputee has taught me that the greatest struggles are not always the ones people can see.
When people see an amputee, they often notice the obvious first — the missing limbs, the prosthetics, the crutches, the wheelchair, the altered way of moving through the world.
What they don’t always see are the battles that come with it.
They don’t see the phantom pain that can come from a limb that is no longer there. They don’t see the discomfort of a residual limb, the long healing process, the skin irritation from prosthetics, the pressure sores, the balancing struggles, or the frustration of having to relearn things that once came naturally.
They don’t see how much energy it can take just to do what others may consider ordinary.
Getting dressed. Bathing. Walking. Turning. Climbing stairs. Sleeping comfortably. Even something as simple as moving from one room to another can require thought, patience, and effort.
And then there is the emotional side — often the heaviest part of all.
There is grief. Frustration. Anger. Weariness. Vulnerability. The slow, ongoing work of adjusting not only to a changed body, but to a changed life.
For amputees — and especially for double amputees like Danie — coping is not an occasional act.
It is a daily discipline.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize this truth goes far beyond amputation.
Because while some struggles are visible, many are not.
Not everyone is missing a limb, but many people are carrying something heavy.
Some are coping with illness.
Some with financial pressure.
Some with grief.
Some with anxiety.
Some with loneliness.
Some with caregiving.
Some with disappointment.
Some with pain that no one else can see.
And that raises an important question:
How are we coping?
Not just whether we are coping — because most of us are, in one way or another — but how.
Are we coping in ways that truly help us heal?
Or are we simply coping enough to survive the next day?
Because there is a difference.
Sometimes coping is healthy.
Sometimes it looks like meditation or prayer.
Sometimes it looks like talking to someone who understands.
Sometimes it’s writing things down instead of carrying them all alone.
Sometimes it’s allowing yourself to rest without guilt.
Sometimes it’s movement, fresh air, routine, laughter, or the courage to ask for help.
Sometimes healthy coping is simply being honest enough to say, “I’m not okay today.”
But sometimes coping is not healing at all.
Sometimes it is avoidance.
Sometimes it is shutting down emotionally.
Sometimes it is overworking so we don’t have to feel.
Sometimes it is pretending to be strong while quietly falling apart.
Sometimes it is isolating ourselves, numbing ourselves, or staying so busy that we never have to sit with what hurts.
And while those things may get us through the day, they don’t always get us through the deeper wound.
That doesn’t mean we should judge ourselves harshly.
Survival has its place.
There are seasons in life when simply getting through the day is, in itself, an achievement. For someone living with amputation, chronic pain, trauma, or any life-altering challenge, there may be days when just getting up, showing up, and trying again is an act of courage.
But if we stay in survival mode too long, we can begin to mistake endurance for healing.
And they are not always the same.
Real healing often begins when we stop asking, “How do I hide this?” and start asking, “What do I need?”
Maybe we need support.
Maybe we need rest.
Maybe we need better tools.
Maybe we need faith.
Maybe we need to grieve what was lost.
Maybe we need to stop pretending that coping alone means we are coping well.
Amputees teach us something profound about life.
They show us that strength is not always dramatic.
It is often quiet.
It is often repetitive.
It is often hidden in ordinary moments.
Strength is adapting when life no longer looks the way it used to.
Strength is learning new ways to do old things.
And maybe that is true for all of us.
Because whether our struggle is visible or invisible, physical or emotional, temporary or lifelong, we are all learning how to live with things we did not choose.
The question is not whether we struggle.
The question is whether our coping is helping us heal … or merely helping us survive.
And perhaps one of the bravest things any of us can do is this:
To be honest about what hurts.
To be gentle with ourselves in the process.
And to keep moving forward — not perfectly, but purposefully.
Because sometimes the strongest people are not the ones who appear unshaken.
They are the ones who quietly face what is hard …
and keep going anyway.
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