05/22/2026
There was a time in my life when movement was effortless. I was thriving professionally, physically active, constantly on the move, and planning what I believed would be the next chapter of my life. I was working as a registered nurse, consulting in healthcare systems, teaching, pursuing my Family Nurse Practitioner journey, running over 100 miles a month, traveling, serving in my community, and building a future I thought I had complete control over.
Then everything changed.
Guillain-Barré Syndrome didn’t slowly ease into my life. It crashed into it.
One day I was walking, working, training, and leading. The next, I was fighting to breathe. Fighting to move. Fighting to survive.
I woke up on a ventilator unable to move from the waist down. I had lost control of my body, my independence, and honestly, parts of my identity. There were moments where the darkness felt heavier than the diagnosis itself. Moments where I questioned if life would ever resemble what it once was.
People often talk about survival like it ends when you leave the hospital. For me, survival truly began after discharge.
The after became learning how to transfer from a wheelchair without falling. Relearning strength through painful therapy sessions. Celebrating muscle twitches that most people would never notice. Fighting pressure wounds, spasms, setbacks, transportation barriers, isolation, and grief over the life I once knew.
The hardest part wasn’t only physical.
It was realizing that some people could not handle the weight of your suffering. It was learning who truly stood beside you when life stopped being convenient. At the same time, it revealed the incredible power of community, brotherhood, faith, family, and resilience. People showed up for me in ways I will never forget.
And somewhere in the middle of all the pain, I found purpose.
My before taught me achievement.
My after taught me perspective.
Before, I measured strength by how much I could do physically.
After, I learned strength is getting back up emotionally, mentally, and spiritually when life strips everything away.
Today, I still carry parts of both versions of myself. The driven healthcare professional. The man learning to walk again. The advocate. The survivor. The person who understands that healing is rarely linear.
My story is no longer just about what I lost.
It’s about what I discovered in the rebuilding.
That’s why awareness matters.
That’s why advocacy matters.
That’s why I continue sharing this journey through the Walk for Life Campaign Foundation at robertreid.org, because someone else fighting an invisible battle needs to know that progress, no matter how small, still counts.
