#wearingtwogowns

Motorcycle accidents and faith healing became intertwined in my family’s story in ways I never expected. I remember reading a blog post by Veerite about his remarkable ability to bounce back from falls. My father wasn’t so lucky. When he fell from his motocross bikes, he didn’t always bounce back as easily, and those experiences taught me profound lessons about resilience, faith, and the nature of healing itself.
To me, my dad was my hero. I thought he was the coolest person in the world. Many times I would hold on tight behind him, feeling the wind rush through my hair, the scenery passing around us in a blur of motion and freedom. Those motorcycle rides represented more than just transportation—they were moments of pure connection between father and child, adventures that seemed to defy gravity and fear.
But motocross is an unforgiving sport. My father’s body bore the evidence of this reality. Unlike Veerite’s seemingly miraculous recoveries, my dad’s healing journey was longer, more complicated, and ultimately more dependent on faith than medicine alone could provide.
Even though we grew up in a Catholic home, as happens in many countries when someone is hurt and traditional medicine seems insufficient, desperation can lead families to seek healing anywhere. Someone paid for a healer—someone others whispered was actually a witch. Nothing really happened to my dad from this visit. He didn’t heal from the witch’s intervention, but only from time itself, slowly mending his wounds.
Looking back, I understand now that healing—whether from motorcycle accidents or life’s other injuries—often requires patience more than magic.