By JR Harding, Ed.D.
Forty-three years is a long time to inhabit an unresponsive body—long enough to stop measuring life by steps taken and start measuring it by moments chosen, not by miles walked, but by the depth of one’s engagement.
I have survived not one, but two separate spinal cord injuries, rendering me a “quadriplegic X2” (1983 and 1998). Each time, I lost more mobility. That reality often halts small talk or sparks a flood of questions. After the first injury, life split into a clear “before” and “after”.
The second time taught a harsher lesson: loss can happen again. The five days I spent struggling with ICU psychosis were an unimaginable pit of hell, yet I survived. The abilities I had fought for the first time vanished. And yet I am here, still moving forward.
My life might seem limited to an outsider, but it has been shaped by a singular refusal: I will not sit on the sidelines of my own existence. Being moved around a room like a potted plant in a nursing home was never an option for me.
When circumstances narrow, there is a subtle temptation to become a mere observer—watching life pass by, choosing safety over involvement. But watching life is not the same as living it.
Each day, I ask myself a simple question: What is my reason for getting out of bed? It doesn’t need to be a perfect or lifelong reason. It just needs to be strong enough to turn me from a spectator into a participant. When the body does not cooperate, purpose must.
I did not set out to build a resume; I aimed to continue. I sought to rebuild a life that no longer resembled the one I had planned, navigating systems and spaces never designed with me in mind.
Along the way, I had to challenge assumptions, both external and internal, that quietly suggested I had already peaked. I had not.
Over time, persistence evolved from mere survival into a form of engagement. I became an author, speaker, ADA consultant, and earned a doctorate—not because I had mastered adversity, but because I had lived through it.
I do more than share stories that inspire; I invite others in, challenging the idea that life should be watched from a distance.
This engagement has propelled me into the public sphere. I am honored to have served as a two-time U.S. Presidential Appointee (Bush 43’) and a seven-time Gubernatorial Appointee (Chiles, Bush, Crist, and Scott). These roles aren’t about titles. They are about being present.
They are about choosing to sit at tables where decisions influence access, equity, and opportunity, participating in the conversation rather than critiquing it from afar.
Engagement at that level demands more than presence — it means accepting responsibility when it is offered, and sometimes when it is not. It means leading. Leadership is often misunderstood as a position, but it is an activity: a daily choice to step forward, especially when it would be easier to step back.
Some leadership is visible, full of sweat and anxiety, involving tough conversations and the weight of knowing others are impacted by your choices. It demands energy, courage, and a refusal to quit.
Some leadership is quiet. It involves the discipline of reflection and the willingness to let your thoughts expand.
Turning the page to a new chapter requires listening deeply and growing without making an announcement. Both styles are essential. Both require intention.
Somewhere along the way, I found myself in a classroom, or perhaps the classroom found me. As a Senior Lecturer at a major public university, I work with students who are just beginning to shape their relationship with the world. Many have not yet been forced to ask if they will actively participate or just watch life unfold.
But they will. We all will, eventually.
In that space, I don’t teach resilience as a theory. I practice it as a habit—not as something extraordinary, but as something repeatable and worthy.
It is built through daily engagement: showing up, contributing, questioning, and continuing. Resilience doesn’t emerge from a single moment of strength. It develops through the accumulation of everyday decisions to engage.
None of these roles fully defines my life. The truth is simpler: every day, I choose whether to participate in the life in front of me or let it pass by.
On some days, engagement feels effortless, the work meaningful, and the connections invigorating.
The path feels obvious. On other days, the body is louder, the memory of loss feels closer than the promise of the future, and participating feels heavier than watching from a distance.
On those days, the question returns: Can I find a reason to get out of bed?
Sometimes that reason is a responsibility—a class to teach or a commitment to uphold. Sometimes it is a connection—a student to encourage or a colleague to support.
Sometimes it is purpose—the quiet understanding that there is still meaningful work to do. And sometimes, it is simply a refusal to let life pass by without my involvement.
Over time, these reasons layer into something stronger than motivation; they become momentum.
They build a fully engaged life. If forty-three years have taught me anything, it is this: you don’t need clarity about the whole journey to keep moving forward. You just need enough of a reason to stay engaged and a purpose to hold onto.