We recently connected with Sarah Banks and have shared our conversation below.

Sarah, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today What’s something crazy on unexpected that’s happened to you or your business

Eleven Years Later

June 4, 2026

Eleven years ago, my life changed forever.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that accident would divide my life into two distinct chapters: before and after.

Before the pain.

Before the trauma had a name.

Before my body became a battlefield.

Before I learned what it truly meant to survive.

The doctors told me that if I had been five pounds heavier, I likely would not have made it. Somehow, I did. Barely. But I did.

What followed was a journey I never could have imagined. There were surgeries, a month-long hospital stay, medications, rehabilitation, and countless moments of uncertainty. I woke up in a body that no longer felt like home. I experienced the vulnerability of needing help with basic tasks—eating, bathing, walking—things most people take for granted until they’re taken away.

I spent birthdays in bed and holidays wearing hospital wristbands. I learned what it felt like to scream into pillows and cry in silence. I learned how lonely it can feel to suffer, even when surrounded by people who care about you.

In the years that followed, I faced challenges far beyond the physical injuries. I navigated autoimmune disease, chronic pain, CPTSD, OCD, dissociation, and symptoms that often felt impossible to explain. Yet one of the most difficult parts of the journey wasn’t surviving the accident itself.

It was becoming invisible.

Living with chronic illness and trauma taught me that someone can appear perfectly healthy while carrying unimaginable pain. People continued to see the version of me they remembered—the straight-A student, the perfectionist, the girl with big dreams, the future doctor. While I understood why, it often left me feeling deeply misunderstood.

The reality was that my life had changed. My body had changed. My capacity had changed.

I was grieving losses most people couldn’t see.

There were no casts, no crutches, and no obvious signs that my nervous system was operating in survival mode. There was no visible evidence of the exhaustion, chronic pain, autoimmune flares, CPTSD episodes, OCD spirals, or the immense effort it took simply to make it through an ordinary day.

The wounds weren’t on the outside.

They were inside.

And because they were invisible, I often felt unseen.

There is a unique loneliness that comes from being judged by a version of yourself that no longer exists. From being measured against expectations your body can no longer consistently meet. From wanting desperately to explain that you aren’t lazy, unmotivated, or giving up—you are simply fighting battles that no one else can see.

For years, I carried shame around that reality. I felt like I had failed the person I was supposed to become.

Healing eventually taught me something different.

My worth was never tied to my productivity. My value was never determined by my achievements. And the life I built after the accident is no less meaningful than the one I imagined before it.

In many ways, it is far more authentic.

Over the years, I also learned how essential connection truly is. Healing rarely happens in isolation. Some of the greatest growth occurs when we are surrounded by people who genuinely see us—people who listen, understand, and stay.

Not only through the successful chapters.

Not only through the easy chapters.

But through the broken chapters, the healing chapters, the messy chapters, and the beautiful chapters alike.

This year reminded me that being witnessed matters. Being understood matters. Being loved while you’re growing can change everything.

Some of the most profound healing happens when someone looks at you exactly as you are and says, “I see you,” and stays.

The journey wasn’t only about physical recovery. Along the way, I lost friendships. Relationships ended. People I loved couldn’t always understand what I was carrying. I learned that grief is not limited to death. Sometimes grief is mourning versions of yourself. Sometimes it’s saying goodbye to dreams, identities, expectations, and futures you once imagined.

Yet despite everything, I rose.

I survived when they said I might not.

I rebuilt myself—mind, body, and soul.

I retaught myself how to walk. I struggled through addiction, self-sabotage, unhealthy relationships, and attempts to numb pain in places that could never truly heal it. Somehow, I kept finding my way back to myself.

I turned every “no” into a prayer and every breakdown into a breakthrough.

As a child, I dreamed of becoming a doctor. In many ways, that dream still came true—just not in the way I expected.

Not through a white coat, but through a relentless pursuit of healing.

I immersed myself in herbalism, yoga, Qi Gong, meditation, nutrition, and holistic medicine. I became a lifelong student of the body, the mind, and the spirit. Eventually, I founded Sugar + Spice Apothecary, a dream that had existed in seed form since middle school and has now grown into something far greater than I ever imagined.

The irony is that for years, I didn’t believe I would live long enough to worry about the future.

I wasn’t thinking about building a home.

I wasn’t thinking about children.

I wasn’t thinking about growing old.

I was focused on surviving the next day, the next surgery, the next flare, the next setback.

When you’ve spent years surviving, imagining a future can feel impossible.

Pleasure feels foreign.

Peace feels suspicious.

Safety feels unfamiliar.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

I began allowing myself to imagine a future.

I began imagining love, safety, joy, faith, family, and a life beyond survival.

I began reconnecting with God.

I began believing that perhaps there was something more waiting for me.

Something beautiful.

Something worth staying for.

My healing journey eventually helped me discontinue a long list of medications I once believed I would need forever. More importantly, it taught me that healing isn’t simply the absence of symptoms. Healing is learning how to reconnect with yourself.

Eventually, I began teaching. I created classes, workshops, and experiences designed to help others reconnect with their own bodies and lives. For years, I devoted myself to holding space for other people’s healing.

But this past year taught me something unexpected.

It was time to become a student again.

It was time to hold space for myself.

For so long, my purpose revolved around helping others heal. This year reminded me that I cannot sustainably support others if I neglect myself. I returned to therapy. I resumed EMDR. I found an incredible Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner who helped me address inflammation and cortisol dysregulation. I learned to slow down, listen, rest, and receive support.

Most importantly, I learned that healing does not always require pushing harder.

Sometimes it requires surrender.

This year forced me to examine my mental health more deeply than ever before. I began understanding how CPTSD and OCD can distort reality, how trauma can convince us that danger is safety and safety is danger, and how painful experiences can quietly become belief systems that shape our entire lives.

For much of my life, I thought I was responding to reality.

Now I understand that many times I was responding to narratives.

Stories written by fear.

Stories written by survival.

Stories written by experiences that taught me the world was unsafe and that I couldn’t trust myself.

Trauma complicates trust. It doesn’t just affect our ability to trust others—it affects our ability to trust our own perception, instincts, memories, and bodies.

I’ve spent years learning the difference between intuition and fear, between a gut feeling and a trauma response, between what is happening now and what happened then.

I’ve learned that confusion is often two realities fighting for control: the present moment and the past.

The truth and the narrative.

And when trauma takes over, the narrative usually wins.

This year also challenged beliefs I didn’t realize I was carrying. I learned that vulnerability is not weakness. That self-preservation is not always self-love. That independence is not always strength. That being understood is not more important than understanding.

Perhaps most importantly, I learned that when I felt criticized, I often listened to defend rather than to understand.

I tied so much of my worth to being good, right, and accurately perceived that when someone I loved expressed hurt, I often experienced it as proof that I had failed.

But intention does not erase impact.

Both can be true.

I can have good intentions and still hurt someone.

I can love deeply and still have things to learn.

I can be doing my best and still be accountable.

That realization has transformed me.

Because most people are not asking us to solve their pain. They’re asking us to sit with them in it. To hear them. To acknowledge their reality. To choose connection over ego.

This year taught me that love requires vulnerability. Trust requires surrender. Intimacy requires loosening our grip on control.

For much of my life, I tried to control narratives, perceptions, outcomes, and how others saw me. Healing has shown me that everyone will have their own story about who I am, and it is not my job to manage those stories.

My responsibility is to live according to my values.

Not my fears.

Not my shame.

Not my trauma.

My values.

I’ve learned that accountability is love. That forgiveness is recognizing the humanity in others—and in yourself. That most people are not evil. Most people are simply wounded humans doing the best they can with the awareness they have.

I know that’s true for me.

I have made mistakes.

I have hurt people I love.

I have been hurt by people I love.

And somewhere along the way, I learned that healing isn’t becoming perfect.

It’s becoming honest.

It’s having the courage to look at yourself clearly and choosing growth anyway.

Eleven years ago, I survived.

Today, I am learning how to soften.

How to listen.

How to trust.

How to love.

How to let go of control.

And somehow, that feels just as brave.

Here’s to another year of healing. Another year of growth. Another year of becoming.

Not who I thought I would be.

But exactly who I am meant to be.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.sugarnspiceapothecary.com
• Instagram: @sugarnspiceapothecary