Outside of my cottage, leaning against a fence, you can see a lavender bicycle. My husband gave it to me 30 years ago. While it sits idle, it serves a daily purpose that supersedes its role as a mode of transportation.

For many years my bicycle wheels have remained flat. While I've taken it with me to every city where we've moved, it's actually never taken me anywhere. It's purpose? Well that's another story.

Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I excel at clumsiness. In fact, my decision to abstain from riding my bike is based on my fear of being charged with reckless endangerment. I once literally ran my first bike into a police officer on a sidewalk; 30 years later I rather enjoy my freedom on the outside of a courtroom and a locked cell.

Some see a bicycle leaning on a fence as welcoming, even quaint. I see it as so much more.

Before and during healing from my abuse I often resorted to self-deprecation to replace the familiar feeling I felt from my abuse. Those were the days when my lavender bicycle was relegated to the very back of our garage. I was overwhelmingly inundated with reminders of all the things I wasn't. My life was one big "wasn't." I wasn't planned. I was the mistake that wasn't a boy...that wasn't loved... that wasn't supposed to be here to write my book or this blog post. But the best "wasn't" of all is that I wasn't successful in ending my life.

So, back to the bike. I never enjoyed riding it, but then again don't we all have challenges in our life? All challenges can be a blessing or a curse. They can cause us to retreat and even backslide, riding through life in the shoulder of the road. I chose differently. I decided to accept and embrace my challenges with bicycles and with life. Shouldn't we all?

Who knew a 30 year-old lavender bicycle with flat tires would be cause for celebration? It reminds me that I am human and was created to make a difference, even if being a cyclist isn't one of them! It makes me aware that, like the bike, I could rest against a fence forever. Alternatively I could give it a fresh coat of paint, attach a bicycle basket, plant Hostas around it, and celebrate that I found a way to pursue my dreams despite the "wasn'ts," the flat tires, and the dead ends.

The best part of all? I wrote most of my memoir on my stationery bike. How's that for irony?