June 29th, 2018 — The Day That Changed My Life Forever

It was just another day in the sky. A slight northerly breeze and a few puffy clouds.
I’d done this over 600 times before — launching off the mountain, catching thermals, floating in silence. Paragliding was my freedom, my escape, my passion.

Every time I took off, I knew there was a risk — but nobody actually thinks it’s going to happen to them.
Until it does.

The Crash

I crashed into powerlines while coming into land. I remember everything.
I saw the powerlines - too late. I tried to turn - too late.

I smashed into them. 11,000 volts surged through my body — I can still remember the feeling. I was knocked out… and then I woke up, still on fire, still burning. I remember actively saying to myself out loud, “You better move, Kelvin, or you are going to die.”

My body was burning. I unclipped myself from my paragliding harness and rolled, trying to put the flames out. Eventually, I managed to succeed after rolling about 100 metres in the dirt. I remember looking down at my body — nothing made sense. I could not even recognise my own skin.

Just an hour earlier, I had been running off a mountain, soaring through the sky — and now I could not even stand.
The fire was spreading around me, and I was scared I would be engulfed again.
Panic rose, and I honestly thought I was going to die.

The Fight Begins

I suffered burns to over 75% of my body, a collapsed lung, failing kidneys — and to top it off, my left calf was blown out - this was where the electricity had exited my body.
I was airlifted to Milpark ICU — which became my home for the next 413 days.

That is right. 413 days.
The longest recorded stay in a burns ICU in history.

I was resuscitated nine times during my stay, and doctors told my family I would never walk again.

But they did not know me.
And none of their calculations accounted for my will to live, my human spirit, or the power of my mind.

ICU Was the Easy Part

I spent 14 months in ICU, followed by 3 months in rehabilitation.

I had to relearn how to live — everything you can possibly think of:
How to hold a knife and fork.
How to brush my teeth.
How to shave.
Use the bathroom. Control my bladder.
How to tie my shoelaces. Dress myself. Do up a button.
Swallow food. Use my phone.
And eventually — how to walk again.

Funny enough, I only realised it later — ICU was the easy part.
There, you either live or you die. Everything is done for you. You are not in control.
The meds are really strong — at one point, I thought my brother was my child (true story).
And honestly, I felt like there was not much pressure on me — both from others, but more importantly, myself.
I could not fully comprehend the severity of the accident.
There is nothing to do except stay alive ... or die, nobody is going to blame you.

Rehab Was the Real Fight

That is where the pain hits — and the real work begins.
That is where I started putting pressure on myself — to get better, to walk, to improve, to live.

Step by step. No shortcuts.

Learning how to use your phone again.
Realising you do not have the strength to open a Coke bottle.

It might sound small, but when you are more compos mentis and realise you cann0t get up to go to the toilet, it hits you hard.
Using a bedpan is deeply humiliating when you are more awake.

There is no freedom. No independence. No control.
You start from nothing — and the climb back feels impossible.

You have to come to terms with your “new normal” — and that is no easy feat.

It is so easy to give up…
Easy to accept this new life and try to be content with it.
Giving up is not always loud.
It does not always look like throwing in the towel — sometimes, there is just a quiet voice saying:
“This is my life now. Just accept it.”

It is easy to believe that voice.
Easier than waking up every day to pain.
Easier than trying, failing, and trying again — just to do something small like get dressed, or take three shaky steps.

When you are broken, tired, and stuck in a body you barely recognise… giving up feels like a way to protect yourself.
Like maybe if you stop hoping and trying, it will not hurt so much when things do not improve.

There were days I thought:
“Maybe the doctors are right. Maybe walking is impossible. Maybe I should stop trying.”

And no one would have blamed me. Everyone would have understood.
I had a bedpan, skin grafts, no strength, no dignity, no guarantees.

Overcoming the Odds

I spent nearly two years in a wheelchair.
Every day I did hours of rehab. That was my life. Wake up. Exercise. Sleep. Exercise. Eat. Sleep. 

Walking was all that mattered.
I started with cycling — from a wheelchair.
Then came the walking frame. Then two crutches. Then one.

And finally — a bold mix of strength, confidence, and maybe a little stupidity — I took my first steps on my own.
Unassisted. Just me. No crutches. No help.

That moment came three and a half years after the accident, at the end of 2021.

Since then, I have rebuilt my life — one piece at a time.

I Am Living, Not Just Surviving

I still cannot run — but running is overrated anyway, right?
I did, however, find something even better: golf.

Today, I am a scratch golfer, ranked among the top disabled golfers in the world.
I have completed a BCom in Finance, and I am working toward the CFA designation.
I work. I love. I walk (mostly freely).

And yes — I have even gone back to paragliding.
The very thing that nearly killed me.
The shock and fire did not burn that passion out of me.

Why I Speak

I speak because I know what it is like to lose everything in an instant.
To wake up on fire.
To wake up alive — but completely broken.
To be told you will never walk again — and to prove them wrong anyway.

I speak because I know what it feels like to go from running off a mountain…
To not being able to lift a spoon.
To look in the mirror and not recognise your body.
To wonder if you will ever feel “normal” again — or if this version of you is all that is left.

I speak to show what is possible.
That resilience is not something you are born with — it is something you build.
Breath by breath. Step by step.
And that even when you think you have hit your limit, there is more inside you than you ever imagined.

I speak because I know this truth better than most:
Surviving is one thing. Living is another.
And sometimes, all it takes to start living again… is hearing that it is possible.

If my pain can be someone else’s permission to keep going…
If my story can light even the smallest fire in someone else…
If my journey gives even one person the strength to keep going —
Then every second of it has been worth it.