I am originally from Trinidad and Tobago. I migrated to the United States with the goal of playing soccer, but I soon realized I was too old to pursue it professionally. I needed a backup plan, so I majored in accounting and minored in finance. After college, I fell into the field of banking compliance, which became my career. By 2019, I was a former soccer player, a husband of about five years, and a father to a son who was turning 10 that December.

June 23, 2019, started as one of the best motorcycle riding days of my life. The night before, I had been at my best friend's wedding having the time of my life, eating incredibly well. That meal turned out to be a blessing because I would go on to spend 46 days in the hospital, unable to eat. We were driving home, heading south on the New Jersey Turnpike. I had commuted to the wedding on my motorcycle, and my wife was driving her car directly behind me.

As we were driving, another driver simply didn't see me. Motorcycles are hard to spot as it is. When that car merged, their left back bumper clipped my front tire.

In that exact moment, everything slowed down. It felt like only three seconds, but it also felt like an eternity because I had to make a conscious determination on how to fall so that I wouldn't die. You actually have a brief opportunity to choose how you go out. I said to myself that if I braked too hard, my wife was driving right behind me and could potentially run me over. I didn't want to go out like that, and I didn't want her to have to remember me that way if I died. I knew I was going to fall, and I knew I was going to fall incredibly hard, but I didn't know if I would survive.

I mentally mapped out three options. Option one: break hard, but my wife runs me over. Option two: lean the bike to the left, but the car next to me could run me over. Option three: lean the bike to let it skate out so I could fall off when I chose. I initially decided to take option two because the car next to me actually started braking, which gave me more room to get away from it. For a split second, I thought, “Oh my god, I’m actually about to save it, I’m not going to fall.” But that car just kept merging and merging, and it clipped me anyway.

Mid-flip, as I was flying through the air, I made a conscious choice to clench my teeth. I thought that just in case I survived, I wanted to still be able to talk to my wife and not lose my tongue.

But there was a space between my private area and the motorcycle tank. Upon impact, the force caused my body to jam completely against it, shattering everything down there. If you’ve ever played sports or been hit with a soccer ball in that area, you know it feels like it takes your soul away. It hurts intensely, but while you are flying through the air, there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

Then I flipped completely over and hit the back of my head, which caused me to pass out for a moment. I remember waking up to the feeling of my body violently shaking and sliding along the asphalt. I slid straight into the guardrail.

The guardrail took my left leg off immediately, like butter. Part of my right leg was completely shattered with the meat exposed. I was wearing full leather motorcycle gear. If I hadn't had that gear on, I wouldn't have stood a single chance of surviving.

I ended up wrapped around a pole, staring straight up at the sky. I moved my tongue through my teeth and mouth, and I could feel little brittle pieces inside. At first, I thought it was asphalt from the road, but looking back, it was definitely my teeth. I shattered my front four, lost a back tooth, lost about three teeth total, and fractured nine others. Yet, that was the least of my problems.

As I lay there looking at the sky, thinking about how beautiful of a day it was, my wife hovered over me. I could tell by the look on her face that something was horribly wrong. My wife is not a person who can hide her emotions or stay calm, so her face told me everything. I asked her, “Hey baby, can you pick me up?” She kept repeating, “No, no, I can't, I can't.” I asked why, but then I passed out again.

I woke up to the feeling of people tugging and pulling at me. They were trying to tie my legs up to stop the massive bleeding. I tried to move my body to assist them, but nothing worked; my entire system had shut down.

Lying there helpless, the first thing I thought about was my job. I had just returned from India implementing a project for work. The accident was in June 2019, and the project was due in July, so I panicked about whether I would ever finish it. Then I thought about my son at home and realized I might never get to see him again. Finally, I thought about my wife, realizing she would be left completely by herself if I died. I thought, “Joseph, what did you do? What did you get yourself into? This motorcycle is causing so much damage to your life right now.”

I passed out again and woke up to the sound of a medical chopper. Seeing the helicopter confirmed that my situation was critical because they needed to transport me immediately. A paramedic lady came up to me, and I felt like I only had a few breaths left in my system. When you are dying, you literally feel the lack of breath; it is hard to explain, but you just know. I told her, “Hey, I don't have much breath left. I'm going to give you all my information.” I managed to tell her my name, where I worked, my phone number, my wife's phone number, where we lived, and who my son was. She did an amazing job writing it all down and retaining it.

Three days later, I woke up in the hospital. I remember the exact moment they pulled the medical tubes out of my throat. I heard a lady's voice saying, “Okay Joe, we need you to breathe... it's gonna hurt a little bit.” My mind was completely confused. I thought, “What is going on? I was just riding a motorcycle, and now people are telling me what to do.” I couldn't move; I felt entirely trapped in the bed. I heard my wife's soft voice saying, “Joe, it's gonna be okay.” But I couldn't talk back. As they pulled the tube out, I started violently throwing up a bunch of bile and everything within me. I couldn't breathe, but the nurse quickly put a suction tool in my mouth to clear it out.

The nurse then said, “Joseph, we need you to talk. Say something.” I tried saying my name, but because the tubes had been in my throat for so long, my voice wouldn't come out normally. When it finally did, it sounded incredibly high-pitched. I remember thinking, “Is this going to be my voice for the rest of my life? I guess I can live with it, I have a girl voice now, cool.” Eventually, over time, my normal voice started returning.

I spent a total of 46 days in the hospital. The final list of my injuries was massive: I broke my neck, broke my back, lost my spleen, ruptured several internal organs, fractured my pelvis, and lost my left leg.

I was actually supposed to be a double amputee. However, the surgeons used parts of my amputated left leg to rebuild my right leg and stabilized it with an external fixator. Every so often, the medical staff would come into my room, touch the top of my right foot, and ask, “Do you have feeling in it? Wiggle your toes.” I would try with all my might, but I couldn't feel or move anything. They told me that because it was such a drastic, traumatic injury, things would take time to return.

It has been three years since that accident, and I still feel the exact same level of intense pain that I left the hospital with. When I walk, the agony is so severe that I literally have to hold my breath. It is an intense, daily reality, and that is just my right foot. When my left amputated leg acts up, I deal with severe skin irritations from the prosthetic socket. If it's not my leg paining me, it's my back; if it's not my back, it's my stomach. I have to constantly mentally distribute my pain because there is never a single moment where I am not in pain.

During those initial three days when I was comatose and fighting for my life, I had a profound near-death experience. I spent those days fighting in a place I can only call Hell. I knew it was Hell because I felt an overwhelming sense that I didn't belong there, and everything was fundamentally ugly. Most of us are taught that Hell features a devil with horns and physical flames. I came to believe that Hell is actually a matter of mindset, you are completely filled with whatever negative thoughts and experiences you have accumulated.

In this state, I saw entities with mannequin-like faces, they had indentations for eyes, but no actual eyes, noses, or mouths, wearing hoodies. I saw historic and mythological creatures, like a black panther and Egyptian figures, engaged in a massive war. This war pitted those dark entities against "my people". My people were individuals who were disabled or possessed some form of deformed image. The negative entities were relentlessly shouting at them, telling them, “You're ugly, you can't do it, you suck, you're a horrible person, you'll never be great.” It was a barrage of toxic words that created a profound mental ugliness. No physical pain can ever compare to the sheer mental ugliness of that environment.

At one point, I stood up to one of the entities and told a person near me, “You don't have to take that from them. You are beautiful.” Even though I am an amputee and disabled, I carry myself regularly and fit in with regular folks on the outside. But deep inside, when social media is off, I have a crazy life that allows me to deeply relate to disabled people. In that vision, the broken people looked at me as if to say, “Who are you to tell me I'm good?” But when they looked at my injuries, they realized, “Oh, you're one of us.”

I began motivating them. The first night, we lost the battle because I didn't motivate enough people. The second night, I motivated more; we still lost, but our team grew much bigger. By the third night, I felt completely confident knowing that the more people I inspired, the more strength and "good" energy we obtained. On that third night in Hell, we clashed and we won.

Right after that victory, I woke up in the hospital bed confused, wondering if I was in Heaven. When I went back to sleep, I didn't see that specific battle anymore. Later on, while my wife was cleaning me up in the hospital, she placed a warm, white rag over my face and I passed out again.

This time, I woke up in a beautiful, pristine place. It was the cleanest, clearest, most stunning environment I have ever experienced. I remember sitting on the floor. To my left was a concrete wall with people on top, and a couple stood in front of me smiling. I looked down and noticed I still didn't have my legs. I thought, “If this is Heaven, I should have my legs back to walk and run.” But even though my legs were missing, I felt absolutely zero pain associated with the injury, and I didn't even care about walking. I felt like I could have sat there for the rest of my life and been completely happy. The people in front of me were smiling with incredibly white teeth. I couldn't hear voices, but I could clearly see actions. The couple to my left was dressed beautifully in white and navy blue, everyone had curly brown hair, and there was a garden where the plants were extra vibrant green and the flowers were intensely red and purple. I thought, “Yes, I made it, this is where I belong and feel comfortable.”

Just as I got comfortable, my wife pulled the cloth off my face, and I was back in the hospital room. I immediately started crying intensely, telling her, “I need to go back, I don't want to live here, I don't want to be here, I need to go back to what I just experienced.” She asked if I was going crazy, and I begged her to put the cloth back on my face, but the experience never returned. I realized that what got me out of that dark, hellish state was the act of pushing and motivating people. So, I decided to flip my reality and bring that exact purpose to Instagram.

I was discharged from the hospital in August. I received my first prosthetic leg in October, and by January, I attempted my very first unofficial ride. I bought my sister's motorcycle just to test if I still had my balance. I didn't own a bike yet because I had completely crashed mine, so I had to save up and buy one.

But this is where the story gets incredibly tricky: I bought that motorcycle entirely behind my wife's back. I did it out of pure desperation because riding was the one thing that gave me the mental energy I needed to keep pushing forward. After the accident, I lost the ability to do almost everything I loved. I used to be a soccer fanatic and dreamt of playing soccer with my son every single day. That dream was violently stripped from me. To make it harder, my son is heavily involved in the sport now. I don't look at it with hatred; I love watching him play exactly like I used to play, but it frequently kills me inside when he asks, “Hey dad, can you show me this? Can you demonstrate it? I saw videos of you being good.” Having to look at my son and say, “I'm sorry, I cannot, because I am physically unable to” is something I would wish on no man.

The mental toll was too intense, so I had to find a way to feel like myself again, and I knew the motorcycle was the only path. I don't ride the same anymore; I ride very militantly and defensively on the street. Even before the accident, I was a highly skilled, militant rider, which is why everyone in the local community was shocked when I crashed.

When I bought the secret bike, I intentionally chose to ride past my exact crash site. While riding, the exact same type of traffic cut that had taken me out became available. My mindset was to execute that turn to see if my original crash had truly been my fault or just an unavoidable instinct. I made the cut perfectly, which gave me two things: validation that the original crash wasn't a failure on my part, and a massive sense of closure. I was finally able to "make it home" on two wheels, which I hadn't been able to do on the day of my accident. I was crying inside my helmet, feeling a massive surge of positive energy.

A few months later, a close buddy of mine, Dre, who had actually helped me get the secret bike, said he wanted to go riding with me. We pulled the bikes out of storage early one morning. I told my wife I was just heading to the gym real quick, but instead, my bro and I went out to catch the sunset by the beach to get some good energy to combat my internal sadness and depression. She told me to be safe.

We were riding on isolated, winding backroads where people only go fishing about once a month, it was completely lonely. As we were navigating the turns, we hit a corner that was exceptionally sharp. Being an experienced rider, I handled it fine, but I knew Dre didn't ride as often and was coming in way too hot. I hit him up on our helmet communicators and screamed, “Hey, you need to hit this corner very sharp! Take it low!” Two seconds later, all I heard through the comms was him yelling, “Oh, s-h-i-t.”

I looked back in my rearview mirror and saw his motorcycle skating completely across the road, smashing into the guardrail, and launching him through the air.

My mind went into absolute panic. I thought, “No, that did not just happen. One, my wife doesn't know I'm out here riding. Two, if he is dead, how on earth am I going to explain this to her?” I pulled my bike over, parked it, and hopped off as adrenaline rushed through me.

The moment I tried to run toward him, my legs felt incredibly heavy and my back flared up. I felt the metal rods surgically implanted in my spine. I suddenly realized, “Oh Joe, you are severely injured.” When I am physically sitting on a motorcycle, I don't feel disabled; I feel entirely complete, like the "old Joe." But the second my feet hit the ground to walk, reality crashed back in.

I started desperately praying, “God, please, please let this be a nightmare, let me wake up.” I never woke up. I prayed, “Please give me the strength to pick his bike up.” That motorcycle weighed 500 pounds, and in my condition, I could barely lift a cell phone comfortably. I saw his shoes lying in the middle of the road. I was screaming inside my helmet, “Yo Dre! Dre, get up man!” He was a guy who always responded to me immediately, so his silence made me terrified. I don't know where the physical strength came from, but I grabbed the 500-pound bike and lifted it, feeling the rods in my back pulling violently. I thought, “I am willing to die right here for this, because I need to save my best friend.” I was already facing a massive crisis, I was likely getting a divorce and losing everything, so my only priority was ensuring he was alive. This was only six or seven months after my own near-fatal crash; I had absolutely no physical business being on a motorcycle, let alone lifting one.

I pushed his bike to the side of the road and looked down into the water off the embankment. I saw my buddy completely submerged under the water, with his helmet just floating on the surface. I scrambled down into the water to save him. He ended up being under the water for about 15 minutes, and I honestly don't know how he survived. I pulled him out of the water, holding him tight against my chest. I carefully pried his helmet off and began wiping the thick mud out of his eyes, crying and screaming, “Bro, you got to respond to me! You can't die here!”

Just like a movie, I was screaming out for help into the empty air, but absolutely nobody was there. A car passed by on the high banking up ahead, but the driver didn't look down and missed us completely. Five minutes later, another car approached the turn. Because it was a sharp bend, the driver had to focus entirely on the road, but the female passenger happened to glance out the window. She saw the abandoned motorcycles on the side of the road and spotted my hands waving frantically from the water. They pulled over immediately. Luckily, they had inflatable kids' pool floaties in their car, which they threw down to us. I propped my buddy up against the bank, and the male driver climbed down to help me pull him all the way out.

Once we situated Dre, the driver extended his hands to help me up and said, “Come on, let's get you up.” I looked at him and said, “The funny thing is, you actually have to come down here and physically carry me out.” He was totally confused and asked why. I said, “Well, I have no legs.” He stammered, “What? What do you mean you have no legs?” He was entirely bewildered as to why a guy with no legs was down in a swamp saving someone next to a crashed motorcycle. He pulled me up, we got out of the ditch, and I called the police.

Once the emergency services arrived, I had to face the ultimate beast: telling my wife. I called my sister to come handle the crash site, drove my motorcycle straight to the rental storage unit, jumped into my car, took my helmet off, and called my wife. I said, “Hey baby, Dre went down.” She panicked and asked how he fell and where I was. I said, “Well, he was behind me and he went down.” Technically, I wasn't lying, he was behind me, but I intentionally left out the fact that I was on a motorcycle. She abruptly hung up.

A few moments later, she called me back and asked directly, “Were you riding a motorcycle?” I paused and said, “Yeah.” She instantly slammed the phone down. I sat in my car thinking, “Okay, this is it. It’s finally happening. I’m going to lose my son, I’m going to lose my wife, I already lost my leg, I’ve officially lost everything. It is completely over for me.” But I still had to make sure my best friend survived, so I drove to the hospital to wait.

While I was waiting at the hospital, my wife called me back. Her voice was cold. She said, “I went through Dre's iPad to look for his medical insurance information for you, and I found synced GoPro footage of you riding the motorcycle on the highway the day before.” In my head, I was incredibly upset with my buddy. I thought, “Dre, why on earth would you keep that footage on your iPad? You knew my extreme marital situation, why would you do that?” But I couldn't stay angry at him because he was currently fighting for his life in an ICU bed.

When Dre was finally stabilized in the hospital, my wife told me to bring the secret motorcycle home. She told me to give her the keys. I handed them over, went out to my garage, and sat down in complete silence.

That was the very first time in my entire life that I actually questioned God. I sat there cursing, completely broken, and I said out loud, “If you really exist, why would you make me survive such a crazy initial accident just to put me through all of this mental misery? Show me a sign that you are actually here.” I started teasing Him, saying, “Show me, Big Man. You're the God, right? Show me that you exist.”

I was at my absolute last straw, deeply consumed by toxic depression. When you are in that dark, poisonous state of mind, absolutely nothing else matters. I felt so hopeless that I wasn't sure if I could continue living.

Right in that exact moment of despair, I saw my wife and my son, Levi, walk through the garage door. Levi was soaking wet, drenched from playing with the lawn sprinklers outside. My wife was mad as hell, I had gone completely behind her back, my best friend was in the hospital, and it looked like we were heading straight for a divorce. But as she stood there looking at me, I could tell she still loved me deeply. Her eyes showed me she just couldn't believe everything that was happening.

Suddenly, Levi looked over, saw the motorcycle parked in the garage for the first time, and yelled, “Daddy! You got the bike back! Wow, can I go for a ride? Can you take me for a ride?”

I looked at him and thought, “Levi, if you only knew what was happening to your family right now, you would not be asking me that question.” My wife just stood next to me, stared at me, and then stormed off upstairs into the house.

Levi looked at me again and said, “Dad, Mommy left. Can you please take me for a ride?”

I told him, “Levi, no, right now is not the best time. Go upstairs and ask your mom first. If she says yes, I'll do it.” I sent him up, fully expecting her to say absolutely not. Two minutes later, he came running back down the stairs yelling, “Mommy said yes! Mommy said yes!”

I was completely shocked because I knew it should have been impossible. But then a thought hit me: “I’m already getting a divorce anyway. Even if we split, I’m still going to ride my bike when he comes to visit me.” So I looked at him and said, “You know what? Let's go for a ride, son.”

I geared him up and put him on the back of the seat. As I started riding him around the block, a profound feeling washed over me. That ride was the exact sign I had just begged God for. With my son holding onto my back, riding my favorite thing in the world, absolutely nothing else mattered. It felt amazing. Even though my best friend was in the ICU and my marriage was fracturing, I felt an overwhelming wave of pure, positive energy.

In that moment, I realized the motorcycle wasn't my enemy, it was my cure. My injuries had stripped away my passion for soccer, but my son had inherited a natural passion for bikes instead. We couldn't play football together, but this was a bond we could share completely. That realization healed my soul, and I looked up and said, “God, thank you for answering me. Thank you so much.”

As we were circling the block, I looked over and saw my wife stand out in the driveway holding her phone up, recording us. That was another massive sign. It meant that despite her immense anger, she understood what that motorcycle truly meant to my mental survival. She knew how passionate I was about connecting with my son.

The second I parked the bike, I walked straight up to her, crying, and said, “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She asked what I was thanking her for. I said, “You didn't have to record us. You didn't have to support this after all the trauma I've put you through. I already gave you the keys. If you want, I never have to ride a motorcycle again for the rest of my life.” But deep down, her gesture gave me a glimmer of hope that I would be allowed to ride again one day.

She looked at me and gave me one strict condition: “You need to go get professional therapy. If you do that, we will situate and fix everything else.”

Therapy completely saved my relationship, and it saved my life. From that point forward, my wife and I became absolutely unbreakable. Once she gave me the official green light to ride again, my social media presence under the name "Titanium Tarzan" completely exploded. I started posting reels and videos consistently, and the reach was incredible.

One of my videos went viral, hitting 10 million views on my personal page and another 3 million views on my motorcycle page. Today, within the global motorcycle community, almost everyone knows exactly who "Titanium" is. My wife stands fully behind that success, helping me capture and manage it. I always tell people that I am blessed with a village that pours energy into me, which allows me to pour it right back into others.

I am very open about my body image and my prosthetic journey. Because of my severe injuries, I don't have the physiological capability to use high tech running blades or fancy athletics. My right leg remains highly damaged; I have to wear a heavy carbon fiber and rubber brace just to fuse my ankle and prevent it from bending. Because my foot is completely numb, I often don't feel injuries until it's way too late. I could literally step on a sharp nail, feel zero pain, and only notice the damage two hours later when it's already severely infected. Wearing the brace is painful, but it's a tool that expands my walking capacity from 100 meters to 500 meters.

On my left amputated side, my skinny frame causes frequent bone rubs and painful skin irritations inside the prosthetic socket. Yet, I am completely addicted to my prosthetic leg because without it, my life becomes impossibly complicated. I can't hop, jump, or move without relying heavily on crutches.

People often look at my complex physical state and ask, “Why on earth do you still choose to ride a dangerous motorcycle?” My answer is always the same: it stimulates and purifies my mind. Your mind is in absolute control of your entire reality. It doesn't matter how physical strong or good looking you are on the outside; if your mind is sick, you are as weak as a fly.

To reclaim my image, I partnered with a company called UNYQ to get a custom prosthetic cover. Without a cover, a standard prosthetic leg often invites looks of pity or makes people look away out of awkward taboo. But I deliberately chose a bold, reflective gold cover. I wanted to be bold, and I wanted people to see me coming from a mile away.

The moment I put that gold cover on, the societal narrative flipped instantly. People no longer looked at me with sorrow; instead, they walked right up to me out of pure curiosity, asking, “Wow, what is that? Where did you get it made? I love those colors!” It completely broke the ice and opened the door for profound conversations about disability.

My personal slogan and upcoming brand is "Tell your story in style," and this aesthetic gave me the literal platform to do just that. My dream is to eventually own ten different custom covers for various photoshoots and modeling campaigns around the world. I am currently designing an adaptive clothing line featuring a black and gold theme to match my motorcycle.

When you become an amputee, everyday tasks like getting dressed take an incredibly long time. I used to take a five-minute shower and be out the door; now I have to navigate walkers and braces. Most amputees have to awkwardly roll their pants up just to clear their bulky mechanics. I want to eliminate all of that inefficiency. My adaptive clothing designs incorporate sleek, intentional zippers. You just zip the pants up smoothly over the prosthetic, and when you unzip it, boom, there is my fresh, clean gold leg on full display without sacrificing an ounce of safety or speed. It’s all about speed, style, and efficiency for the market.

Through my videos, I've had people send me messages saying, “Dude, you make losing a leg look so good and stylish that you almost make me want to lose mine.” While losing a limb is a horrific experience, I take that as the ultimate compliment to the confidence I am injecting back into the disabled community.

Every single afternoon, I go out to my garage and spend hours personally responding to the massive flood of messages in my DMs. If someone just leaves a fire emoji, my village helps reply. But when people pour out their deepest, darkest personal traumas, I handle it myself. I frequently jump on direct phone calls with strangers who assume a creator with my following would never reach out.

I tell everyone that hope is the ultimate currency. If you give a broke man a detailed, believable blueprint on how to make a million dollars, he will put in the work because you handed him genuine hope that it is possible. By changing just one single life, I feel like a literal millionaire; you simply cannot put a price tag on that impact.

I once conversed with a young man who had become completely paralyzed. I was actively complaining to him about the agonizing pain I experience daily in my legs, and he looked at me and said, “Joe, I would give absolutely anything just to be able to feel that pain.” That shattered my perspective instantly. Ever since that conversation, I have never complained about my physical pain again, why should I complain about a sensation that another paralyzed human is actively praying to experience?