Phaedra TrethanUSA TODAY
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PHILADELPHIA ‒ Amanda Parezo knew as soon as the stray bullet struck her spine her life would never be the same.
An occupational therapist who at the time worked with people who had suffered traumatic brain injuries in North Philadelphia ‒ many of them victims of the city's long-standing gun violence epidemic – her life changed irrevocably on May 21, 2021: She knew she would be paralyzed.
"I get a little more emotional telling the story this time of year," she told USA TODAY, though she recounted the experience in a quick, professional way, almost as if she were talking about someone else.
In a way, she is another person: Parezo has since moved to a new, more accessible home, gone through a divorce and found new purpose as a teacher and an activist against gun violence, all the while continuing to go through therapy and navigating life from a wheelchair.
'All of a sudden ... BANG! BANG! BANG!'
After playing kickball with friends in her neighborhood, she sat on a bench on that May afternoon in 2021. Her then-husband, who had also played, had gone to their home nearby. Shots rang out, a not-unfamiliar sound in a city that saw 551 homicides and more than 3,700 assaults with a gun that year.
"All of a sudden, we heard this BANG! BANG! BANG!" she said, her voice wavering ever so slightly.
But while Parezo and her friends in Philadelphia's Fishtown neighborhood were used to the sound of distant gunfire, living in a gentrified area near some of the city's most violent ZIP codes, these shots were close. She saw her friends who were standing hit the ground out of instinct. Sitting between two friends on the bench, she felt a sting in her side.
"My brain, in that split second, connected shooting, bullet. I immediately fell backward on my back because I'd lost complete control of my muscles, sensation. I felt this 'whoooosh' from my waist down into my toes."
Her friends, most of them health care workers like her, rushed to her aid, packing the wound and calling for help. Her husband was with her in the ambulance as she was taken to Temple University Hospital. She was the only one who was injured.
Once she was stabilized, Parezo was moved to an intensive care unit.
"I worked in ICUs," she said. "I knew exactly what was happening to me."
After nine days at Temple, she was moved to Magee Rehabilitation (now part of the Jefferson Health system). Two months of intensive physical, occupational, art, music and recreational therapy followed, but Parezo's recovery has taken more than physical form. And it's ongoing.
A new reality, a new community
June has been named National Gun Violence Awareness Month, a sad reminder that gun violence in is an all-too-pervasive part of American life, particularly in cities such as Philadelphia.
According to the nonprofit Brady United, which relies on the Agency for Healthcare Research and Quality for its data, 327 people are shot each day in the United States, 117 of them fatally. In 2021, the year Parezo was shot, gun deaths in the U.S. had hit a 40-year high.
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This year in Philadelphia, there have been 364 nonfatal and 102 fatal shootings as of June 9, according to the City Controller's Office.
Parezo, 38, never expected to be an advocate against gun violence.
She grew up in Toms River, New Jersey, near the shore, and calls herself "a beach girl." That first summer spent indoors, learning to make her way in a wheelchair, felt interminable.
Her friends were going to the beach, having fun, doing all the things she once took for granted. Her apartment, so near the playground where she was shot, wasn't wheelchair-accessible. Her marriage, already fraying before the shooting, unraveled.
Philadelphia is an old city with old streets and sidewalks. Some curb ramps were too steep to climb; cobblestone streets are almost impossible to navigate. Using a wheelchair meant straining muscles in her hands, and she developed carpal tunnel syndrome.
Even ordinary outings brought difficulties: co*cktail hour at a friend's wedding left her looking up as other guests stood at bar-height tables; bathroom functions are different after spinal injuries; public transportation, she discovered, wasn't always reliable or accessible.
"It was a lot of changes, and a lot of stress," she said. She missed her old life but knew it was gone forever.
Instead, she tried to find a new community.
"I leaned into the rehab world," she said. Her father was able to help her find a place in Philadelphia's Old City neighborhood that's accessible.
She acknowledged that, unlike many people with whom she has worked as an occupational therapist, she's had advantages, including a supportive employer who made accommodations for her, a wide support network and access to good health care and rehab.
'Her voice is bigger than she thinks'
Parezo teaches occupational therapy at Jefferson now and coordinates students' field internships. She brings a unique perspective to the work (and remains a patient at Jefferson Moss-Magee Rehabilitation) and tries to help students understand on a deeper level the physical and mental challenges faced by the people they will someday serve.
She plays sports, including tennis, and recently added actress and motivational speaker to a resume that already includes her work in health care and higher education.
She has shared her story with Everytown For Gun Safety and appeared in ads for the Philadelphia Convention and Visitors Bureau to highlight accessibility and diversity in tourism. And she's raising money on Help Hope Live, a fundraising website that allows people to raise money for medical expenses not covered by insurance to get access to an exoskeleton to help her walk upright.
She also shares the good, the bad and the unexpected of life in a wheelchair on social media, including Instagram (@amandaparisoh) and TikTok (@amandaotd).
"I want to show people exactly what it looks like to live in a wheelchair and what it feels like to have a spinal injury," Parezo said. That includes not just a fun night out with friends but also a tearful, exhausted post when she was stuck, alone, in a public transit elevator with no one around to help.
Nikki Walsh, who was a personal trainer before she was paralyzed from the chest down in a car accident, has been Parezo's peer mentor, a key part of the rehab process, she said.
"When I met Amanda, I fought to be her peer mentor," said Walsh, who, after years of work, is once again working as a trainer, even creating a fitness app, Wheel With Me Adapt Fit, for disabled people. "They try to match you with someone closer to your injury level, but we're around the same age, and when we met, we just clicked."
Walsh respects how Parezo is open and honest about the challenges she faces and doesn't try to gloss over her experience.
"I love everything she's doing with her activism and helping raise awareness about accessibility in the city and about gun violence," she said. "It's inspiring to me."
Parezo said mentors are invaluable to people who have gone through trauma like she has, who live the same daily reality.
"I hope I've taught her that her voice is bigger than she thinks, and she impacts more people than she thinks," Walsh said. "She's taught me to advocate for myself and the fitness community more with her activism for accessibility and (against) gun violence."
Parezo's honesty on social media presents a more complete picture of life with a disability, Walsh said.
"Living with a spinal injury is super hard," she said. Parezo is "a real, raw, relatable person we need so everyone doesn't feel like they're alone."
Contact Phaedra Trethan by email at ptrethan@usatoday.com, on X (formerly Twitter) @wordsbyphaedra, or on Threads @by_phaedra
