Mental Health and BMX

There was a time when BMX was everything for me

Not just the riding — the life around it. Daily sessions. Group chats full of spot pins. Endless laughter, crashes, breakthroughs. The bike gave me purpose. The crew gave me belonging. Together, it felt like we were building something bigger than ourselves — a scene, a movement, a lifestyle.

Then I got hurt.

It was just another normal day. I went for an air bar over the hip — same trick I’d landed dozens of times. But this time, I twisted off and instinctively threw my arm behind me. I felt my AC joint tear before I hit the ground. Shoulder was done.

So was everything else.

At first, I told myself I’d be back in a few weeks. Then a few months. But the pain didn’t go away. It lingered. It ruled me. I tried to ride again and again, but every time, I’d be met with this awful reminder that my body wasn’t ready — and maybe wouldn’t ever be.

Time passed. Four years of it.

In those four years, everything shifted. My crew — the people I rode with almost every day — moved on. Some quit riding. Others got pulled into careers, families, different lives. The group chat went silent. The sessions stopped. No hard feelings… just the slow drift that happens when you're no longer in the mix.

I kept in touch with some people. I still know tons of riders across the GTA — from the west end to downtown to the east side. But we’re spread out. Sessions that used to happen daily now take a month of planning — if they happen at all. Everyone's busy. The spontaneity is gone. That raw, local energy? It’s just... quieter now.

Coming back into that after years away was hard. Really hard.

I thought I’d feel stoked to ride again — and I did — but I also felt alone. The shoulder still hurt. I didn’t recognize the scene anymore. And riding without the crew I came up with felt like showing up to your childhood home and realizing no one lives there anymore.

But here’s what’s crazy — even with all that? I kept going. Because I remembered what BMX really is.

It’s not about popularity or packed sessions. It’s not about who’s filming, who’s watching, or what’s trending.

BMX is about freedom. it’s about putting two feet on those pedals and feeling everything else fade away. it's about getting knocked down, then getting back up — even if no one’s around to see it.

And as quiet as the scene feels right now, I’ve been around long enough to know: this isn’t the end. BMX always goes through waves.

There are always dips — years where spots are empty, jams are small, clips are rare. But then out of nowhere, it comes roaring back. A new crew rises. A few hungry kids start filming. A plaza fills up. The energy returns. It always does. It always will.

That’s what keeps me hopeful.

Because I’ve seen this cycle before. And I know the culture runs deep. Even in silence, BMX is alive. And I’ll be here, pushing through the hard seasons, until that next wave hits.

So yeah — I might ride solo. My crew might be gone. The shoulder might never feel right.

But I’m still riding. And I always will.

Because BMX didn’t just give me something to do. it gave me a reason to keep going.

And that’s worth holding onto — no matter how quiet the scene gets.