Chase Bradshaw lived for the thrill.
For 21 years, he was a professional freestyle motocross rider, living his dream. He spent most of his time flying through the air on his dirt bike.
Then, in one moment, everything changed. A bike crash at Red Rock. A broken back. A life upended.
The physical pain hit first, but it was nothing compared to what came next.
"The depression is overwhelming. You're in constant pain. There's many times that you want to give up, lay down, and die," Chase shares. "You don't want to try anything anymore. You're embarrassed."
For someone who had always been independent, Chase never anticipated the reality of a spinal cord injury. Simple tasks that most people never think twice about became monumental challenges.
"Going to the bathroom becomes difficult. Getting in your car, doing anything, going to the grocery store," he says.
But he faced another, more complex reality: the crushing cost of adapting to life with paralysis.
"I think that's one thing people don't realize about spinal cord injuries: catheters alone will make you go broke," Chase notes.
The medical bills, the wheelchair, the home modifications, the daily medical supplies—the expenses felt endless. Hand controls for his car, stem cell treatments, and making his home wheelchair accessible—each carried a price tag that seemed insurmountable.
Chase was facing an impossible situation alone.
Or so he thought.
Within 48 hours of his accident, his brother's fiancée started a GoFundMe. And the response was immediate and overwhelming.
"By day three or four of being in the hospital, we raised $20,000 to $30,000. By the time I had gotten released from the hospital, we were at $67,000," Chase recalls. "That was the most humbling, coolest feeling in the world to see all of my community come together and help me raise the money."
The financial support was crucial. But Chase says at the end of the day, it was the daily check-ins, the encouraging messages, and the belief from hundreds of people that refused to let him fall.
"I have three beautiful children, and being there for them, plus the hundreds of people checking in with me daily and helping me raise money for things like this, it gives you that drive that you need to stand up to anything," Chase shares.
Around Chase’s first anniversary post-injury, he discovered something that reignited his hope. Through his friend, he learned about the VertaCat: a specialized standing wheelchair that other paralyzed athletes were using to return to sports, including golf.
"When you're in this type of injury, seeing anybody stand up and be able to do stuff seems like the coolest thing in the world," Chase explains. "So I started my second GoFundMe about a year into my injury. I wanted to get a VertaCat because I wanted to be able to do a lot more things standing up."
This was about reclaiming pieces of his life, giving his children hugs while standing up, doing yard work, and being eye-to-eye with the people he loved. And once again, his community showed up in force.
For over a decade, Chase built his career helping others tell their stories and raise funds for their causes.
He created countless videos, managed campaigns, and helped others reach their fundraising goals now found himself on the receiving end.
But there was a mental hurdle to overcome.
"I don't like to ask people for money, but I've always been very good at it when doing it for other people," he admits.
It's a feeling many can relate to. Needing help when you're used to being the helper. The vulnerability of admitting you can't do it alone. Yet when Chase finally put himself out there, the community responded.
"When you have an injury like this, you really get to see how powerful your reach is in your network and your community," Chase discovered. "People are trying to help, whether it's donating a dollar, $5—I had people donating $10,000."
It was about the collective desire to lift someone. Each donation, big or small, carried the same message: You helped us, now let us help you.
While the GoFundMe campaign was powerful, Chase's friends knew that seeing would be believing. So, they organized a golf tournament.
"We brought out the VertaCat to putt for everybody on the last hole, and we raised a couple thousand dollars," Chase recalls. But the money wasn't the real victory that day.
Standing in the VertaCat for the first time at that tournament, Chase showed something that photos and descriptions couldn't capture. The crowd watched as he stood eye-to-eye with other golfers, took his stance, and putted like he once had.
"The point was for people to really get a true understanding of what I was doing with the money I was asking from them," Chase explains. "The best part was having that tournament for people to see how I could utilize the chair and what it did for me."
When people saw Chase standing, golfing, and engaging with others at his full height, they were investing in his independence, his dignity, and his dreams. The VertaCat gave him a tangible path back to the life he wanted to live.
And they were all in.
"People want to help, but nobody wants to ask for help," Chase says. "So, as long as you're willing to put yourself out there and be a little bit vulnerable, that's going to go a long way."
For those struggling with the same hesitation Chase felt, he offers this perspective: "You're asking for something that literally could change your life."
Medical equipment, accessibility modifications, and specialized tools like the VertaCat can restore independence. These aren't luxuries. They're getting you back to the person you want to be, the parent you need to be, and the life you deserve to live.
"If it's coming from the heart and it's real, people can smell that and feel that from a mile away. It's going to touch their hearts, and they're going to want to be part of that."
Chase thought his life was over when he couldn't walk. He thought asking for help meant admitting defeat. Instead, it unlocked a community of support he never knew existed.
Your community is waiting to help you, too. All you have to do is let them.