Built to Rise: How Pain, Purpose, and People Shaped the Leader I Am Today
There’s something about the way life tests us - over and over again. Not always with loud declarations, but sometimes with the silent, aching persistence of struggle. When I look back over the years, I see not just the scars or the injuries I’ve had, but the strength that followed. That strength didn’t always come easily, or quickly, but I know it came. I brought it forth, piece by piece.
I was 15 when I was first introduced to how fragile we really are. I remember the impact, the confusion, the jolt of being hit by a school bus as I was heading home. Just a kid. That kind of fear burrows deep into your nervous system. I didn’t know how to process it at the time, I just knew that things weren’t going to feel the same again. And my body didn’t feel the same. My body wasn’t broken, but something inside me shifted. I started to see the world a little more sharply. A little more cautiously.
At 17, I was in Italy visiting family, chasing the sun and the joy of youth. Beach volleyball was just the right type of fun, until it wasn’t. I partially tore my ACL mid-play. I felt the pain immediately, but more than that, I felt the loss. Loss of strength. Loss of freedom in my own body. I remember crying not just from the pain, but for the fact that something I loved - movement, sport, freedom, had been temporarily taken from me. That summer ended differently than I imagined, limping instead of running, waiting instead of playing. From this point on, I was always cautious of my knee. This impacted my life significantly because I was restricted from any more sport.
Age 23 brought another car accident—thankfully a minor one. A bit of whiplash. It was a reminder though, of how quickly control can be taken. Still, I bounced back fairly quickly. I thought perhaps I was becoming invincible. I was wrong.
At 29, everything changed in the best and hardest ways. I became a mother. My first child came into the world through a caesarian section. The birth of a child is magical, but the healing… the healing tested me. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. The scar on my abdomen mirrored the ache in my heart to feel strong again. There’s no instruction manual for the emotional toll of motherhood, especially when your own body feels foreign. A foreighn body and a baby to take care of, all thrown at you in a short span.
Four years later, at 33, my second child arrived the same way. Another caesarian section, another round of rebuilding from the inside out. Two little miracles. Two physical resets. In the moments after surgery, you’re not concentrating on your own scar, you’re preoccupied with this life you’ve brought into this world. I never really reflected on the surgery and what it meant, until now. I often wonder if others realize the bravery it takes to walk into that operating room and walk out a mother all over again. Each time I had this surgery, I found my way back to myself. Slower, but steadier. Gaining control of my body again.
Then 34 hit, and with it, the worst car crash of my life. This wasn’t a fender-bender. It was violent. Jarring. One of those moments that splits your life into before and after. The kind of accident that replays in your mind during quiet moments, like an unwanted film on loop. I would close my eyes and see it all over again. The sound of the two impacts. The way my body snapped forward and then back again. I was hit first from behind from a pick-up truck, and then I hit the car in front of me. I was in the middle of a metal sandwich. The silence that followed. The disbelief. I thought to myself, I cannot believe that guy never stopped.
The physical pain from this car collision settled in quickly, and it didn’t let go for a long time. My neck, my back, my shoulders, everything hurt. The kind of deep, nagging pain that makes everyday movements feel like uphill battles. Sleeping was difficult. Turning my head was painful. Even sitting too long felt like punishment. I carried the weight of that crash everywhere, in every joint and muscle. It was as if my body was holding onto the trauma, refusing to let go.
I was also diagnosed with a concussion. The fog in my mind was just as unbearable as the stiffness in my spine. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t process. I was exhausted from doing almost nothing. It was like my brain had gone offline, leaving me with fragments of thoughts, headaches, and light sensitivity that made everything harder. People think concussions are just bumps to the head, but they create chaos in your whole being. It was scary to feel like I wasn’t fully “there,” like I wasn’t myself.
And yet, somehow, the emotional pain was heavier. I’ve always been strong (mentally, physically, emotionally). I’ve always pushed through. But this time, it broke me in different ways. I started to feel disconnected from myself, like my body was no longer a place I felt safe in. There were days I couldn’t get out of bed without wincing. And then there were days when I didn’t want to get out of bed at all. The physical pain fed into emotional fatigue. Misery. A quiet kind of hopelessness that crept in slowly and hung around like fog.
People don’t talk enough about the mental health impact of motor vehicle accidents. About how you start to question your own strength, your own identity. About how isolating it is to be in pain when the world expects you to "move on." I remember sitting alone with thoughts I didn’t recognize. Feeling trapped. Like the accident had stolen not just my physical well-being, but my clarity, my optimism.
The only thing that helped - truly helped - was physical therapy. Two times a week, week after week, I would show up. Some days, walking in, with excruciating pain. Other days, crying. But I showed up. My therapist helped me rebuild (thanks Matt), not just my muscles, but my confidence. I learned how to breathe through the pain. How to hold a plank again. How to stretch without fear. Each small gain felt monumental. I had to retrain my body - but also, I had to retrain my mind to believe I could return to strength. Return to feeling like myself again.
Eventually, the gym became my second form of therapy. It wasn’t easy at first. I had to take it slow. But I got there - one rep, one swim, one step at a time. The pool, especially, became my sanctuary. My body felt lighter there. Safer. I could move freely, without the resistance of gravity or the pressure of expectation. I remembered who I was in that water - a lifeguard, a swim instructor, a girl who once loved the strength and fluidity of movement. That part of me wasn’t gone. Just buried.
At 39, I also lost both of my parents.
My dad had been living with Alzheimer’s for years. I watched him slowly disappear behind a fog he couldn’t control. A man who had once stood so strong, so steady - now forgetting names, places, pieces of his own story. Alzheimer’s is a slow heartbreak. I grieved him long before he physically left us. But I loved him through it. Sat with him. Met him where he was, even when he didn’t always remember who I was. His quiet vulnerability in those final years taught me deep patience and grace.
And then, as if the universe hadn’t asked enough of me, my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. It happened quickly. Brutally. She had always been the strong one, the matriarch, the fighter, the rock. Watching her fade, while I was still grieving my father, felt like being hollowed out. There was no time to catch my breath. No pause between goodbyes.
They passed away just 48 days apart.
That year, they had celebrated their 48th wedding anniversary. One day for each year they had loved, built, and lived together. As painful as it was, there was something deeply poetic in that. Almost as if he waited for her, and she followed him home.
That kind of love leaves an imprint. And so does that kind of loss.
Grief wrapped itself around me like fog. Some days it felt impossible to move through it. But even in that pain, I kept going. I had to. For my family. For my business. For myself. I kept building. I kept leading. Because the best way I could honour their memory was by living fully and loving boldly, by continuing the legacy of strength and care they passed down to me.
They taught me what it means to endure. To stand up even when your heart is broken. To carry love forward, even when the people who gave it to you are gone.
They taught me resilience long before I ever knew how much I would need it.
Now, at 42, because of my passion for sport and kickboxing, I’ve fully torn my ACL in my left knee. Another injury. Another hurdle. Another chapter in this long journey of breaking and rebuilding. It would be easy to stop. Easy to say, “That’s enough.” But I don’t stop. I can’t. Because even through the setbacks, the pain, and the exhaustion, I still show up. I still go to the gym. I still swim. I still move.
This body of mine has been through it all. It has carried babies. Absorbed trauma. Endured surgeries. Lived through deep, persistent pain. And still, it moves. Still, it fights.
Because resilience isn’t about never falling. It’s about always rising.
And I’ve made a life out of rising.
My parents instilled in me, a powerful work ethic - not just to work hard, but to work with heart. To build something meaningful. To create something of value.
That’s what Unlimited HRM Solutions became: A reflection of their lessons. A living tribute to the way they showed up in the world, with humility, integrity, and unwavering strength.
Unlimited HRM Solutions isn’t just an HR consulting firm, it’s a partner for people who manage people. CEOs have important decisions to make. Sometimes less favorable than we want. But we walk alongside leaders and organizations through their most uncertain, challenging seasons.We bring structure to chaos.We create culture where there’s disconnection.We lead through complexity with clarity, compassion, and courage.
From HR strategy and talent acquisition to employee relations, leadership development, and change management, we show up when it matters most.
Because that’s what I do.That’s the kind of leader I am.
I don’t flinch when things get hard. I stay. I steady the ship. I help others rebuild—because I know what it’s like to rebuild myself.
I know what it’s like to feel broken… and keep moving anyway. I’ve lived it. And that’s why I lead with empathy. With strength. With purpose.
They taught me what it means to endure. To rise up even when your heart is heavy. To carry love forward, even when the people who gave it to you are gone.
And so, I carry it forward.
Through my business.
Through my clients.
Through the way I lead, every single day.
Sincerely,
Carmelinda Galota
President & Chief Executive Officer
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